Volume 3: Meristem
Issue 3: Spider
Florian Reyes Honeywell
Written and illustrated by Roach
I adjusted the caliper, increasing the measuring tool’s millimeter range. I was in the biology lab, where Mrs. Abrahamson had let me in after class. A microscope, my laptop, and two dozen ladybug samples occupied the desk in front of me.
Last night, after going through my mom’s insect encyclopedias, I had identified the ladybugs from Mount Sutro as Hippodamia convergens—or the convergent lady beetle. Typically, insect specimens would be killed for preservation with some sort of toxic chemical, like ethanol or cyanide. My mom suggested the freezer as a more humane alternative. So, per her recommendation, I left the ladybugs in the freezer overnight. Buried beneath frozen rye bread and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, their hibernation triggered in the quiet hours of the night. They died of cold by morning, ready for data collection.
Although I was alone in the lab, I had still situated myself in my usual corner on the back row. Only my ladybugs and the model of a human skeleton kept me company. The plastic skeleton’s dismal stare peered over me as I worked.
It was the first time I had reason to be here since Mr. Howells’ final class. In its empty state, the lab seemed oddly serene. Specks of dust shimmered in the air as sunlight trickled through the window, settling on the feathers of the taxidermied birds on the sill. The birds were arranged in order of size: plover, sandpiper, gull, hawk, condor. Some of them were modeled as they would be in life—wings unfolded, or beaks snapped onto papier-mâché fish from the arts and crafts class. This imitation of life seemed out of place, perhaps more so now that… I stopped my train of thought, then refocused my attention.
Equipped with the caliper, I studied the ladybugs under the microscope. I measured the length of their bodies and the width of their spots. While they had thirteen spots each, the area of the spots differed between individual specimens. My goal was to document the morphological variation within the population. I fell into a comfortable rhythm: listening to music, adjusting the caliper from millimeter to millimeter, labeling vials for each specimen, plugging numbers into a spreadsheet.
A buzzing interrupted my routine. It was my phone. I checked my pocket. I had a message from Camilo. It read,
> can we meet? I need to show u something.
I replied,
> Sure, when?
Camilo got back to me,
> now?
> Kinda in the middle of something. What’s up?
I twisted the wheel of the caliper up and down as I waited for a response. Then it came,
> get ready to be in the middle of something else. where r u?
> Bio lab
> sit tight
I halfway expected him to say something more—if not to elaborate, at least to clue me in on what was going on. While I waited, I continued to work my way through the ladybugs. My progress slowed, my mind distracted by speculations. If another situation like the theater had come up, I figured he would have spoken more urgently. Or asked me to come to him. But maybe it could be something related to Mr. Howells. Or the monster. But exactly what, I could only guess.
I had made it about halfway through my samples when I heard the door open. I looked up from the microscope. About fifteen minutes had passed since I received the first text. Camilo waved to me upon entering the lab, but his normally dimpled smile was absent. He came over to me.
“What’s going on?” I asked, fidgeting with the caliper.
Without saying a word, he sat down in the chair next to me. Then he positioned his phone between us on the table. When he unlocked the screen, the @ChapelConfessional account popped up. It displayed the newest confession, published half an hour ago:
> Confession #467
>
> Overheard from Stagehand: “The birdbrains aren’t happy about it.”
I read it over a few times. It sounded like another trolling post, but Camilo’s solemn expression told me otherwise. “Okay, so… What does this mean?” I asked.
“Don’t you remember?” He furrowed his brows slightly.
“Remember what?”
“I said that.” When I didn’t react immediately, he added, “To you. At lunch.”
“Now that you mention it… You did say that.” The memory came back to me. When he first showed me the confessions account over lunch, he had talked about Albatross politics afterwards—how the players were reluctant to share the football field with the theater kids. Just after we left the greenhouse, he had said exactly that. The birdbrains aren’t happy about it. Word for word. Then the real question dawned on me. “So… Wait, who posted this?”
“Not me. And I assume not you. Meaning, someone else knows…” He didn’t have to finish the sentence for me to realize what he meant. Someone knew about us. I felt the Queen’s bristling hum inside of me, as my own panic also rose.
“How?” I didn’t know what to make of that, and—judging by the hint of alarm in Camilo’s voice—I didn’t expect him to either. Still, I voiced my confusion.
“I don’t know. Maybe they saw us in the theater. Or overheard something I said. But I couldn’t tell you when or what. Either way, not exactly ideal.”
I tried to remember if I had seen anyone else around. When the conversation took place, we were walking from the greenhouse to the ginkgo tree. We had passed by a number of students on the way there, but the only person I could distinctly remember from that day was Max. But we had left him behind at the greenhouse, out of hearing range, so it should be safe to rule him out. We had passed by the football field—maybe one of the players had overheard our conversation poking fun at them? But even if that was the case, it still left one question: how did they know?
“Can we track the post?” I asked.
“It’s all anonymous. But maybe…” He never finished the sentence. Instead, he picked up his phone. He started typing.
“Maybe what?” The bad feeling I had grew. He stared at the screen. Bees shifted throughout my insides. When Camilo didn’t respond, I reached for my own phone. I looked up the confession, then turned to the comment section. There were a couple of comments calling the post out for lying, in addition to a new comment from @PeppersPhantom. It read:
Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
> Are they ever happy about anything unless it’s beating Mission High?
This time, I recognized it instantly. Because they were mine. The comment quoted the exact words I had used in response to Camilo’s initial remark about the football team.
I glared at him. “What are you doing?”
He kept his eyes on the phone as he spoke. “I’m trying to get in touch with them. If they overheard me, they also would have heard your response.”
“And risk giving us away?”
This time he looked up from the phone. “To an outsider, this exchange doesn’t mean anything. But when the original poster sees it, they’ll know that I know. And maybe even reach out.”
I looked at the account he had commented from. Aside from the chameleon on his profile picture, it was empty. A throwaway. Although still wary, I was slightly less apprehensive knowing there was some level of anonymity. “Is it really the best idea to get in contact with this person?”
“What other option is there? We have to know who it is.”
“Leaving it alone is one alternative, just at the top of my head.”
“Maybe the post appears harmless. It didn’t give away our identities or anything. But they’re saying something only we should know… Almost like they’re trying to get our attention. And if we don’t get to the bottom of this, who knows what they’ll say next, or how long it takes before they start leaking actual information?”
I sighed. “But if they want our attention, aren’t we just giving in to what they…” His phone pinged before I could finish the sentence.
Camilo’s eyes widened. “It’s them.” He put his phone down between us again.
The screen showed a direct message from @ItzyBitzySpider05. It read,
> Hello, Stagehand ;)
“What’s on the profile?” I asked. Camilo clicked it. It was as empty as his account. Another throwaway. The profile picture showed a kite against the backdrop of clouds, but nothing identifiable. He tapped his way back to the messages. Then he began typing. I observed the exchange:
[https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/806416715805622273/1010598304041668649/imageedit_1_5438473669.png]
Seconds had barely passed by before the phone rang. As it vibrated, it inched its way towards the edge of the desk, dragging the heffalump charm with it. A private number flashed across the screen. Camilo and I exchanged a glance. I had a feeling it wouldn’t be a telemarketer.
He picked it up, instantly putting the call on speaker.
“Hello, there.” Even in greeting, the voice—a silken alto—had a smug undertone. “A pleasure to speak with you, Stagehand.” The caller paused theatrically. Camilo gritted his teeth. “Or should I say… Camilo Rivera.”
“I’m not fucking Stagehand,” Camilo said shortly. Somehow, his voice sounded slightly deeper—a bit distorted. He had told me that his illusions didn’t affect cameras, so I would imagine the same could be said for phone calls. Did his anger come through in his powers?
“No? Maybe it’s your new friend, then? What’s his face… Oh, it’s just on the tip of my tongue. Let me think. Hmm…” The voice paused again. A sense of dread built inside of me. The low buzzing of my bees filled in the silence. Hush, hush, I ordered them, wishing I could tell the caller the same. She put the uncomfortably long silence to rest, finally speaking again: “Oh, right. Duh. Florian. Forgive me, it’s just sooo forgettable.”
Camilo muted the phone. He looked at me, then at his phone, and back at me again. “Is it just me, or have I heard that voice before?”
I narrowed my eyes. While the voice sounded vaguely familiar, it was difficult to pinpoint over the phone. “Keep her talking.”
My request turned out to be unnecessary. The caller continued on her own accord. “I’ll take your silence as a yes, then? Or maybe you’re just too scared to admit it?” She chuckled. “There’s nothing for you to worry about, Stagehand. Your secrets are safe with me. At least for now.”
Camilo gave me another look. “Isn’t that…” Pause. “Not Emily.” He snapped his fingers a couple of times. “Miranda? No, no…”
“Well?” the voice prompted.
Camilo unmuted himself before addressing her again. “So, what do you want, miss… itsy bitsy spider? Or maybe you have a name?”
“For you, Spindle is just fine.” Camilo raised an eyebrow. Spindle continued, “And there are many things I want. But from you? Well, that’s simple. I can keep quiet about what you and your friend have been up to. And in exchange… I’ll call on you for a favor or two.”
“Such as?”
“Information.” Her pause was teeming with anticipation. When Camilo didn’t respond, she kept going, “You see, there are two types of people in this world: the ones who know, and the ones who don’t. Information is what keeps the Earth spinning. Especially at Chapel High. And you, Stagehand… You’re special, aren’t you? You know things others don’t. And if you prove yourself to be useful, maybe there would be something in it for you. Who knows? Maybe I’d even let you work for me.”
While she spoke, Camilo had put himself on mute again. His mouth opened in shock. “That’s Amber. Amber Wren. Right? You hear that, too?”
“Amber?” I echoed. I considered it. While I didn’t know her personally, we had biology and a couple other classes together. But, like most of my classmates, I wasn’t really on her radar. Camilo could be right—the enunciated speech, her singsong voice, the malicious delight in her laugh… It all sounded like Amber, although I wasn’t 100% certain without seeing her. “Maybe?” I shrugged.
Camilo took a deep breath before unmuting himself again. “Not interested,” he said.
“Are you sure? Don’t forget, you have two options. Either you’re someone who knows, or you’re not. One of those is better than the other. I suggest you take some time to think about which one it is.”
She hung up. The phone beeped. Dead silence ensued.
Camilo was the first to say something. “It has to be her,” he insisted.
“Amber? I don’t really know her too well.” At least, I tried to stay clear of her as much as I could. The few times we crossed paths, she seemed to either be gossiping with her two friends—Jazmine and Raegan—or harassing someone… Like Max. I thought back to our encounter in the greenhouse. Did he go there just for Gardening Club, or was it also his refuge? Like it had been ours?
“That’s probably for the best,” Camilo said. “She isn’t exactly… pleasant.”
“Why would she have your number?”
“I’m guessing she asked around… Honestly, I’m more worried about how much she knows about us.”
“Maybe it’s like you said, and she overheard us talking about something.” But even as I said it, the explanation didn’t sit entirely right with me. We had only really discussed the events at the theater in private. If Amber was hanging around, she should have been more noticeable. Could she be tech-savvy enough to spy on us through our phones?
Another possibility dawned on me. “This is a bit out there, but I guess she could have some type of power. Maybe intuition- or knowledge-based,” I speculated. It was unlikely, but not impossible. After all, Camilo had discovered me through invisibility.
“Maybe. Except it doesn’t sound like she knows as much as she would like us to think.”
“How so?”
“She said I was ‘special.’ Special how? And her request for a favor was pretty vague, too. Meaning, she might not actually know what our abilities are. She may think we’re the Chapel Heroes. But what does she actually know?”
I nodded slowly.
Camilo picked up one of my ladybug vials. He studied it absently as he spoke, “Besides, if she’s so all-knowing, she should have kept it in the DMs. Not call me, letting us figure out her identity.”
“Unless she wants us to find out…”
“Why would she?”
“I don’t know. I barely understand what she wants with us in the first place.” I sighed. “Are you sure it’s really Amber?”
“93%. Ish.”
“Okay…” I drummed my fingers against the desk. “Let’s keep an eye on her. It sounds like she’ll leave things be. At least for now. In the meantime, we can try to figure out what’s going on.”
“Does Spindle mean anything to you?” he asked.
“Not really.”
“Me neither.” He twirled the vial between his fingers. The dead ladybug swirled around in the ethanol. “What even is this?” he said, as if the absurdity of the ladybug’s presence finally hit him.
“My Science Fair project.”
“Oh?”
“I’m documenting spot patterns in a population of ladybugs,” I explained.
There was a pause. “Cool,” he said at last. But a flatness had replaced the typical cadence of his voice. He set down the vial.
I looked out the window. My gaze traced the winding path up to the school entrance. I halfway expected to see Amber hiding somewhere, laughing behind our backs. But it was already evening, with no one else in sight. I looked back at the vial. The ladybug, tinted orange by the vial, sank to the bottom.
We were both quiet.