Volume 1: Proscenium
Issue 1: Something Strange at Chapel High
Florian Reyes Honeywell
By Roach
“Maybe you think it’s too soon to be reflecting on this sort of stuff, but believe me, it really isn’t. Quite the contrary. This is an especially important time for you to consider what you want out of life. It’s not just about the next class, the next assignment, or the next test. You have to be able to rise above. See things from a bird’s-eye view. Your choices today hold power over your future.”
A restless energy swept through the classroom as Mx. Lockwood spoke. Feet tapped impatiently, while paper shuffled about. I glanced at the clock, where the second hand marched forward. How was I supposed to see beyond the end of class—a year, ten years, a lifetime from now? When I tried to think ahead, about the things my life could be, everything blurred together. Besides, I didn’t exactly see what my future had to do with the lecture.
This question wasn’t unanswered for long, as Mx. Lockwood continued, “Keep this in mind as we start working with some concepts on determinism and free will in chapter 8. It’s not just about the things Socrates or Nietzsche say. It’s also about your own hopes and dreams.”
The philosophy teacher had barely finished speaking when a bell sounded outside. Its chime hung crystal clear in the air, signaling the end of period. Most of the class got up and headed towards the door. Although it was the last class of the day, a couple of front row students stayed behind to ask Mx. Lockwood questions. I grabbed my textbook, then followed my classmates into the hallway.
I stayed close to the walls, trying to put as much distance between myself and everyone else as possible. This proved easier said than done, as the hallways were quickly filling up, loud with chatter.
“Like, Mrs. Gomez is so strict, she…”
“Oh my god, I can’t believe he…”
“Did you hear? It’s…”
I focused on getting to my locker. My chemistry homework was due tomorrow, and I was pretty sure the assignment was somewhere in there.
When I arrived, two students blocked the locker, kissing passionately in front of it. From my standpoint, I couldn’t see who they were. Only the Albatross logo on the back of the guy’s jacket revealed that he was on one of the sports teams. I decided not to interrupt, instead, waiting for them to move on. I leaned awkwardly against the wall opposite of them, checking my phone to look busy. I had no new notifications. When the couple didn’t budge, but instead, chuckled and kissed again, I gave up. I had been planning to study in the library after class anyway. It was annoying, but I could come back for my assignment sheet later.
I headed upstairs. At the halfway point where the staircase turned in on itself, an arched window ran from one side of the wall to the other. A girl sat on the windowsill, reading from a book and listening to music on her headphones. When I passed by, I glimpsed the schoolyard outside, where students had started to filter out. They walked in a half-circle around the statue by the entrance. The statue itself was abstract, with metal tendrils spiraling into different geometrical shapes. At the very top, the tendrils narrowed into hands reaching for the sky. I imagined it was supposed to be inspiring, a not-so-subtle metaphor for reaching for one’s goals—instead, it came off as kind of creepy.
I thought back to the philosophy teacher’s comment about seeing things from a bird’s perspective. While it was probably intended less literally, from above, the students just looked like disorganized ants. They navigated around the statue, then split off as San Francisco’s streets funneled them into different directions.
I continued to the third floor. At the top of the stairs, my attention was drawn to a noise, like paper fluttering about.
“Watch it, you fucking freakshow,” a girl’s voice snarled.
I peered down the hallway where I spotted three people. The scrawny stature, acne-speckled light brown skin, and comb-over hairdo, unmistakably belonged to one of my classmates—Max Figuero. In front of him loomed Amber Wren, who I also shared a couple of classes with. Her hair hung down to the small of her back, the wavy locks reminiscent of flames. She had porcelain white skin and a delicate frame, complemented by a ribbed shirt and thigh-high boots. Next to her was Riley, or was it Rachel? Either way, the shorter girl began to pick up the loose papers scattered on the floor between Amber and Max.
“I’m sorry, I—”
Before Max could finish his sentence, Amber interrupted him. “God, you’re sooo pathetic. No wonder no one can stand to be around you.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Listen, freak. You don’t speak to me. Frankly, you shouldn’t speak at all. You know why?”
The boy barely shook his head, puckering his lips.
“Because no one likes you.”
Max’s compound-eyed glasses made his stare look even wider. But in spite of his expression of horror, he didn’t say anything back. A feeling of unease grew within me, like a churning in my stomach.
Amber smiled, her teeth pearly white. “You know, that’s almost an achievement. In a school of 1,500 people, not a single person likes you. If you weren’t such a walking tragedy, maybe I’d be impressed.”
The other girl finished collecting the scattered papers, and now handed them to Amber. By now, I had pieced together that Max most likely stumbled into her, causing her to lose the pages. He looked down at his feet.
Amber continued, “It doesn’t matter how many essays you write for Chris or Logan. No one wants to be your friend, because it’s a social fucking suicide. And you’re just not worth it.”
“How did—” Max started, to no avail.
“What did we just tell you?” Amber’s minion chimed in. “You don’t talk to us.” The two girls giggled in unison.
Was there anything I could do to help him? I didn’t know Max very well, and he mostly stayed quiet in class. But even so, he hadn’t earned the barrage of insults coming from Amber. She kept going, in a similar vein as before—pointing out Max’s worthlessness and unlikeability—while her friend occasionally joined in.
As I listened, the unease within me continued to grow. It churned through my torso, twisting my insides. Then the feeling rose towards my throat. I held it back. But I couldn’t help but wonder, what if I let go of control? Maybe I could help Max. The power residing within me wasn’t particularly strong. But at the very least I could provide a distraction.
Then again, I didn’t want to expose my secret. Not to mention that the situation didn’t really warrant that drastic of a measure. No, a real hero would be able to intervene without resorting to violence. A hero would know what to tell someone like Amber.
But I didn’t. There was nothing I could do that wouldn’t make things worse.
Amber, who hadn’t seemed to notice me before, now shot me a glance. As she did, I turned the other way. Her berating of Max faded behind me, a droning, like the noise in my head… I pushed it away, and continued towards the library. Once there, I embraced the quiet.
The library intern, Holly, sat by the front desk. She was younger than most of the teachers—maybe college-aged, judging by the small collection of empty Starbucks cups in front of her. She looked up from her notebook when I entered, smiling warmly.
I wondered if I should alert her to what was happening down the hallway. But as much as I hated it, Amber had been right about one thing. Helping Max was a social suicide. Even if I didn’t have much of a social life to lose, the only thing that could make my existence at Chapel High worse would be if I were one of her targets. Snitching was the most effective way to achieve that, especially since she had seen me pass by. But even as I tried to justify my inaction, guilt began to fester. Feebly, I returned Holly’s smile.
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Focusing on the task at hand, I meandered between the book aisles. Various inspirational posters plastered the sides of each bookshelf. They said things like “Forget the mistake, remember the lesson,” “I read books. What is your superpower?” or “Stop wishing, start doing.” Eventually, I reached my goal: the history section. I worked my way through the world wars before I found what I was looking for. After scanning through the books, I settled on one, wiggling it free from the jam-packed shelf. It was a third edition copy of The Cold War: Two Superpowers in a Superhuman Arms Race.
I sat down in my usual corner, sheltered in between a window and a glass cabinet filled with taxidermied animals. The marbled eyes of a sea otter stared at me through the glass. I pulled the cord of my earbuds from my backpack, then plugged them into my phone. After shuffling my study playlist, I opened the textbook. Sunlight illuminated the pages through the window.
For the second half of his history tests, Mr. Whetter typically posed a couple of brief essay questions. He had already given away that the topic would be on different superhero generations and cultural shifts between their respective time periods. So I turned to where it all started—the Cold War. I flipped through the book for relevant passages.
At first, it was hard to concentrate. The interaction between Amber and Max still lingered on my mind. But as I kept reading, I gradually lost myself in the pages. The author described the debut of Champion. His history had a comforting familiarity to me: Champion, an anonymous soldier, was granted superhuman abilities through scientific modifications. Exactly how it worked was kept confidential, but allegedly, some sort of super-steroids or drugs had been involved. Regardless, the end result was the same. Champion became the world’s first superhero; the first of generations to come. There was a picture from the famous press conference when Lyndon B. Johnson made the announcement in 1965. Rather, as the former president put it, they had “invented Superman to fight the commies.” I started taking notes.
By the time I had made it a quarter through the book, I felt a light tap on my shoulder. I unplugged my earbuds and glanced up.
“Hey, Florian,” Holly greeted me. Although she had only worked at the library for roughly one semester, she was better at remembering my name than some of the teachers. “Good book?”
“Yeah, it’s pretty interesting so far,” I replied.
“Do you need help checking it out? I’m about to close up.”
When I looked around, I discovered that the handful of students who were hanging around earlier were gone. I hadn’t realized it was already 5:30 pm. “Right. Yes, please.” I handed her the book.
She turned it over, studying the cover. “I find this one a little dry at times… But if you’re into this type of stuff, you might be interested in The Life of Meteora. It gives a more personal perspective on the history of the first Soviet superhero. The author has a new theory on the actual identity of Meteora. Obviously, it should be taken with a grain of salt, but it’s still pretty fascinating.”
“Sounds like it,” I said.
“Should I grab it for you?” Despite the fact that I was the only thing in the otherwise empty library preventing her from calling it a day, her tone remained pleasant.
“Sure, if you have time.”
“Give me a moment,” Holly replied. She ventured into the maze of bookshelves.
I wondered if I should have told her it was just for a test, and there was no reason to go out of her way for my sake. But truth be told, the subject interested me more than most of my classes. At the same time, I didn’t want to appear too interested. As unlikely as it was that anyone would take notice of my fascination for superheroes, no one could know about the source of my interest. Once a secret was big enough, dangerous enough, it began to define your life—until every interaction oriented around it. Checking out a book at the library was no exception. Bearing witness to a classmate’s harassment was no exception… Or was it? Even here, I couldn’t shake free of my own overthinking. My insides churned. My head began to ache, like a light thrumming. I pushed it away.
Holly returned with the book. “Let me know what you think.” She checked it out, then handed it to me.
“I will. Thank you,” I said, securing the book in my backpack.
I left the library. The hallways were empty now, Amber and Max long gone. I went down to the first floor, back to my locker. The couple who blocked it before had disappeared as well, seemingly with the rest of the student body. It was strangely quiet, which I didn’t mind. I rummaged through the assortment of notebooks and loose assignment sheets inside the locker, searching for my chemistry homework.
A wail traveled down the corridor. I froze. It persisted, then faded to incoherent pleading, and crescendoed again. When it finally died, the piercing sound continued to linger between the walls. A mix of fear and anticipation coursed through me. I turned slowly. Three classrooms down the hallway, a door stood agape. A scarlet blanket spilled through the opening. The blood unfolded rapidly, like a tipped bucket of paint. It pooled outside the room, filling the grooves of the tiled flooring.
My thoughts moved faster than I could conceptualize them. I held onto the fragments. The library intern two floors above. The phone weighing down my pocket like a stone. The pressure in my chest. The churning, the droning… I thought that if I didn’t take immediate action, I would stand still forever; a wax figure guarding the lockers until the end of times. I knew it to be true, in the same way I would in a dream. I forced myself to let go of the locker. Transfixed, I crept towards the glistening red. Fluorescent lights flickered above me, echoing the noise in my head.
As I neared what I recognized to be the biology classroom, I heard rattled breathing. A sudden urgency struck me. I went from tiptoeing to a light jog. I stopped outside the classroom, side-stepping the ripples of blood.
“Mr. Howells?” My voice sounded disconnected from the rest of me as I spoke the name of my biology teacher. The man rasped for air on the floor. Blood welled from his exposed guts. At first, I couldn’t make sense of what I saw. In the next moment, his spilled entrails fully consumed my vision. The lower half of his body was missing. A spasm ripped through him. The torn intestines wormed over his blood. He looked like he had been chained to two horses galloping in opposite directions. But his shredded tweed jacket told me something more sinister was at play.
Mr. Howells’ hand, which had been reaching out—for what, I couldn’t tell—fell gently to the floor. Air fizzled from his lungs. Blood spluttered between his pink lips. He didn’t take another breath. My insides twisted and turned into unnatural shapes. Agitated murmurs hissed through my organs, ringing in my head.
I searched the classroom with my gaze. Blood specked the desks and chairs. A few had tipped over. I spotted a fallen anatomical model, which I almost mistook for his missing lower body. But there was no sign of it. I thought his legs should have been something so misplaced that it would be instantly recognizable. But aside from the display of violence, the classroom was absurdly unchanged. Even the diagrams he had drawn this morning, explaining photosynthesis, were still on the whiteboard.
“The hell…?”
His blood touched the tip of my Converse. I took a startled step back. I tried counting to ten, but only made it halfway before losing track of the numbers. A deep hum reverberated in my chest. Then, a burning sensation prickled through my throat. It forced my mouth open. A stream of bees crawled out from under my eyelids and between my lips. Their buzzing became louder than my own thoughts.
Death, death, death, the swarm of bees residing inside of me chanted. A hundred or so flitted around me, distorting my shape. More joined. The steady stream of bees continued to pour from my mouth and eyes, until a thousand of them had left my body. Yet, when I closed my mouth, I had only released a fragment of the hive dwelling inside of me. My vision blurred, my throat tingled.
A part of me wanted to pull the swarm tighter around me, as if I could envelope myself in their protection. Although I hadn’t seen who—or, what—had taken my biology teacher’s life, the culprit would most likely still be nearby. I could hardly fathom how they had gotten away so quickly. Could one of the desks or vents serve as a hiding spot?
Through the cloud of bees, I looked at Mr. Howells’ halved corpse. His glazed, wide-open eyes hypnotized me. I thought maybe his stare, nearly rolling back into his skull, was directed at the whiteboard—where his final notes remained. Or maybe that was the direction of the culprit. It seemed impossible to look away, but I didn’t want to hang around in case whatever had torn him apart decided to come back for his torso.
I backed out of the room. The hive cloaked me, following even my slightest movements. While trying to be silent was pointless with their all-consuming hum surrounding me, I instinctively crouched when I moved. The hallways I walked every day were suddenly disorienting.
I scanned the swarm’s pheromones. The chemicals were thick in the air around me, each signal reflecting the bees’ agitation. But even so, it gave me a sense of direction. Their senses were sharper than my own, and as their pheromones relayed more information to me, I got a clearer picture of the hallway. They hadn’t detected anything out of the ordinary yet. With the hive leading me, I continued forward.
Although knowing my immediate surroundings gave me a sense of reassurance, I didn’t want to be caught off guard by someone or something. I stopped, forcing myself to focus. But as I tried to collect my thoughts, all I could think about was Mr. Howells’ pale, lifeless, face. I turned my attention to the swarm again. As hundreds of bees buzzed around me, for a moment, I could block out the rest of the world. I addressed the swarming insects by emitting a pheromonal signal through my pores.
Diverge, I ordered them.
Once they had singled out my scent, the bees followed my order, splitting into two separate swarms.
Focusing on one swarm, I emitted a new command: Search the area for danger.
One swarm stayed at my side. The other unraveled at my signal, bees spreading out methodically. Some headed back for the biology classroom. Others darted down the hallway or crawled into vents or through keyholes. Their pheromones grew fainter with distance, but still offered me a general idea of their positions as they scattered throughout the school.
Staying alert for any new signals, I moved onwards, armored in the remaining bees.