Autumn's Wish

Autumn Falls

Autumn's Kiss

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2016 by Bella Thorne

Cover photograph © 2016 Howard Huang

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children's Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN 978-0-385-74437-9 (hc) — ISBN 978-0-385-38525-1 (ebook)

ebook ISBN 9780385385251

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I would like to thank all my fans, and the avid readers who have followed me on this journey. I never thought I'd have the ability to publish one book, let alone three, and it has been an honor and a labor of love to bring Autumn to life. I hope you all enjoyed reading the stories of these characters as much as I enjoyed creating them. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. I completely adore you.

“Some students have a background or story that is so central to their identity that they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please share your story.”

I stare at the words from the Common App prompt until they dance in front of my eyes. That doesn't take long. I'm dyslexic. If I don't focus, the dancy-swimmy thing happens pretty much right away. Especially if I'm looking at something that makes me want to hurl as much as a college essay prompt.

But, hey, I shouldn't freak out. It's only my future, right?

Sigh.

Fine.

When I was fifteen years old, my father died.

I know this doesn't make me special. Lots of kids' fathers die, and it's probably just as beyond-words awful for them as it was for me, but when I lost my dad, I lost everything. My mom plucked my brother and me from Stillwater, Maryland, and dragged us kicking and screaming to Aventura, Florida, a place so hideously foreign and humid that I knew it would never be home.

That's what I thought at the time. I was wrong.

Over the last two years, I've made a life in my new town. I still miss my dad every day so much it hurts, but overall I'm happy. I have friends I love, I'm close with my family, and I even have a mission in life—a “Thing,” as I always called it when I was younger, though if I told you about it specifically you'd never let me into your school because you'd think I was crazy.

Point is, life is good. Finally. When I thought it never could be again. And yet just when I'm feeling great about things, just when I'm okay with who I am and who I'm with and what I'm doing, someone comes around to thrash my life all over again.

I'm talking about you, College. You with your big promises of sports and theater and independence and opportunities of a lifetime—you're the one who's yanking away the life I love. My friends are all scattering away next year because of you. And don't tell me it's okay and that I can go have the same great opportunities, too, because that's not what it's about. It's about change, and believe me, College, I have had more than my share. I'm done with change, and if you don't mind me saying so, it's pretty crappy of you to dangle it like a giant chocolate cake in front of a bunch of kids who would otherwise be perfectly happy staying where they are.

And another thing, College, as long as we're talking woman to friend-stealing behemoth—

“Okay, time!” Reenzie calls as her phone alarm beeps. She's been sitting cross-legged on her family room floor with her laptop on the coffee table but now pops to her feet with a huge grin. She looks like a cheerleader when she jumps up like that. The stereotypical cheerleader, with the flawless face and perfect body and high black ponytail, but that's actually not Reenzie's scene at all. She's laser-focused on academics and the Future, which is why she has our whole group spending an otherwise perfectly good Saturday at her house practicing college essays.

“You can't call time,” J.J. pipes up from one of Reenzie's puffy reclining chairs. His laptop is balanced on the arm of the chair because his lap is occupied by his girlfriend, Carrie Amernick. She's sprawled across him, her back against one arm of the chair and her legs dangling over the other. “You can take as long as you want to write a college essay.”

J.J. is long, lanky, deathly pale, and freckled. There is absolutely no reason my stomach should flutter and flop when I look at him. Except it does.

“J.J.'s right, Reenzie,” Carrie says. “This is crazy.” Her blond bob sways as she kicks her legs playfully and musses J.J.'s hair. He smiles like she's the most adorable thing ever.

Now my stomach lurches. Hard.

It's totally not fair of my body to act this way. I
had
J.J. We were together. He was crazy in love with me and I was the one who let him go. Plus it's not like I'd take him back if I could. He has Carrie. She's totally great for him and I'm happy for them.

My stomach just needs to get the memo.

Jack, who's next to me on the sofa, is also watching J.J. and Carrie. He leans over and whispers in my ear, “See how she's always touching him? She does that to make me jealous.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” I whisper back. Jack has been obsessed with Carrie for forever. Amazingly, he still thinks he stands a chance.

“You're correct,” Reenzie says, pointing a newly manicured finger J.J. and Carrie's way, “but this is essay
practice.
It's all about getting our thoughts together quickly and expressing them succinctly.”

“Here's my succinct thought,” Amalita says from her sprawled-out spot on the rug.
“No mas!”
She slams her laptop shut.

Unlike Reenzie, Ames does
not
look like the stereotypical cheerleader…even though she's head of the varsity squad, bendier than a pipe cleaner, and flippier than popcorn kernels in hot oil. Amalita's shorter and rounder than anyone you'd see playing the role on TV, but unlike most calorie-counting toothpicks, she has zero body issues. Guys love her.

As Ames sits up and stretches her arms over her head, all her bracelets jangle down. “This is boring. Besides, I gotta rest up. House party with Zander tonight. You guys coming?”

Taylor chokes on her tea. She carries the stuff with her at all times in a reusable water bottle she refills throughout the day. Ever since she read that TV and musical-theater star Kristin Chenoweth swears by tea to keep her voice at its best, she refuses to be without it.

“Tee?” Ames asks, referring to Taylor's nickname, not her drink. “You okay?”

“Totally,” Taylor croaks, and it's a testament to her effortless grace and beauty that she still looks like an angel even when she's bent double in Reenzie's other recliner, red-faced and spluttering. “Went down the wrong pipe. Party sounds great. Sorry I can't make it.”

She catches my eye and I grimace back. We don't like Zander, and we
really
don't like his parties. Just thinking about them sends a ball of smoke-and-stale-beer smell to the back of my throat, and I want to choke.

“Can't make it either,” I say. “Sorry.”

“Seriously?” Amalita asks. “None of you?”

When everyone grumbles in the negative, Ames shrugs. “Your loss. I'm gonna bail.”

“Oh, come on!” Reenzie says as Ames heads for the door. “Don't you want to practice SAT analogies?”

Amalita doesn't even bother to answer. She holds up a hand and breezes out the front door.

“Reenzie!” Sean moans. “Enough! It's a Saturday. Let's do something else.”

“Like what?” Reenzie asks.

Sean smiles wickedly and pounces off the floor, grabbing her around the waist and kissing her neck. Reenzie squeals and laughs.

This time last year, I'd have yanked out my own heart and eaten it if I'd seen them together this way. I didn't just crush out on Sean when I first moved here; I
pulverized
out on him. I couldn't even glance at his quarterback-muscular body, perfect brown skin, and dizzying blue eyes without melting into a puddle on the floor. Now…

Okay, he's still severely puddle-worthy, but I know he's wrong for me. He and Reenzie have been super-serious for practically a year now, so I don't even think of him that way anymore.

Much.

“Let's go swimming,” Sean says. “It's hot in here.”

“Yeah, it is,” Reenzie says, eyeing him up and down. “But you didn't bring your suit.”

“Who needs a suit?” Sean says with a smirk.

Okay, I might be over him, but I'm not a masochist. I don't need to keep watching.

“I'm out!” I say.

“Me too!” Taylor adds.

Carrie pokes out her lower lip and looks into J.J.'s eyes. “I wish you had a pool,” she says, pouting. “Swimming sounds like fun.”

“I have a pool!” Jack says. He leaps up from the couch so quickly his laptop smashes to the rug. “No suits required.”

“We'll pass,” J.J. assures him.

I'm not even sure Reenzie and Sean notice as the rest of us get up and leave.

The second we get outside, the heat welds my tank top to my skin, but after three years I'm used to it. “Who gets the privilege of driving me home?” I call. I'm the only one in our group who doesn't have some kind of car at their disposal. It's fine by me. I didn't even want to get my license last year. I finally did, and Mom lets me use the car when she doesn't need it, but honestly I'm happier without. If it's up to me, I'd much rather ride than drive.

“We'll take you!” Carrie chirps.

She's holding hands with J.J., and while I don't see him squeeze her hand, I do see her react to it and wheel toward him, a confused look on her face.

“I kinda had other plans for us and A Racier Sir Grace,” he murmurs.

Carrie giggles and turns back to me. “ ‘A Racier Sir Grace,' ” she explains. “That's ‘Carrie's Carriage' with the letters rearranged. He's really good at that kind of thing—it's so cute!”

I smile through clenched teeth. I'm the last person Carrie needs to enlighten about J.J.'s quirks. His car was named after
me
long before it was named after her.

“Sorry, Autumn,” J.J. says. He faces me but looks somewhere beyond my left ear. I desperately want to dive into his sight line so he's forced to look at me, but I grab a strand of my humidity-limp orange hair and twirl it until the urge subsides.

At least he said my name this time.

That's
my issue. It's not that J.J. has a girlfriend; it's that he acts like we barely know each other when we used to be best friends. I got it at first—he was hurt and he couldn't deal—but it's been eight and a half months since we patched everything up. Eight and a half months! Plus he's with Carrie—he has clearly moved on. We should be friends again, and it kills me that we're not.

“I'll drive you home,” Jack offers.

I look at him. His round, freckled, smiling face and blond hair. His arms spread wide with generosity. His long denim shorts and faded
X-Men
T-shirt.

“Tee?” I ask.

“Sorry.” Taylor winces. She's looking at her watch. “Didn't see how late it was. Voice lesson across town.”

“Come on!” Jack complains. “You're acting like my car's the Sarlacc pit.”

“Is that an
Avengers
reference?” I ask.

Jack's mouth hangs open and he stares at me like I just slapped his grandmother. “You're lucky I let you in my car at all,” he says, then turns and stalks away. I roll my eyes and follow him. I open the passenger door slowly, a little bit at a time, wedging my body between the door and the floorboards so the sea of empty plastic bottles doesn't tumble onto the ground. Holding my breath, I squeeze myself as tiny as possible and slide in, pulling my feet onto the seat before I quickly slam the door shut.

“You shouldn't put your feet on the leather,” Jack says as he turns on the car.

“If I put them on the floor, your trash would be up to my knees!”

“It's not trash—it's recycling!” Jack insists.

“Only if you take it out of your car and put it in a recycling bin,” I retort. “Otherwise it's landfill!”

Jack suddenly lunges over me and buries both arms in the pile of bottles. I scoot back in my seat. “You don't have to get rid of them
now,
” I say.

“Shhh, shhh,” Jack says as he sits back up holding a pair of binoculars. He puts them to his eyes, looks out the windshield, and smiles. “This is good. Her shirt's riding up.”

I follow his gaze to J.J.'s car, right in front of us. Carrie has climbed onto the center console and the two of them are making out like they need the oxygen from one another's lungs to breathe.