Followers

by Anna Davies

  “Andi does!” One of the seniors laughed.

  “No, listen!” I said sharply.

  The senior narrowed her eyes at me. “Yes?”

  “I’m just saying … do you think someone could have poisoned her?” I knew right away it wasn’t the right thing to say aloud. It made me sound naïve and paranoid. Yet I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling tugging at the edges of my shock.

  Willow snorted in laughter. “No offense, but Andi’s not exactly important enough to poison.”

  I stifled a shiver. Apparently, at MacHale, you had to be someone even to be worthy of being murdered.

  “Are you okay? You look weird,” Willow said.

  Just then, Ms. Robinette came back in with a tray laden with mugs of tea. I grabbed one and took a few deep sips, letting the warmth wash over me. Willow turned back to Instagram, the two seniors slipped into a conversation about internships, and for what felt like the first time that day, I was invisible again. Yet this time, I welcomed the anonymity. I took that chance to hurry back to our room, where I turned on the lights and got under the covers. It was barely after eight, but I was exhausted.

  “Rest in peace, Andi,” I whispered, right before I closed my eyes and allowed sleep to overtake me.

  * * *

  When I woke up early the next morning, Willow was sound asleep in the bed across from mine. I squinted, trying to get the contact in my right eye to fall into place. I’d fallen asleep with it in and it was now stuck to my eyeball, reminding me of the ancient wadded-up pieces of gum stuck for eternity on the hallway walls. I blinked several times to try to eek moisture from my tear ducts, and it was only when a tear began to form that all the events from yesterday came slamming back into my brain.

  Auditions. Eric. Hamlet’s Ghost. Andi. Dead.

  Each thought was followed by another more terrible event, creating an avalanche of emotion that caused real tears to leak out of my eyes.

  Andi was dead. It was a fact, not a dream, but it seemed even less real than the creepy eyes I’d seen in the woods a few nights back or the very real fear I had of Sarah Charonne’s ghost. I reached under my pillow for my phone. Where was my phone? Then, I turned and saw it on the floor, sticking up from a bowl of rice like a lopsided candle on a birthday cake.

  I crossed the room and opened my laptop. I typed twi into the address bar and pressed RETURN as twitter.com auto-filled into the blank space.

  A window popped up.

  Browser not connected to the Internet.

  My stomach sank.

  Of course it wasn’t. The Internet went out almost weekly in Rockefeller, and the IT department never gave a good reason. Personally, I thought Ms. Robinette had something to do with it. She knew everyone used their laptops after lights-out, and she took sleep very seriously. Normally, no one minded, since they could always use their phones for any late-night Facebook stalking or Snapchatting. But with both out of commission, I was lost. Untethered.

  Not knowing what else to do, I swung my legs out of bed, pulling a sweatshirt over my tank top and not bothering to change out of my pajama pants. I didn’t care what I looked like right now; who would possibly be awake and functional on campus this early? I wasn’t even sure if the dining hall would be open, but I decided to test my luck. The dining hall had two communal computers that were hardly ever used, which would at least allow me some contact with the outside world.

  My breath formed white clouds of smoke with each exhale. Whatever adrenaline I’d had yesterday had disappeared, replaced by the far more familiar waves of anxiety that radiated from my brain to my body.

  The sounds of heavy breathing made me turn from my spot at the dining hall entrance. Coming up from the wooded path was a man wearing a black fleece hat, running pants, and a purple fleece pullover. I squinted to see if I recognized him. I could see goldish curls springing from underneath the hat.

  “Ophelia!”

  What had he called me?

  I whirled around. “Mr. O’Dell?” The squeak in my voice gave away any attempt at being casual. I couldn’t tell how old he was. I couldn’t tell whether or not he was attractive. I couldn’t tell what made him interesting — yesterday, it had been his New York artiste leather ensemble, so out of place in the Maine woods. But today he was wearing the same thing Mr. Ervin, the gym teacher, wore to class, and I never felt the urge to stare at Coach Ervin. This, I realized, was what presence was. It was having an aura that made it impossible for anyone to look away.

  “Good morning.” Mr. O’Dell stopped and stamped his feet theatrically on the ground. “Trying to get some exercise in this tundra is harder than getting backers for an indie short film, don’t you think?” he asked, as if he knew what he was talking about. He was barely breathing heavily. Meanwhile, my breath was coming in short bursts, and sweat was running down the back of my neck. How could I listen to him when he’d called me Ophelia?

  “I had fun at the auditions yesterday!” I blurted, to fill the silence. “I mean, until Andi’s accident.” I froze, horrified by how callous I sounded. “Sorry, it’s early, and I didn’t sleep much,” I babbled, trying to save myself. Finally, I mashed my lips together and silently prayed he wouldn’t judge me.

  His eyes crinkled.

  “I am so sorry I just sounded like an idiot,” I said.

  I clapped my hand over my mouth. What was I doing?

  Mr. O’Dell smiled tightly. “You had fun at the auditions. Well, that’s something I don’t hear often. You’re interesting, Ms…. ?”

  “Beland. Briana Beland. But some people are calling me Bree now. I mean, some people have always called me Bree, but I’ve never used it as an official name, like, with teachers. But since I’m new here this year, I figured that I’d just call myself Bree. Or Ophelia!” I babbled, realizing as I spoke that interesting was probably interchangeable with insane. But it was too late to change anything.

  “Bree. I didn’t remember your name, but I remembered your performance. The Ophelia monologue.”

  “Thank you, sir!” I said brightly, realizing as the words left my lips that he’d said he remembered it, not that he liked it.

  “Well, I’ll see you soon.” He pulled his earbuds from his pocket.

  “Wait!”

  “Yes?” He cocked his head.

  I took a deep breath. He already had to think I was a sociopath. I didn’t have anything to lose. “When are you going to post the cast list?” I asked. My heart thumped wildly in my chest.

  “Why? Are you nervous?”

  “A little,” I confessed.

  “I’m planning to post the cast list quite soon. By three p.m. at the latest. Can you tell the others? Thank you.”

  Before I could respond, he popped in his earbuds and took off down the jogging path. “Wait!” I called. My phone was still dead. I didn’t know the others. What was I supposed to do?

  But he didn’t turn around.

  “Hold up!” I called again. But his form only retreated into the distance.

  I made a split-second decision and headed to Burnside.

  Burnside was the upperclassmen boys’ dorm, named after the poet Robert Burns and, as every tour guide reminded prospective students, a proud reminder of MacHale’s Scottish heritage. It was also the farthest from the center of campus, all the way on the other side of the pond.

  I was weighing my options on the steps when the door creaked open. Chad-or-Tad wandered out in workout gear and a MACHALE LACROSSE cap, pulled down so low on his forehead I couldn’t even see his eyebrows to verify his identity.

  “Yo.” He blinked at me.

  “Hey. Is Tristan around?” I tried to sound casual.

  “Yeah. He’s around.” Chad-or-Tad nodded.

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Oh, you want to see him? He’s my roommate.”

  “Which room?” I asked, trying to stay patient. That was the thing I was learning about MacHale: Everyone expected you to know things — from how to sneak out of the dorms to whic
h teachers only gave open-book exams to how Sarah Charonne had died. But no one ever told you how they knew this stuff.

  “Oh, right. Thirty-six.”

  “Thanks.” I walked through the open door as the scent of cologne and dirty socks assaulted my nose, one hundred times more offensive than the Rockefeller common room, even during finals week. No wonder all the guys tried to sneak into the girls’ dorm instead of vice versa. While the Rockefeller hallways were covered with photos, posters, and signs for pep rallies and birthdays, the Burnside walls were blank, and the paint was chipping. The hallway was narrower than Rockefeller, and I noticed a few Italian Village boxes seeping grease in the corner.

  40, 39 … Finally, I reached room 36. I paused for a second before I gently rapped on the door.

  Nothing.

  I knocked again, louder this time.

  “Seriously? How many times have I tried to tell you to just put your running stuff out the night before so you don’t forget anything?” a muffled voice whined on the other side of the door.

  I shifted from one foot to the other. Maybe this hadn’t been a good idea. But just as I was about to leave, the door inched open. Tristan blinked up at me a few times, holding the doorframe as if it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing onto the floor. His black hair was matted on one side and spiky on the other, and his baggy flannel pajama pants and oversize sweatshirt made him look way younger than he did when he was in full hipster wear.

  “Sorry. It’s early. I’ll go,” I said quickly, turning my eyes to the floor.

  “No, come in.” He swung the door open. “Sorry to yell at you. I thought you were Tad. He always forgets something. He’s like a golden retriever, always coming back to fetch. Only he drools more.”

  “That’s funny,” I said, too keyed up to actually laugh. I stepped inside. The room itself was similar to our Rockefeller room, but the south-facing windows had a view to the woods rather than the pond. A tree stood in one corner of the room, its leaves drooping. The other side of the room looked like an earthquake had exploded. Bow ties littered the floor, half-crushed soda cans were everywhere, and a piece of string cheese was placed carefully across the psych textbook on the desk like a bookmark.

  “I live in this part, clearly,” Tristan clarified. “It’s truly tragic. My roommate lives like a pig and drags us all down in the mud. Positively Shakespearean. And this is his mess from December. He didn’t clean before he left, and I’m not touching it. He keeps saying he will. But he doesn’t. Instead, he’ll clean after he goes for a run. Or after he hangs out with Willow. Or after he pretends to go for a run but really goes to hang out with Willow. Or after he auditions for the play, so he can hang out with Willow when she’s the costume designer. In case you didn’t realize, my roommate is obsessed with your roommate. But he won’t do anything about it.”

  “I kind of gathered they liked each other. But Willow and I aren’t really friends.” I shrugged. “I mean, we’re friends, but not … you know.”

  Tristan smiled knowingly. “Nice Ice. It’s a MacHale specialty, along with ceramics, sending alumni to premier liberal arts colleges, and springing bombshells on current students. Friendly on the surface but never really getting close. People don’t want to break The Bubble. The Bubble being MacHale, of course.”

  “Yup.” Nice Ice. The Bubble. I tried to file away the terms in my mind for later. I felt like I needed a glossary after talking with Tristan. I knew he had just woken up, but he was already speaking in sharp sound bites. Meanwhile, I wasn’t entirely confident I was speaking English.

  “So, Andi bit it. Let’s discuss.” Tristan perched on the edge of the bed and arched an eyebrow up at me.

  “Um, that’s not really what I was here to … discuss.”

  “Good.” Tristan clapped his hands together. “So boring. I mean, I feel sad for the girl. It sucks. Or … bites, I guess. But it also really makes things depressing. And January is already dismal. So, let’s talk something happier. Like, say, you and Eric.”

  “Well, first I need a favor. The cast list is supposed to be up by three, and Mr. O’Dell wants to spread the word. Think Hamlet’s Ghost can do it?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure about Hamlet’s Ghost, but I can. Hold on.” He pulled his phone from the pocket of his pajamas and quickly typed. He paused, frowned, typed more, then smiled. “Done. Now. Let’s get to the good stuff.”

  “Well …” I trailed off, unsure where to begin. Part of me wanted to tell him everything about Eric. And part of me still didn’t trust him.

  “Wait!” Tristan leapt up from his bed so quickly that I jumped. “We must have caffeine if we’re going to have a conversation. Don’t you agree, Bree?” Tristan asked as though I had any say in the matter. I nodded as Tristan rummaged through his closet, finally revealing what looked like a well-stocked hotel minibar. A dual coffee machine and espresso maker sat on a shelf next to a collection of various coffee flavors.

  “Coffee?” He turned toward me expectantly.

  “Sure?” It was a question more than a response. I perched on the edge of the bed and Tristan eyed me reproachfully.

  “Bree-an-a,” he said, emphasizing each syllable. “I would have thought you’d known better.”

  “What?” I sprang to my feet.

  “No outside clothes on the comforter!”

  “Sorry!” I stood up to leave.

  “I suppose it will be all right.” Tristan handed me a steaming cup of coffee. “Sit. No one knows that rule. Or at least, no one follows it but me. Maybe I’m the one who’s germophobic. So where have you been? Also, I know we’re supposed to talk about happy things, but can I just tell you something tragic about the Andi situation? Dr. Conger wants me to run a story in the paper about the dangers of cell phones. As if all of us are just chewing on everything. Seriously?” Tristan rolled his eyes.

  “Sounds rough.” I hated how everyone was making fun of Andi’s death. Not like I was any better. I was just better at keeping my thoughts to myself. At least I was for now.

  “You have no idea. We go to one of the best boarding schools in the country and we need a reminder to not eat batteries? If you ask me, we’re better off without her. Anyway, that’s enough of my drama. I can’t even bear to talk about it anymore; the more seconds I spend discussing the situation, the more brain cells I feel dying. So let’s talk about you. What’s going on?” Tristan asked expectantly.

  I briefly told him about my run-in with Skye, followed by my conversation with Mr. O’Dell.

  “So, Skye is mad at you. Why do you care? Don’t you not really like her?”

  I shrugged. “Well, I want to be nice.”

  Tristan made a retching sound.

  “What?” I asked.

  “ ‘I want to be nice.’ That’s not very aspirational, All Eyes on Bree,” he chided, as though I were a block-stealing kindergartener and he was a benevolent babysitter. “You may not want to admit it, but I can see it. You want to be a star. Actually, no.” He shook his head. “You believe you are a star. As you should. Any other attitude is giving up.”

  I shifted uneasily in my chair. I didn’t like the way Tristan was staring at me, as though he knew me better than I knew myself. When we were Tweeting back and forth, reacting to the audition drama swirling around us, I knew exactly what I wanted to say. But when we were face-to-face, I felt shy. Whenever he laughed, I wondered if it was at me. It felt more genuine when it was in Tweet form. From his account. I took a deep breath. I was ready to confront him.

  “So, what’s the deal with that Hamlet’s Ghost thing?”

  “Huh?” Tristan cocked his head.

  “That account … on Twitter. It was Tweeting about stuff that happened yesterday. I was pretty freaked out when I realized it sort of predicted Andi’s accident.”

  Tristan shook his head. “No comprende. What are you talking about?”

  “You just Tweeted from it!”

  Tristan shook his head. “No I didn’t. See?” He shove
d his phone under my nose.

  Tristan Schuler

  Who’s ready for drama? Hamlet cast list posted at 3pm today. I’ll bring tissues, you bring yourselves!

  “But I thought …” I scrolled halfway down until I found a Hamlet’s Ghost Retweet. I clicked on the avatar.

  The profile was empty, and it had no followers. But the photo had been changed. Instead of the default egg shape, it was a photo of a full moon. I shivered as I read its latest Tweet, posted late last night.

  Hamlet’s Ghost @hamletsghost

  Double, double, toil and trouble … Wrong play, but when #forsyth and #machale mix, that’s what’s I expect to be on the way.

  “That’s not you?” I asked dubiously, holding the phone up toward him.

  “Do I seem like I’d thrive on anonymity?” Tristan placed his hand on his hips and pouted. “Trust me, I only Tweet as myself. But it seems like Hamlet’s Ghost cares a lot about gossip. Which brings us back to the question I had in the first place: What is going on between you and Eric?”

  My cheeks turned hot. “Nothing. I mean, we just grabbed food.”

  “Interesting.” A half smile appeared on Tristan’s face.

  “Don’t tell anyone, okay?”

  “Why not?” Tristan asked. “You’re single, he’s single…. It’s perfect. And it’s not like people don’t know already. Dude, you’ve got a ghost talking about it. I’d say the secret’s out. And adding more gossip only adds more heat. Let me write about you guys, and I’m doing you a favor. Please? I need scandal, not public service announcements!” Tristan stuck his lower lip out at me.

  “Thanks. But I’d rather everything just sort of go back on the DL. I mean, Eric did just break up with Skye…. And then there’s the whole cast list coming out…. It just seems complicated.” As I spoke, I wondered how well Eric and Tristan really knew each other. They seemed to be in the same artistic and leadership orbit, but I couldn’t imagine Eric having the patience to deal with Tristan’s teasing and almost aggressive fact-gathering.

  “Do you always do that?” Tristan asked.