Volume 1: Proscenium

Issue 5: Trick of the Eye

Florian Reyes Honeywell

By Roach

I took a longer route to the classroom, avoiding the hallway where Mr. Howells had bled to death two days earlier.

A strange atmosphere draped Chapel High. The characteristic morning chatter was gone. Figures blurred past me. I avoided looking at the faces of my classmates. But even then, I couldn’t avoid the thought that Mr. Howells’ fate could become theirs. Only the faint hum of the swarm distracted me from the memory of my murdered teacher’s gurgled breath and pooling blood. Be quiet, I ordered the bees. While my signal calmed them, a low buzz persisted, slowly growing.

On my detour, I crossed paths with the school theater. Normally, this wouldn’t have caught my attention. But this time, I felt drawn to it. Maybe it was because we were reading A Midsummer Night’s Dream for class, which the theater had an upcoming performance for. I had neglected to read any of it during my day off. But no, that wasn’t it… Something else drew my attention to the theater.

I detected a punctuated buzz within me. Then, the pheromones spread through the hive like fire. Sky of gold. I recalled the scouts’ report. A sky of gold—their message had nothing to do with the sun. It was something else entirely. Something that might as well have been under my nose: the theater had a gilded ceiling. A literal sky of gold. Inexplicably, the city had poured a ludicrous amount of funds into the school’s architecture, as opposed to the curriculum. But that was besides the point. If the scouts had found bones in the theater, underground… There was one space which matched their description. Underneath the stage. Was something hiding there? My grip tightened around my textbook.

Oblivious to the students who looped around me as I blocked their path, I walked towards the theater door. For a moment, I looked at it, hesitating. Even the swarm kept still. Only their murmurs—bones, bones, bones—revealed their sense of alarm. This was it. Had Neon-Racer been able to find whatever the bees had discovered behind this very door? I reached for the handle. Then I pulled it towards me. The door didn’t budge. Locked.

I backed away, almost expecting the door to jitter, like something was trying to get out. But nothing happened. If something really was there, it could be long gone by now. I released a single bee from my ear. It was inconspicuous enough that if anyone saw her, even close to me, they could assume it was just a stray insect. She crawled through the crack underneath the door.

I turned away, continuing towards the English classroom. I arrived a couple of minutes early. Or, more likely, Mr. Schron was late. Again. I claimed a desk by one of the windows, where I opened my copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The edge of the paper was still crumpled where I had been holding onto it. I tried to skim through the scenes I had missed, but as I thumbed through the pages, Shakespeare’s riddling language didn’t do my concentration any favors.

All I could think about was the thing potentially dwelling in the theater. Since I discovered Mr. Howells’s body a couple of days ago, there hadn’t been any updates on the circumstances of his death. I had no way to tell where the investigation had led, but judging by the bees’ reaction—the way they had stirred when I passed by the theater—I suspected that the stage had been overlooked. Meaning, the creature could still be about. Maybe I would know more once my scout returned from the theater.

If I were right, the thing could be anywhere now, waiting for a chance to pounce on an unsuspecting passerby. I had to act soon. The question remained: how? I thought about alerting a teacher or going to the police station. I still had the crumpled note from Inspector Ramirez. But how would I explain my suspicions without revealing my powers? If I left an anonymous hint, would they be able to track me? It occurred to me to just ignore the entire ordeal and leave it to the police. But how many others would get hurt in the meantime? If I couldn’t ask for help, I was left with one option. I would have to investigate on my own. Maybe if I had something more concrete, it would be easier to reach out for help. Maybe the scout could give me that. Or maybe I had to go to the theater myself. As if the bees sensed my agitation, the buzzing in my head strengthened. I hushed them again.

Someone sat down next to me, pulling me out of my thoughts. I glanced over. While I recognized him as my classmate, I didn’t remember his name. He had warm eyes with dark bags under them, a brown complexion with golden undertones, and curly, black, hair. Although we had a couple of classes together, he had never spoken to me or sat next to me before. In fact, it was a rare occurrence for anyone to do so.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

I looked over my shoulder. He had abandoned the two students he usually sat with a few rows behind me. One of them, whose name I didn’t remember, looked at me with a bored expression. The other—I thought his name was Gabriel—raised an eyebrow at me. I turned back to my book.

Moments later, Mr. Schron walked into the room. The old English teacher positioned himself by the podium, where he placed down a book more imposing than the Bible.

“Hello, everyone,” Mr. Schron said. Usually, he would have to hush the class before getting our attention. Today was different. It was eerily quiet when he arrived. He cleared his throat and surveilled the room. I stared at my book, avoiding his gaze. “I know today is an unusual day, but I’m glad to see all of you here.” His tone sounded even drearier than normal. “What happened on Tuesday was a tragedy. If anyone needs to talk about things, feel free to reach out to me after class. Me and the other teachers are here for you, and the nurse’s office will be open as well.”

Mr. Schron paused. When there was no response, he continued, “Considering the circumstances, we won’t have a normal quiz today. Instead, I’m going to ask some questions to the forum. Think of it more as a conversation than a graded assignment. How does that sound?”

The classroom was as quiet as a graveyard.

“Great,” he said dryly. He went over attendance. He read all the names slowly and in full. As always, at the very end of the list, he marked the absence of a student who had never actually showed up to class. Although she had switched schools last semester, Mr. Schron had never gone through the trouble of updating the attendance sheet. Sometimes I wondered if he chose to forget that she wasn’t really there because he enjoyed failing students. As he listed off the names, he reminded me of my new desk neighbor’s identity—Camilo Rivera.

“That’s everyone. Let’s pick up where we stopped last time, on page 65.” He adjusted his glasses over his hawk-like nose. “So, can anyone tell me how Helena reacted after Cupid’s flower took effect on Lysander and Demetrius?” Once again, no one said anything. “Fabian, why don’t you get us started?”

After a few moments, I realized two things. First, there was no Fabian in the class. Second, Mr. Schron was looking directly at me. “Umh…” I flipped through the book. What was the point of skipping the quiz if he were going to pick on me anyway? I sensed the bees stir inside of me. Silence, I ordered them. Blood smearing down the hallways flashed through my mind. Each time a bee fluttered her wings, I reinforced my pheromone signal. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

The teacher checked the attendance sheet again. “Florian?” he prompted.

“I think that, well, umh…” As I fumbled for something to say, I saw the letters in my textbook disintegrate. They rearranged like ants. In place of “Swift as a shadow, short as any dream,” a new sentence formed: Helena thought they were ridiculing her. When I blinked, the words were gone. The page had reverted to Shakespeare. I stared.

“Hey, is everything okay? How about…”

Mr. Schron’s concern pulled me back into the classroom. “Umh, yeah. So, she thought they were ridiculing her, right?” I said, echoing the vanished words.

“Exactly. Very good.” His relief was evident in the sudden enthusiasm. “Could someone tell me why she would have felt that way? Is there anything in this scene that relates to contemporary views on gender roles and infatuation?” The class carried on, while Mr. Schron routinely picked on reluctant students. I tuned out the discussion.

While I studied the page, I wondered if I had finally lost it. I skimmed through the lines in search of any misplaced letters. I had endured the swarm, even the Queen, but maybe witnessing someone die had been the last straw. Or more likely, my exhaustion was playing tricks on me, and I had just happened to remember the answer from somewhere. As I started feeling more at ease with the explanation, a new sentence formed across the page.

You’re not going crazy.

If I still had a heartbeat, it would have been racing now. Before I could process what was happening, the letters shuffled around again.

I know about you. We’re the same.

This new information left one other explanation. Someone was using their powers to fuck around in my textbook. And somehow, they had been able to find out about me. I tensed. Maybe their powers had uncovered that information as well, one way or the other. I recalled every instance I had used the swarm in the last week. I rarely used my abilities away from the apartment, and when I did, I always checked my surroundings. The only recent incident was in response to Mr. Howells’ death. Even then, I had avoided any witnesses—I thought. Then there was the bee I had sent into the theater, but one bee alone shouldn’t be enough to give away my power. But no matter how they had discovered my secret, I found myself simultaneously horrified and impressed.

While I didn’t understand the nature of these powers, it was safe to guess that the source would be nearby. I stretched, trying to make my movements look as natural as possible. As I did, I took the opportunity to peek around the classroom. Judging by the dull expressions around me, no one had noticed my glitching textbook. However, when I glanced over to Camilo, the corner of his lips turned slightly. I looked down again. My messenger had spelled out the following:

Meet me in the greenhouse at lunch.

Then the words faded like invisible ink.

The buzzing persisted.