Volume 3: Meristem

Issue 1: The Confessional

Florian Reyes Honeywell

By Roach

“As you’re already aware, the deadline for your Science Fair projects is coming up soon,” Mrs. Abrahamson announced to the class. “I know some of you may have been advised by Mr. Howells, and if you need any extra help, don’t hesitate to ask me.” As the chemistry teacher surveyed the room, her gaze lingered on me and a handful of other students from Mr. Howells’ biology class. An uncomfortable silence followed the name of her late coworker. Her blue gaze seemed to pierce through each of us. I looked away, my eyes wandering across the periodic table as I avoided her stare.

About a week had passed since the incident in the theater. Various news outlets had reported on it, but information was sparse. The creature’s origin or species hadn’t been identified in any official outlets; the only certainty seemed to be its role in Mr. Howell’s death—and, potentially, some homeless people who lived in the Mission District. While I wasn’t aware of other victims, the bones I saw under the stage gave me no reason to doubt it.

Mrs. Abrahamson cleared her throat before continuing, “And this goes for all of you, but there will also be a new scholarship opportunity. To honor Mr. Howells’ work toward educating and inspiring students in the sciences, the school put together an award in his name, which will go to the fair winner. The recipient will receive 1,000 dollars. Some of Mr. Howells’ family will also be in attendance. To accommodate them, we moved the Fair to Saturday. Your first two periods on Monday will be canceled to compensate.”

I sighed. In the midst of last week’s extracurricular activities, I had completely forgotten about the Science Fair. While every news outlet in San Francisco had something to say about the monster at Chapel High, no one seemed to have figured out mine and Camilo’s part in it. That was reassuring. At least until we were ready to reveal ourselves—if we were ever ready for it.

Mrs. Abrahamson continued, “Let’s end early today so you all have some extra time to work on your projects. I’ll stick around till the end of class time to help with any questions.”

Half of the class packed away their books as soon as Mrs. Abrahamson said “early.” I scribbled down the last steps of the redox reaction written across the whiteboard—leaving out the Star Wars references which characterized most of her practice problems. Then, I stuffed my textbook and notes into my backpack.

Since our encounter with the monster, I had started carrying my old beekeeper’s suit with me. I hadn’t touched it since the last time my parents brought me to one of the apiaries, about half a year ago. But maybe I could make it useful again. While I wasn’t exactly counting on more man-eating chimeras to show up, I didn’t want to end up in another donkey mask if I needed to use my powers again. The suit lay neatly folded at the bottom of my backpack, concealed inside an old grocery bag. Although the fabric was light, the suit still forced me to negotiate space for my textbooks. But for now, I couldn’t really think of a better place to put it.

With the backpack—heavy with secrecy—slung over my shoulder, I followed my classmates into the hallways. I retrieved my earbuds from my pocket, with my phone dangling from the other end of the cord. I had received a text from Camilo:

> lunch?

Since we defeated the monster, we had spent most of our lunch breaks together. At first, I was worried that we wouldn’t have anything to talk about as soon as our self-assigned mission ran its course. But I had been surprised by how easy he was to be around. We wound up doing homework together on a few occasions, and for the first time, I was caught up with A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I texted him back:

> OK, I’ll bring provisions.

The responsible thing to do would be to go to the library to research my science fair project. Instead, I spent my extra free time at Aesop’s. Since it was technically still class time, the café was fairly empty. Aesop only took a few minutes to prepare my order, which consisted of an espresso frappuccino for Camilo and matcha bubble tea for myself. I returned to Chapel High with the beverages.

At the greenhouse, I waited for Camilo. It was secluded enough that we could talk freely, while also offering my bees a chance to relax for a little bit. A handful of foragers left through my ears, heading for a cluster of tulips. I set the cups down by a row of sunflowers, then retrieved my notebook and pencil from my backpack.

I took a seat on one of the patio chairs. As I flipped through my notebook, old scribbles flurried across the pages. I stopped—almost involuntarily—when I reached my photosynthesis diagrams. I had drawn them during Mr. Howells’ final biology lecture.

The swarm shuddered through me. Images of the dead biology teacher flashed through my mind: the entrails hanging from his severed torso, the pile of bones under the theater stage, the empty look in his eyes…

The swing of the door interrupted my thoughts as Camilo entered. His backpack was strapped over one shoulder, while he wore a fuzzy, black hoodie to compensate for the cloudy weather. “Hey, what’s up?” he greeted me.

“Hey.” I flipped aimlessly through my notes. “Just trying to figure out what to do for my project,” I said.

“What project?” He moved one of the plastic chairs over to me.

“The Science Fair.”

“Isn’t that in like three weeks?”

“Try this weekend.”

With a sigh, Camilo slumped into the chair.

“Here you go.” I handed him the cup of coffee, before reaching for my own tea.

“Thanks.” He straightened his back, perking up slightly. “Do you have any ideas for the project?”

I stared at my bees flying in between the flowers. With the swarm, I could easily run an experiment on pollination and relate it to the lectures… But I wasn’t sure how I felt about using my powers for homework. “Not sure… What about you?”

“No. I sort of forgot about it… Too busy saving the school and what not.”

“That would do it.” I was still getting used to the idea that the two of us had taken down the monster. When he pointed it out, I found myself strangely detached from the conversation—as if I couldn’t fully comprehend everything that had happened in the last week.

“Apropos saving the school, have you been following Chapel Confessional?” he asked.

“Following what?”

Camilo reached into the pocket of his hoodie. He took out his phone. A purple heffalump charm dangled from it. After tapping the screen a couple of times, he handed it to me. I took it. It displayed an Instagram page named @ChapelConfessional.

“What’s this?”

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“This, Florian, is where our classmates eternalize their deepest and darkest secrets for everyone to see. Better known as the seventh circle of Hell.”

“Like one of those submission accounts?” From what I had seen, such accounts were typically curated by an administrator while others submitted the confessions anonymously. I hadn’t been aware that our school had one, nor did I particularly care for whatever gossip circulated at Chapel High.

“Exactly.”

“Why are you showing me this?”

He flashed a grin. “We’re famous.”

I scrolled. Each post featured a photo from school, heavily filtered and layered with text. They all started out with “Confession:” followed by some sort of statement. While I expected to see rumors about the school, the most recent posts were dominated by Mr. Howells’ death and the unidentified creature. Considering the lack of details on the news, the speculations about the creature ranged from Area 51 to mythological beasts. Other posts discussed the identities of the unknown heroes—whether there had been one or multiple, or if they were outsiders, students, or even teachers. I had heard similar musings in the hallways, but seeing it written out made it all the more tangible.

One student confessed to suffering from night terrors about the world ending in some sort of superpowered event. Commenters chimed in about their own anxieties, and the fear of another monster appearing at the school. Someone wrote “maybe Stagehand will save you.” As I skimmed through the posts and comments, the mention of “Stagehand” kept popping up in reference to the creature’s executioner.

“Stagehand?” I echoed.

“I think that’s supposed to be me.” Although we were alone, Camilo still lowered his voice. “I overheard some people in theater say it as well.”

I skimmed through the comments. From what I could gather, news reports had revealed that the moon prop had dealt the killing blow to the monster. This had led people to dub the creature’s executioner “Stagehand.” A nickname which was perhaps even more fitting than people realized.

As I kept scrolling, I reached some of the older posts: rumors about steroid use on the swim team, cheating on the SATs, who was sleeping with who, and so forth. Yet another post speculated on potential candidates for the next Herovision broadcast, which—from context—appeared to be some kind of reality show. Nothing relevant to us. I was about to give the phone back to Camilo when it pinged, alerting me to a new post. I refreshed the page. A photo of a theater stage, filtered in bluish tones, replaced the top post. The submission read,

> Confession: I am Stagehand.

The photo received a couple of likes instantly. Maybe the account was more active than I initially thought. “Speak of the devil…” I showed Camilo the screen. “Did you do this?”

He rolled his eyes. “Of course not. How could it be me? You’re holding my phone.”

“Unless the phone is an illusion.”

“Don’t be silly. Give me that.” When he snatched the phone out of my hand, it felt very real. “Besides, I don’t even like the name.” He started typing.

“Are you commenting?”

“Maybe.”

“Be careful…”

“From a throwaway account.”

“Okay. Just try not to engage too much. Being famous was never going to be easy… Stagehand.”

Camilo groaned. “Fine.” He put the phone back into his pocket. Instead, he reached into his backpack. A couple of textbooks fell out as he wriggled his lunchbox free. “Then you be Stagehand.”

I shook my head. “Sorry, I already have this bee thing going on.” I gestured towards my group of bees, currently swarming the sunflowers.

“How’s that working out for you?” he mumbled in between a couple of bites from his sandwich.

“Well, unlike you, I’m not famous, so… Not very well.”

“I’m not famous either!” He gave a dismissive wave with his hands, sending a piece of lettuce flying from his sandwich.

“You kind of are.”

“Whatever. Can’t we all be Stagehand?” The tips of his ears turned a shade of red.

The only other time I had seen him get flustered was after he admitted to snooping around for his teacher’s notes. I chuckled. “If it makes you feel better.”

“A little.”

“Jokes aside, it’s not so bad. You’ll have plenty of time to work out an image until next time we…” My voice trailed off. As I said it, I realized that I had no idea if there was a next time. I felt acutely aware of the beekeeper’s suit I had so naïvely stashed into the bottom of my backpack. “I mean, if we’re doing anything like that again.”

“We could,” Camilo replied. His grumbled tone was replaced with a certain straightforwardness. He looked at me in a similarly unflinching way.

The small group of bees buzzed around us, their hum filling in the gap in the conversation. After a pause, I said, “I don’t really know where to go from here. Are we supposed to seek something out, or just wait around?”

“I’m not sure, either. But I think, right now, it’s okay if we just play it by ear.”

I gave a slight nod. At the same time, one of the bees whizzed past me. She scattered her pheromones through the air: Unidentified plant discovered. Immature specimen. Characteristics: bulbous shape, nectarless, pollenless, luminescent spores, blue tint.

Review species, the Queen ordered. Although she wasn’t speaking to me, I still tensed up.

In review, one of the workers stationed inside of me responded. The new information spread from bee to bee, infecting the swarm’s collective consciousness. Flora catalog updated, the bee confirmed within seconds.

The exchange piqued my curiosity. In the months since the swarm hijacked my body, they had never run into a species they didn’t know of before. I squinted at the sunflowers they had been swarming. Hidden between the stalks was a smaller plant; it was shaped like a pointed onion, but similar to a pineapple in size. At a glance, I didn’t register the blue tint which the bees had reported. However, as I studied it, I saw that the tissue wasn’t exactly green, but closer to teal. Obviously, I couldn’t see the spores they had mentioned, but I made a mental note of it. “Luminescent spores” sounded unusual. As I continued to inspect the plant, I noticed thin lines running across the tissue. Although faint, they were a peacock blue. Like veins. I hadn’t seen anything like it before.

“You doing okay?” Camilo said.

I looked back at him. “Sorry, I was distracted.” The group of bees—still buzzing about their findings—haloed around my head. I waved one out of my face. “It’s just that…”

I stopped mid-sentence. The door opened. I turned towards the newcomer, who froze like a deer caught in the headlights. The compound-eyed glasses, scrawny stature, acne-speckled face, and comb-over hairdo all unmistakably belonged to Max Figuero—one of my classmates, not to mention one of the few people who placed lower than me on the social hierarchy of Chapel High. I quietly ordered my bees to disperse.

Max glanced back over his shoulder, then into the greenhouse, and back over his shoulder again. Like a wind-up bird, he repeated the motion a couple of times, as if deliberating what to do with himself.

Finally, Camilo spoke up, “Hi, Max.” The greeting sounded as natural as if we met with Max every day at the green house.

“Umh, hey…” Max’s reply was barely audible.

“Sorry, did we interrupt Gardening Club time?”

I realized I didn’t know whether or not Max was in Gardening Club. To be fair, I didn’t know much about Max at all, and I felt a slight relief that Camilo was carrying the conversation.

“N-no,” Max stuttered.

“Well, we were just about to head out anyways.” Camilo shot me a glance. I nodded and started to collect my things.

Max watched us leave with the hint of a nervous smile on his lips.

“Well, that’s that,” Camilo said as we walked back towards the school. “Was there something you wanted to tell me?”

I shook my head. “Nothing important,” I said, putting the strange plant behind me, both literally and figuratively. “By the way, how’s theater going?”

“We finally worked out an arrangement with the Albatrosses so we can keep rehearsing on the football field.” The Albatrosses referenced our school’s football team rather than actual birds, although sometimes I couldn’t tell the difference. It seemed that Camilo was on the same page when he said, “The birdbrains aren’t happy about it.”

“Are they ever happy about anything unless it’s beating Mission High?” I said.

“Doubtful.”

“Do you need any help practicing?”

“Sure.”

We took shelter under the branches of the ginkgo tree. The grass felt cool at my touch. Camilo finished off his sandwich before handing me his manuscript for A Midsummer Night’s Dream. While Camilo didn’t have a major role, he was Demetrius’ backup. He had asked me a couple of times to check the script for him while he recited his lines. I didn’t mind—it helped me prepare for Mr. Schron’s lectures, but honestly, he didn’t really need me. Not only did he know his own lines by heart, but seemingly the rest of the play as well.

We breezed through the next couple of scenes. Sunshine emerged through the patches of clouds above us, dancing with the shadow of the tree. One by one, the bees returned to me from the greenhouse. Every now and then I stole a glance towards the entrance to the theater’s loading dock. Camilo directed my attention back to the play, correcting me whenever I misread a line. We only stopped at the ring of the bell, signaling the beginning of class.