Chapter Twenty-Four A Walk, Divergent
COLLAGE
The Fall Child
By Mal Flowers
Sophomore
In fall, everything became better. Or at least, it did for the fall child.
As they walked down the autumn-scattered sidewalks, they reflected.
Most other times of the year, the fall child was just a child.
They felt unremarkable, green like the rest of the world.
They lived in a green house with a green family: a plain father who didn’t notice them because he was always busy with business and a plain mother who noticed them too much because she was always busy looking after them.
They had a sister too, but she was anything but plain.
She always shone bright gold, like her hair and her trophies, of which she had many because she was a star.
The fall child crunched down the sidewalk. Most times, they lived in the shadow cast by all that shining. Those were very lonely times.
But once a year, they came to life. They could always tell it was coming with the apple-crisp turn of the air. As the rest of the world slowed down for winter, it felt like the child could finally keep up. Like they were built for the speed of fall. It was how they knew they were a fall child.
When things started to change, so did they.
They changed from green to yellow, the color of candlelight, and they stayed up late to read books they liked at their own pace or play games they liked by their own rules.
They changed from yellow to orange, the color of pumpkins on porches and mums in pots, and they took time to admire both, and they never rushed.
They changed from orange to red, the color of good cozy flannel, and they felt pretty and comfy inside it, and underneath it their fat belly kept them warm against the night.
They changed from red to brown, the color of pumpkin-spiced lattes, and they splurged on them sometimes because it was cool outside and they felt like they were worth it.
Most of the year, when they had to fit into the green world, they had to do so in parts: a book unread and assignment turned in late; a mad dash in the morning with no time to slow down; a pair of too-small shorts to make themself smaller; a plain black coffee to be plain and normal.
But in fall, the fall child finally fit.
The fall child walked down the avenue, the wind blowing their hair and the chill nipping their nose, and they found a good, leaf-strewn bench to sit down on.
It was green, but that did not matter because the fall child was full of color.
The colors they knew they were but couldn’t show.
The color of all the things they wanted to be: interesting and observant and comfortable and cozy.
Of all the things that mattered to them.
In the fall, they mattered.
On the bench, the fall child sipped their pumpkin-spiced latte, wiggling their thick thighs against the wooden seat.
Everything was better. And the fall child smiled.