Followers

by Anna Davies

  A shadow crossed our table.

  “We’ve already ordered.” Eric barely looked up.

  But I did. I recognized the shock of red hair and freckle-covered face looming above us. “You’re —”

  “The kid who was kicked out. You want to laugh about it, too?” the guy asked defensively. My stomach twisted in sympathy. Mr. O’Dell had seen Tristan and me joking with each other. If he’d wanted to, he could have kicked me out as well.

  “That’s rough, man,” Eric said. “Can I get another soda?”

  “Eric!” I hissed, almost kicking him under the table. He’d seemed so empathetic, but some switch had flipped and now he was acting like a typical spoiled MacHale kid. But my surprise and discomfort washed away as a smirk formed on the Forsyth kid’s face.

  “Sure thing. You need anything?” His gaze landed on me. I shook my head and looked down, but I could still sense him staring. “Bree?”

  My head jerked up, as though I were called on unprepared in French class. “Me?”

  The guy snickered. “Yes, you.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Bree. Well, Briana. Briana Beland.”

  “Lots of options, then. Good. I like a girl with some variety.” He turned and sauntered toward the kitchen. Once he was out of earshot, Eric leaned in toward me.

  “Do you know him?”

  I shook my head. “Just at the audition.”

  I fiddled with my napkin, feeling vaguely guilty, even though I shouldn’t. The red-haired guy hadn’t been flirting. Eric and I weren’t together.

  “Seems pretty friendly.” There was an edge to Eric’s voice.

  “Yup.” An uncomfortable silence fell between us.

  “Wait.” Eric leaned toward me. “Look over by the bar.”

  Sitting by himself, midway down the polished oak bar in the front of the restaurant was a guy wearing a button-down denim shirt and a fedora, clearly out of place amid the burly flannel shirt-clad loggers surrounding him.

  “Is that O’Dell?” he whispered.

  “Is it?” I asked, my face reddening. I felt as though we’d been caught — or that we’d caught him.

  Eric nodded wordlessly. Part of me wanted to go over to him, introduce myself, ask if he needed me to perform another monologue. Eric was also staring at Mr. O’Dell intently.

  “Should we introduce ourselves?” I whispered.

  As though he’d heard us, Mr. O’Dell’s gaze snapped up, and I immediately looked away. From the grubby window, I could just make out the outline of the MacHale dorms, their silhouettes dark and ominous in the moonlit evening. The guitar had stopped, I realized, and Led Zeppelin played from the jukebox.

  “He’s gone.” Something had shifted in the moments since we’d seen Mr. O’Dell, and now Eric was fidgeting with his coat. “We should still head out. I’ve got Millard as my house master and he’s strict about curfew.” A small smile played on Eric’s face. “Sorry. I feel like you must think I’m so lame. Auditions aren’t my thing. And now I can’t get my mind off them. Sorry, I’m just not good company right now.”

  “Well, you’re a good pizza orderer, so I guess I’ll forgive you.” I pushed my own plate away, even though I’d barely managed a few bites.

  The waitress dropped the check between us.

  “We can split it,” I said quickly as I fumbled for my wallet.

  “Nah, you put up with me. I’ve got it.” Eric fished in his pocket for cash.

  My phone buzzed and I jumped. Had someone texted me? Instead, it was a new Tweet.

  Hamlet’s Ghost @hamletsghost

  It seems like @alleyesonbree may be on another audition … to be or not to be Eric’s girlfriend? I’ll be watching.

  “Oh my God, Tristan,” I groaned. I rolled my eyes and shoved the phone toward Eric. “What do you think?” I asked. “It has to be him, right?”

  “Probably.” He tilted his head to the side. “But it’s a little bit insulting how upset you’re getting about the implication that we’re together.”

  “I’m not!” I protested, mortified.

  Eric’s eyes danced with laughter. “Right. Whatever you say. And whatever Tristan says. I’m done with rumors. If people want to talk about us, who cares?”

  My heart soared at the word us. I suddenly wanted to hug Tristan. Yes, he was a weird busybody who clearly had spoken to someone who’d seen us leave together, but Eric’s reaction to the Tweet was more than I ever could have wanted. He liked me. Or, rather, he didn’t care whether people had seen us together. But the details didn’t matter. What mattered was that Eric’s mood seemed to have lifted. I was hoping he’d change his mind and want to stay at the restaurant longer, when the door swung open and a posse of Forsyth kids from the audition walked in, immediately taking over a large table on the opposite side of the room.

  “Let’s go.” Eric nodded.

  “Sure.” I tried to conceal my disappointment. I hurried after him as we left the restaurant, our footsteps crunching on the gravel pavement as we fell into step toward campus.

  Eric walked quickly, and I had to lengthen my stride to keep up with him. The air felt heavy, and clouds covered the moon. I kept thinking back to the eyes in the woods that I’d seen the night before. During the day, they’d been as inconsequential as an image in a dream. But now they felt very real. I squinted, trying to conjure the same image. Maybe it had been a trick of the light, or the effect of my contact lens folding against itself in my eye. I took a step and stumbled, tumbling down onto my knees with a thud.

  “Ow!” I yelped as my un-mittened hands plunged into the snow, submerging my iPhone. I blinked, then rubbed my eyes. My vision was blurry. Clearly, one of my contacts had fallen out during the fall.

  I scrambled to my feet. My knee hurt and my hands felt raw from the cold.

  “You okay?” I felt Eric’s strong hand on my shoulder.

  “I lost my phone. And my contact,” I said in a small voice.

  “I need to keep my eye on you, huh? Probably a hand, too.” Eric combed through the snow as I wiped my face with my gloved hand. I wasn’t crying, but I was close. My knee stung, but it was my pride that was hurt. Whenever things started going well with us, I felt like my overactive imagination had to ruin it. Now he’d definitely think I was a bizarre weirdo.

  “Found the phone. Think the contact is lost, though.” Eric stood up and wiped my phone on his gloved hand, but the screen looked dark and wet in the moonlight. “Thanks.”

  “Are you okay?” Eric reached over and brushed snow off my shoulder.

  I nodded. “Nothing’s broken.” I pushed the center button on my phone only to stare back at a blank screen. “Not so sure about this, though.”

  Eric pulled it from my hand to examine it. “Just put it in a bowl of rice. It works. I dropped my phone down the toilet like five times last year.”

  “I’ll give it a shot,” I said uncertainly, trying to ignore the waves of pain radiating from my knee. “What did I trip on, anyway?” I looked down at the ground below. Instead of a rock or log, there was a smooth slate slab half covered with snow beneath my feet.

  I bent over and brushed the snow from the granite surface. The date 1823 came into view, etched and faded into the granite. I shivered as I ran my finger along the numbers. “Is this …”

  “A tombstone,” Eric finished.

  “Augh!” I shrieked and pulled my hand back as though I’d touched the corpse itself.

  “Yeah, this used to be a graveyard back in the nineteenth century. Pretty much any large area of land up here has a graveyard in it. They won’t hurt you, though. Can you walk?” Eric held out a hand toward me.

  “I think I’m okay,” I said, but I still grabbed his hand as we picked our way to the split-rail fence and he helped me over and back onto campus.

  He paused when we reached the path to the dorms. Underneath the dusting of snow, tiny metallic pieces stuck in the concrete sparkled in the gas-lamp light. My shoulders relaxed. Everything was fine. But I still felt
uneasy. How was there a graveyard right next to campus?

  “What are you going to do as soon as you get back to your room?” he asked, in a voice that made it sound like he already knew the answer.

  “Um …” I trailed off guiltily. Clearly, I was going to obsessively check Twitter and pump Willow for information about what happened between Skye and Eric. Then I remembered. My phone.

  “Putting my phone in rice,” I said triumphantly.

  “Good answer,” Eric said. “It was fun hanging out. Good night and good luck.” He gave me a mock salute and headed down the walkway.

  I watched as he walked out of sight, startling when the bell at the top of Taylor Hall chimed seven o’clock. I turned and raced down the path to Rockefeller. My heart hammered in rhythm to the throbbing pain in my knee. The fall had shaken me. By Eric’s side, I’d felt braver, bolder, better. That feeling had been shattered as soon as my knees hit the cold, wet ground. It was a reminder how even — especially — when everything seemed to be going well, it was all too easy to slip and fall.

  You’re fine, I thought to myself as I swiped into Rockefeller and breathed heavily in the lobby. I’d had a good audition. I’d successfully flirted with Eric. I was better than fine. Sure, my boots were soaking wet and my stockings had ripped during the fall. A scrape oozed blood. But none of that mattered.

  In the communal kitchen, I found an ancient box of instant rice, probably left there from a decade earlier, and dumped it in a bowl, then submerged my phone.

  “Ms. Beland?”

  I stifled a yelp. Maybe I wasn’t as fine as I thought.

  “It’s just me, dear.” Ms. Robinette stood there with a pot of tea in one hand and a plastic container of cookies in the other.

  “I wanted to invite everyone for tea in the common room. A house meeting, if you will. Can you spread the word?”

  I glanced down, amazed at how Ms. Robinette was oblivious to my bleeding knee and my soaked feet. And then I noticed her eyes were red-rimmed and her skin was blotchy.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked. She was wearing her nightgown with a robe over it. Her hair was in curlers and she wasn’t wearing makeup. She was always fully dressed for a house meeting.

  Ms. Robinette sighed. “Just get everyone, please. As soon as possible.”

  “Of course,” I agreed. She probably wanted to remind us not to have guests in the dorms or keep our straightening irons plugged in when we weren’t in our rooms. I grabbed the bowl with my phone and hurried away, quickly allowing the image of Ms. Robinette in her nightgown to be replaced by an image of Eric in his shorts. I smiled. Much better.

  Zach Mathis

  Hey @alleyesonbree, we met at the Trusty Ax earlier. Wanna do coffee and talk theater sometime? Seems I’ve got a lot of free time on my hands….

  I walked into the common room, which smelled like nail polish remover, body lotion, and stale french fries — the familiar scent of dorm living. The only difference was how few girls were scattered around the room. Normally, every inch of floor space was taken. Today, the unoccupied chairs scattered around the cavernous space made the room look even bigger than it normally was.

  I scanned the room, taking note of who was here for Winterm. Gina Maestre, a freshman back early to work on her sculpture project, was flipping through a magazine. Allison Ellis and Elizabeth Curtis, two student government seniors, were already in their pajamas and watching something on Allison’s iPad. Laura Russo, still wearing her running clothes, her face red from the cold and from her nightly ten-mile run, sat in the corner, stretching. Willow was perched on the window seat in a vintage ivory silk slip and an oversize fedora, taking artsy Instagram selfies.

  I boldly plopped down next to Willow. Normally, I’d wait to be invited, but today had made it clear that something had changed.

  “Yo!” Willow took one more photo. I blinked at the flash. She grinned. “So, I heard you and Eric are an item?”

  I furrowed my brow. “Not exactly.”

  “Aha!” Willow gave me a sly look. “So there is something going on.”

  “We went to dinner. How do you know … ?”

  “I got a text from Tristan. He knows everything.” She rolled her eyes good-naturedly.

  “I gathered that. And get this: He made up a fake Twitter account to mess with me. Does he normally do stuff like that?”

  “Normal?” Willow huffed. “There is no such thing as normal when it comes to Tristan.”

  “Still, can I show you? It’s just weird,” I said, aware as the words left my mouth that I was acting like Skye, pretending to be annoyed by the spotlight when I secretly craved it.

  “Ugh, are you seriously trying to suck me into Twitter? You can’t do it. I won’t let you. I only do Instagram. Photos don’t lie.”

  “Forget about it,” I said, suddenly embarrassed that I’d let fake Tweets from an imaginary ghost freak me out. “So how was your day?”

  “It was good!” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Actually, is that my dress?”

  Oops. I tugged nervously at the hem. “Um …”

  “It looks great on you! I told you that you could borrow my stuff whenever you want! Did you wear it to the auditions? How’d they go?”

  “They were … weird.” I tried to figure out where to begin. I couldn’t believe it was still the same day. But before I could begin, Ms. Robinette strode into the lobby. She’d changed from her nightgown into her typical black pants and white button-down shirt, which made her look like a waitress. Or a penguin. I wished I could Tweet that observation. Tristan would have laughed.

  “Girls?” Ms. Robinette asked soberly. “I need your full attention. Ladies?” She glanced meaningfully at Allison and Elizabeth, who guiltily snapped their heads up from their iPad.

  “This isn’t easy to say, but … there’s been an accident on campus today. Andrea Schaefer has passed away.” Ms. Robinette’s lower lip trembled. Laura gasped.

  “She died?” a senior asked from the back of the room.

  Ms. Robinette nodded. “It’s a terrible tragedy.”

  My stomach twisted. I thought of Andi’s agonized breathing onstage, the slow trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth. “I was there,” I croaked, unaware I’d spoken until I realized that everyone in the room was staring at me. “At the audition. I saw her …”

  “I am so sorry you had to witness that, Briana, darling,” Ms. Robinette said, shaking her head. “Of course if you need to talk to anyone, my door is always open.”

  “What happened?” a girl asked me, her eyes wide with a strange mixture of horror and excitement.

  “She poisoned herself,” Ms. Robinette said briskly before I had time to respond.

  What? “No,” I started to say. “That’s not what happened …” but my voice trailed off as the room broke into a flurry of whispers.

  Ms. Robinette cleared her throat and looked stern. “It seems she may have accidentally ingested battery acid from her phone, which ended up poisoning her.”

  Two tiny freshman girls in matching velour sweatpants and flimsy MacHale camisoles burst into giggles.

  Ms. Robinette glared at them. “It’s not funny. It’s a tragedy. Though I know you’re likely reacting to the shock of the news. That’s why psychological services will be open all day tomorrow, for anyone who might need to talk. In the meantime, I ask that you respect the privacy of Andrea’s parents and not discuss this tragedy on social media, or with anyone outside the MacHale community who may want to report on this story.”

  Willow nodded somberly. I glanced down at my dead phone. How could a phone be deadly? I thought back to the way Tristan and I had laughed at her, the way she couldn’t keep the phone out of her mouth.

  Pockets of conversation sprang up around me, but I didn’t want to engage with anyone. It was as if the weird feelings I’d sensed all day had collected together to form a tsunami that had broken on top of me, engulfing me in a tangle of confusion and exhaustion.

  “One more
thing, ladies?” Our focus snapped back to Ms. Robinette, who rewarded us with a bright smile. “I made tea. Please feel free to help yourselves.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she shuffled toward the kitchen. No one else had left the room. I didn’t want to be here, but I also didn’t want to be the first to leave. I turned toward Willow, who was busy choosing a filter for the selfie she’d taken just moments before Ms. Robinette’s announcement. It struck me as a strange thing to do moments after learning that one of our classmates had died, but Willow was being so friendly to me, it didn’t seem like a good time to start being judgmental.

  “Are you okay?” I whispered hoarsely, even though it was obvious she was. What I needed, I realized, was for someone to ask me the same question.

  Willow nodded. “I didn’t know her very well. I mean, we were in a sculpture class together….” She trailed off. “But, I mean, maybe it’s for the best.”

  I blinked hard, trying to suss out Willow’s facial expression. But with only one contact, everything was blurry, lending an even more bizarre cast to the scene that had just unfolded. Willow sounded so callous. Had she said what I’d thought she’d said?

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, like, survival of the fittest or whatever. If she couldn’t keep herself from eating her phone, then maybe she wasn’t meant for this world, you know?” Willow blithely shrugged her shoulders. Near her, a few senior girls who’d overheard her nodded in agreement.

  “But don’t you think it’s weird to just swallow your cell phone battery? I mean, who does that?” I pressed. Something about the death didn’t seem right. Of course, I’d seen her in the auditorium, flailing and desperate. But, then again, I’d also seen her spend the entire morning of the audition with the corner of her phone firmly placed between her two canine teeth.