by Anna Davies
“Good luck playing detective. I won’t stop you. And I’m leaving!” I turned on my heel and ran, hurtling past the graduation gowns, running faster and faster on my way back to Rockefeller. It wasn’t until I reached the grate opening that I realized one serious problem. The grate. It was one thing to have jumped down, but Willow had never explained how someone climbed back up.
“Bree!” A voice echoed in the hallway.
Tristan.
“Are you kidding?” I hissed.
He held his hands up.
“Bree. It’s okay. I just want to talk to you. Alone.”
Alone.
I was trapped. I gazed up at the grate, three feet above my head. I was just barely able to graze the edge with my fingers. I looked around for a chair or a ladder, but of course there wasn’t one. At least not one I could find. If Willow were here, I had no doubt she’d know exactly how to get back up.
I took a deep breath and jumped.
And then fell to the ground with a thud.
“Ow!” I winced in agony.
“Bree, it’s okay.” Tristan knelt beside me. “It’s okay.”
“Why should I trust you?” My voice rose into a sob. “I hate you.”
“No. Bree. For the last time, I’m not Hamlet’s Ghost … and I don’t think you are, either. But you want to be an actress, right? You want the spotlight on you? Well, for the next week, you have it. For your own good, and for everyone else’s, you need people to think you’re Hamlet’s Ghost.”
“Why? So you have a story?”
Tristan’s face darkened. “Yes. But not the reason you think. I know you think I’m being a bad friend, and I am. I know that. I’ll make it up to you. But for right now, everyone thinks you’re Hamlet’s Ghost. And that’s much better than the alternative.”
“Which is?”
“I can’t explain it yet. I need to do research. And it’s going to be explosive. But listen to me when I tell you that it’s safest for people to think you’re a murderer.”
“Safe for who? Not for me!” My voice rose an octave. I knew MacHale had rituals I didn’t understand and traditions I just went along with, but this was absurd. I couldn’t pretend to be a murderer. I couldn’t pretend to Tweet people’s deaths. And I couldn’t control a Twitter handle that wasn’t mine. “Do you mean it’s safe for you to spread rumors? I don’t know what you’re doing or who you are, but it’s sick!”
“Trust me, I know what’s going on. And you’re in danger.”
“Trust me, I know that. Which is why I want to get away from you.”
Tristan clamped his fingers around my wrists. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Then get your hands off me,” I shrieked.
My eyes darted to the door. Tristan followed my gaze. Then, he slowly took off his purple cashmere scarf and draped it around my neck. “I know you’re going to run away. But it’s cold outside. Consider this a peace offering.”
The fabric felt heavy and tight against my neck. I squirmed under its weight.
“You haven’t left yet,” Tristan noted.
“Could you please just tell me what’s going on in a way that makes sense?” I shivered and pulled the scarf closer around my body.
Tristan hesitated, then shook his head. “Not yet. Just follow my lead, and you’ll be fine. But just know that Hamlet’s Ghost is hiding in plain sight. And for the next few days, I want you to just play the role of a lifetime and trust me that I am fixing everything.”
“So you want me to just act like a cold-blooded killer. Got that,” I said sarcastically.
Tristan sighed again. “I can’t tell you anything else. Go. Use that door. But I promise everything will be fine.”
“You think I believe your promises? And I’m not going to let you and your stupid quest for drama ruin my reputation. Or ruin the show,” I added.
I pushed the door, surprised by how light it was. A gust of cold air hit me and I realized this led straight outside. I hurried up the five concrete steps that led from the basement exit to the gas lamp–lit path connecting the dorms.
I could see the towering spires of Rockefeller across from me. It was so close. We never locked our dorm window; it’d be easy to crawl in. All I had to do was get there.
If I ran for it, there was a chance I could be found and stopped, either by one of the roving security guards on campus or by one of the house monitors on their way back from the faculty meeting.
A tree branch cracked, and I started.
Another crack, followed by a scuffle in the snow-covered hedges that fenced the dorm.
“Tristan! This is not funny!” I shrieked. Nothing. My fingers inched inside my pocket and clutched my phone. Which was dead. My throat tightened. “Help!” I called in a small voice.
“Hey.”
I gasped.
“Whoa. Shh! It’s fine. Sorry.” A red-haired guy walked out of the shadows and toward me. I stood frozen in place. Zach.
“Oh. Hi.” I shifted awkwardly.
“Bree. Just looking for the party. Do you know where it is?”
“Um. It’s not really a party.”
A shadow crossed his face. “Well, I wasn’t exactly coming to celebrate.”
My knees were shaking. What was he doing here? I remembered the way Kennedy had slammed the door in his face, the way he’d been so defensive around Eric the night of the auditions. I knew nothing about him. But part of me didn’t want him to leave.
“Is Tristan there?”
“What?” I asked, caught off guard.
“Tristan. Is he at the party?”
“Why do you want to know?”
Zach opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, then closed it and shook his head. “No reason.” He turned and ambled off into the darkness, his boots crunching in the snow.
“Wait!” I called. I knew how Zach saw me. As a spoiled rich girl who didn’t like townies. But he didn’t see me as the murderer. I could tell in his eyes, the way he’d actually looked at me, instead of anywhere else but my face.
“Yeah?” He turned around.
“He’s probably in his dorm. Burnside. On the other side of the pond.”
“Burnside,” Zach repeated. “Got it. Thanks, Bree.”
“Yup,” I whispered in the darkness. My teeth chattered together and I wished that Eric was there to laugh. The single light from the room at the top of Taylor Hall flicked off. It was a sign that the faculty meeting had ended, and that I had to move, fast.
Ready, set, go. I forced one foot in front of the other and sprinted toward our window, which was thankfully open an inch, despite the subzero weather, courtesy of Willow’s forgetfulness. I hooked my knee over the window ledge and tumbled down on Willow’s bed, causing a flurry of snow to dust on the black comforter.
I shut the window and lit a few of Willow’s candles, casting the room into a dim amber light. My heart thudded against my chest. I whirled around to look out the window, wondering if I was being watched. The entire campus was dark, making it impossible to see beyond the snow-capped Rockefeller hedgerows. No one was there.
I looked back at my laptop screen, at the red battery icon, signaling only minutes of power. Not now. I couldn’t deal with this now. I slammed down the laptop cover. Then I locked the windows, as well as the door.
A few weeks ago, I’d wondered what it would be like to be Ophelia, unsure if the madness that surrounded her was coming from everyone around her, or inside her own mind.
But now I didn’t have to pretend. Because that was exactly how I already felt now, in my own, very real life. And unlike Ophelia, I didn’t have a script — or a clue to how everything would end.
Briana Beland @alleyesonbree
Trivia time! Who, on campus, has, in the words of Hamlet, “a vicious mole of nature in them?” (A certain streaky-haired #machale supersleuth, mayhap?)
Tristan Schuler
Really @alleyesonbree? Tweeting insults is a little bit low, don’t you thi
nk? Or are you saying you’re ready to get dirty?
Briana Beland @alleyesonbree
No, I’m saying that you should spend less time chasing rumors and more time studying Shakespeare. That’s all.
I scrolled down my feed, disappointed Tristan hadn’t responded. The lights had come on in the middle of the night, waking me up and making the party/vigil/whatever it was seem especially dreamlike.
I stretched in bed. We had rehearsals at nine. Or rather, were supposed to have had rehearsals at nine. I wasn’t sure if they were going to go on in light of the tragedy.
I swung my legs out of bed. As I was gathering my shower stuff, the sharp ringing of our in-room phone startled me. Since we always used our cell phones, the campus phone hardly ever rang. Even advisors knew to text or e-mail us about appointments.
“Hello?” I answered curiously.
“Ms. Beland?” Mr. O’Dell’s smooth voice emanated through the receiver.
“Yes?”
“Can you come to my office, please? I wanted to talk to you before rehearsal starts.”
“Before rehearsal?” I repeated.
“Yes, before rehearsal,” Mr. O’Dell said brusquely. “First rule of show business: The show must go on.”
“Right.” I didn’t even try to guess what he was talking about.
“See you in five minutes, then?” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
Four and a half minutes later, and I’d raced my unshowered self down to the theater. I pushed against the metal backstage door, wincing as I remembered a motionless, unblinking Skye being carried out on a stretcher.
“Mr. O’Dell?” I called. Odd chanting music played softly, making the empty backstage area feel especially eerie. “Mr. O’Dell?” I called again.
“Ophelia!”
I jumped. Mr. O’Dell leaned over the railing of the upper loft, smiling down at me.
“I’m sorry to have scared you.” He gave me a small smile. “I was just in the middle of doing my morning meditation. Meditation is essential for a serious artist. Do you agree?”
I nodded wordlessly as my overtaxed brain strained to figure out why he’d called me Ophelia. Was he playing some mind game with me?
“Come up, then,” he said.
I gingerly climbed the wooden steps, all too aware they were the last steps Skye had ever taken. Mr. O’Dell watched my every move. Once I’d reached the loft platform, he nodded once and motioned for me to follow him into his office.
“Sit.” He nodded toward a single metal folding chair opposite his computer.
“So, you’ve heard the news about Skye.”
“Yes … it’s awful. I’m so sorry.”
“Yes, a tragedy,” he said more quickly than I might have expected. “And you know it means we have to make alternate arrangements. Skye wouldn’t want her death to be in vain. She’d want the show to go on. We’ll have her picture in the lobby, and we’ll dedicate the performance to her. She’ll be remembered forever. In a way, her death was the role of a lifetime. Don’t you agree?”
I nodded, even though my brain spun, trying to process what he said. He hadn’t known Skye at all. None of us had. But he’d still understood her desire for the spotlight against all odds. And even though his assessment of her death was twisted, it was also true. Skye would have loved the attention. I shivered.
“We’re all actors here, Briana. ‘Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage.’ ” He turned toward me. “Macbeth.”
“I know.” I twisted my fingers in my lap. This conversation was getting seriously bizarre.
“Skye’s hour onstage is now eternal. Everyone will remember her. Just like Sarah Charonne.”
My body involuntarily shivered at the mention of Sarah’s name.
Mr. O’Dell chuckled softly. “Well, this is getting morose. I’ll cut to the chase. I want you to understudy for Ophelia and play the part at the matinee. Can you do that?”
My throat felt dry. Of course I could do that. But now? And in these circumstances?
Mr. O’Dell’s eyes narrowed at my hesitation. “Is there a problem?”
“It’s just …” I trailed off. What could I say? That there was a weird Twitter account that was predicting deaths? That people thought I was behind it?
“Just what?” Mr. O’Dell prodded.
“Nothing.” I plastered on a smile. “Thank you for the opportunity,” I said as I scraped my chair back and headed toward the door.
“Of course. I know you’re going to kill it.”
I turned back sharply, but Mr. O’Dell seemed unaware of how close his comment cut to the bone.
As I headed down the stairs, I spotted Eric sitting on the ancient green couch that took up almost half of the backstage area.
“Eric!” I called.
He looked up and my heart clenched. He looked awful. Stubble covered his paler-than-usual cheeks. His eyes were bloodshot. His gray MacHale sweatshirt had a coffee stain on the front. And instead of his usual shorts, he was wearing a pair of light blue hospital scrubs. “What are you doing here?” His ragged voice was full of disdain.
“I’m … nothing. I just was talking to Mr. O’Dell. I’m so sorry about Skye.”
“I bet you are,” he spat.
His words thudded against my chest, knocking the air out of my lungs. Did Eric really think I’d been involved in Skye’s death? How could he? After all the time we’d spent together, he really thought I was capable of murder?
Eric’s eyes bore into me, defying me to respond. I opened my mouth, ready to proclaim my innocence, but the words never came. Instead, I sighed and looked away.
“Anyway, if you ever need to talk … I’m around.”
Eric grunted, then turned back down to his phone. I headed toward the front of the theater, feeling more confused and lonely than ever.
Leah Banks
Going to miss Skye so much. So happy to remember her at a chapel vigil.
Kennedy Clifford
Very, very sad day for Forsyth and for MacHale. My thoughts and love are with the remaining member of Riled Up.
I lay facedown on my bed. I knew there was an official vigil in the chapel, but there was no way I could deal with everyone staring at me accusingly. Instead, I kept obsessively refreshing my Twitter feed. Most everyone at MacHale was Tweeting memories of Skye. Very few were mentioning me.
And Tristan was visibly absent.
Finally, I turned my phone off and powered down my computer. I pulled out my thumbed-through copy of Hamlet. Maybe the chapel vigil would help people realize that Skye’s death was the result of a stupid electrical accident.
Just then, the door banged open. Willow walked through, clad in black tights, a tiny black dress, and a small black hat. A black lace veil dipped over one of her eyes.
I turned toward her and propped my head on my hand. “Hey,” I said.
“What did you do?” she asked as she reached over and yanked my phone from my hand.
“Hey!”
“This isn’t on,” she said accusingly.
“I know. Why do you care?”
“Because of what you Tweeted. Don’t you realize that it’s not funny? People are really freaking out.” She widened her eyes. Her voice didn’t sound unfriendly, exactly. Instead, it sounded terrified. And that scared me more than anything.
“What do you mean?”
She went to her own computer and pulled up Twitter. Even though she never used it, she still had an account. It didn’t take her long to find the Tweet she was looking for.
Hamlet’s Ghost @hamletsghost
As Shakespeare says, death is a fearful thing. At least for those still living … Any ideas who may be next to feel no fear?
“I didn’t write that. I wouldn’t write that. You can look on my computer if you want…. I don’t have anything. I didn’t write it!” The words poured out of my mouth, my voice growing louder and
higher pitched with every word.
Willow turned to me, her eyes large and unblinking. “I’m going to stay with Vanessa tonight. You understand, right?”
I stared at her. Vanessa had been Willow’s roommate last year. From the little Willow had told me, they’d never gotten along, with Vanessa hating Willow’s go-with-the-flow bohemian attitude and penchant for spontaneous room redecoration.
Without waiting for a response, Willow gathered her clothes from her dresser and flung them into a tote bag. She glanced over her shoulder as she left.
“I know it sucks that you didn’t get the part you wanted, but don’t take it out on us, okay? We’re not the enemies.”
The door closed with a soft thud.
A wave of anger crashed over me as I refreshed my Twitter feed. The creepy Hamlet’s Ghost Tweet was getting Retweeted rapidly, and since it wasn’t my account, there wasn’t anything I could do to stop it. The only person who could stop it was the one who’d made it.
Tristan.
I squeezed my eyes shut. I couldn’t stomach the thought of speaking to him now. But I couldn’t let him keep Tweeting. I didn’t think he was responsible for Andi and Skye’s deaths, not really, but whatever was going on, it had to stop.
I pulled on my coat and hurried out into darkness, ignoring the few kids who were walking from the chapel to the dining hall. I couldn’t remember eating anything today, but I wasn’t hungry.
I headed toward Burnside, waiting in the shadows of the entryway until a hoodie-wearing kid swiped in. I followed him, hurrying toward Tristan’s dorm room.
As I lifted my fist to knock on the door, I heard voices emanating from inside the room. I pressed my ear to the wood.
“Haven’t heard from him. He didn’t check his mailbox today.” It sounded like Tad’s slow drawl.
“You gonna let them know?” a slightly lower voice asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t want him to get mad. You know how Tristan rolls.”
There was a short laugh, the nervous heh-heh type where nothing is really that funny.
“But, dude, he left his laptop. He’d never leave his laptop.”
“I’ll figure it out, man.”
