Volume 3: Meristem
Issue 4: The Science Fair
Florian Reyes Honeywell
By Roach
The bees mutated into shapes like Rorschach inkblots in the air. As I focused, their forms became more concrete: I drew triangles, then hexagons, before moving onto spirals. The bees rearranged according to my will. With a sigh, I released another dozen—but, as they joined their sisters, my concentration broke. I was trying to do too much with them at once. While directing the swarm as a whole came naturally, more complicated movement was trickier. I let them disperse over my mom’s tiger lilies. Aside from their buzzing, it was a mostly quiet night. Cool air seeped through the cracked door into our greenhouse.
After I had wrapped up my preparations for the Science Fair, I spent the rest of the night in our greenhouse on top of the apartment building. I didn’t have any business there, other than the fact that it was a convenient space to practice my powers. Even on the off chance that anyone could see me in the night, no one would question the bees’ presence.
The Queen had kept quiet since our trip to Mount Sutro. There had been no news regarding Spindle since she contacted Camilo through the @ChapelConfessional account. But I had seen Amber, our suspect, in class a few times. We had history, biology, and P.E. together. I wanted to hear her voice so I could compare it with the one on Camilo’s call, but I hadn’t been able to hear her speak clearly in any of our classes. I still wasn’t entirely sure whether or not it was her, and with the Science Fair coming up in the morning, other things had kept me occupied.
I studied the stars through the glass walls, barely visible in the city’s light pollution. I drew the roaming bees back into a small swarm, then tried to mimic the constellations. Moving each bee individually was a mind-numbingly tedious process, but at least it helped pass the time. I had felt inspired to attempt my own sort of illusion after witnessing Camilo’s abilities. While the bees weren’t quite the same, I found myself able to imitate simple shapes. Yet, my pheromones weren’t precise enough to accomplish any more complex visuals. I tried to recreate the monster in the theater, but—before the swarm scattered into a distorted cloud—it looked like a sad excuse for a cat at best.
I practiced into the morning. An orange glow wrapped the skyline. The bees danced between the tomatoes and cosmos flowers, until the smell of burnt food disturbed their pheromone signal. I summoned them back to me. I peeked out the door. Outside, I identified the source of the smell coming from the kitchen window on the floor below.
A familiar scene played out in my mind: my mom would open the window to let out the smoke from her burnt bacon and eggs. She would start her second attempt, then my dad would wake up at the smell and intervene just in time to save breakfast. They would find something in the clichéd situation to laugh about, comment on how that’s the way of life, then talk about whatever was happening on the radio. If I hadn’t woken up yet, one of them would come to check on me. Some mornings, I pretended to be asleep. It was mostly to keep up the appearance that I was still living a normal life, but sometimes, it was nice to just pretend.
I stayed on the rooftop for a little while longer, surveilling the waking city as bees crawled back through my mouth and ears. Cars hummed over streets dotted in traffic lights. Sunlight reached from the horizon toward the faded stars. From my vantage point in the greenhouse, I somehow felt closer to the sky than the events playing out downstairs.
Once the bees had retreated back into my body, I headed inside again.
As I had predicted, my mom appeared in the hallway between the bedrooms and the bathroom. She had wrapped a green towel around her hair and dressed up in a business casual white blouse and dress slacks.
“Oh good, you’re already up,” she said, her Chilean accent barely detectable in the cadence of her voice. “I was just looking for you. Breakfast is almost ready.”
“Shouldn’t we be heading out soon?”
She furrowed her brows in confusion. After a moment, her eyes widened in realization. She checked her wristwatch. “Right. The fair.”
“Are you still coming?” I asked, not sure what answer I hoped for.
Her gaze lingered on the watch. She looked at me again, turning in a sort of hummingbird-like way, with short and quick movements. “Yes, we’ll head out in five.”
I walked past her and into my bedroom. I collected my poster, which I had plastered onto a cardboard stand. As I made my way back through the hallway, I walked sideways to accommodate for its size.
“Good morning,” my dad greeted me as I passed by the kitchen. He turned down the radio. As he stood over the stove, pouring batter into a pan, he appeared in his element. It wasn’t just the cooking which looked natural on him, but that he was doing something. He had the muscled build of someone who did labor rather than going to the gym, complemented by an eternal tan from being outside. Whether it was gardening, harvesting honey, or building new hives, he always carried himself with a sense of intention. Even now, as he swiveled the pan, his blue stare sharpened.
“Morning,” I mumbled from behind the cardboard.
When I didn’t stop my trajectory toward the front door, he continued, “Where are you going?”
I halted and poked my head through the kitchen doorway. “School.”
“Why? Isn’t it Saturday?”
“They scheduled the Science Fair today, but we’re getting some time off next week to compensate. Supposedly.”
“Aren’t you going to have breakfast?” Then, he added, “I’m making pancakes,” as if that would seal the deal.
“I’m not really hungry.”
“Come on, you can’t go to school on an empty stomach.” With a theatrical flick of the spatula, he flipped a pancake through the air. The pancake somersaulted, then slumped gracelessly back into the pan. The pan hissed.
My stomach was anything but empty, I thought, as bees crawled throughout my insides. I always had an awareness of the swarm, but once I focused on them, I could sense each flutter of their wings, each scratch of their claws. Thousands of their feet prickled against the walls of my stomach, intestines, kidneys… Or, at least, what they had left behind of my internal organs. The prickling sensation smoothened out around my liver, where dozens of larvae writhed inside their nests, hollowed out of my honeycomb-flesh.
I pinched the edge of the cardboard with my fingers, massaging the surface with my thumb. Focusing on the faint lines on the cardboard, I started to tune out the swarm again. The bustling and writhing sensation faded as I focused on the texture.
“I’ll grab something to go,” I negotiated.
“Well, aren’t you a busy bee?”
“Dad. Please.” I pinched the cardboard a little tighter.
“Alright, alright, relax. Just give me a second and I’ll get something ready for you.” The edges of the pancake turned into a gold which gradually spread inwards.
My mom entered the kitchen. Her wavy, black hair was dry now, tied into a ponytail which reached between her shoulder blades. She leaned against the counter, scribbling something in her planner. “Luke, can you go to the neighborhood meeting alone? I’m taking Florian to the fair.” By neighborhood meeting, I assumed she meant the urban restoration project they consulted for.
“So I’ve heard.” Using the spatula, he poked the pancake testingly. “No problemo.”
“De nada,” my mom corrected him. My dad chuckled at her exasperated tone, and she planted a kiss on his cheek.
Once the pancake was done, he cut it in half. Then he stacked the two crescent-moon pieces in a lunchbox. “Take this,” he ordered. I reluctantly accepted the box.
“I’ll wait outside,” I said, continuing toward the door.
“Okay. Let’s take the car, alright? I’ll be out in a minute.”
It was only a fifteen- or twenty-minute walk, but we were already running late, so driving would get us there in time to set up the poster. I grabbed the car key off a hook by the door and headed out to the pale-yellow pickup truck parked on the street. The Honeywell logo—the family name surrounded by a group of smiling cartoon bees—was painted on the side of the vehicle. Four empty beehives were stored on the cargo bed. I put the poster in the back, then sat down in the passenger seat. While I waited for my mom, I nibbled on the pancake. I didn’t really need to eat, as the swarm sustained itself. Nor did I appreciate the overly sweet taste or soggy texture. But the bees would disintegrate it soon enough.
By the time I had finished, she arrived. “Are you excited? Nervous?” she asked. The old pickup let out a low grumble as she started the engine.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe both.”
“Well, don’t worry about it. You worked really hard on this.”
“Thanks.”
She started driving, turning by the Pegasus statue at the end of the street. Neither of us tried to pick up the conversation, at least, not until we reached the first intersection.
“Honey, can you move the gearshift for me? Do you remember how?” she asked.
“Not now,” I replied. Realizing how cross I sounded, I added, “This project has given me enough to worry about without impromptu driving lessons.”
She nodded, her mouth forming a thin line. “How’s driving going, anyways?”
“It would be helpful if someone had time to teach me.” I heard the bitterness in my voice, but this time, I didn’t try to correct it.
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Sorry.” Pause. “We’ve just been so busy… But I’m sure I’ll have some time tomorrow, alright?”
“Don’t you have another survey in Arizona?”
“Well, yeah… Maybe tonight, then?”
“Fine.” I shrugged.
She ruffled my hair. I shifted in my seat. “How long are you going to keep bleaching your hair?” she said, as if the gesture of affection suddenly reminded her of her distaste. “I like it better natural.”
I dodged out of her reach, leaning towards the passenger window. “I like it this way,” I mumbled.
For a moment, her hand lingered in the spot which I no longer occupied. Slowly, she moved her hand to the gearshift, resting her palm on the handle. I looked out the window. The glass reflected back my once brown, now honeyed, hair. The color change had been the most obvious—but least painful—of the bees’ alterations to my physique. Next to my eye color. Also previously brown, my irises had turned amber. One time, my mom had asked me if I were using contacts. She didn’t question me again once I said that it was probably just the lighting—that my eyes always looked that way.
An Amazon van stopped in front of us. With all the nearby parking spots already occupied, the delivery guy got out in the middle of the road. This sudden obstacle in our path drew out the awkward silence between us even more. The delivery guy got out and hauled a Prime package to one of the apartments. My mom drummed her fingers impatiently against the wheel.
“Sorry, I thought this would be faster…” my mom said.
The delivery guy returned, grabbed another package, then headed to an apartment on the other side of the street.
I checked the time on my phone. At this rate, we would already be at Chapel if we just walked.
Once the Amazon van got out of the way, my mom continued driving. As we approached the school, I noticed the flag, half-masted by the entrance. I tried to remember if it was some kind of holiday when the realization hit me. It must have been raised for Mr. Howells. I cast my gaze down at the road instead.
After circling around the school a couple of times, we found a parking spot some blocks down from Aesop’s. We walked the remaining way to the school, my mom carrying the poster this time. My steps grew heavier as the wavering flag came into view.
We headed inside, then downstairs to the basement. It was just past 9 am, and the gym bustled with students setting up their project displays. A group of teachers stood by the door. Among them stood Mr. Schron, the English teacher, who cross-checked his list—twice—before directing us to table 7-C.
I followed my mom’s high-heeled stride through the gym. As we walked past the row of projects, I skimmed over the different posters. Gabriel from theater showcased a self-contained ecosystem inside a terrarium, while one of my chemistry classmates had performed light-reaction experiments with pill bugs. One poster featured a survey on superpower anxiety among the student body, whereas 60% of students had admitted to a moderate to severe fear of being affected by a powerfight. I wondered how much the murder of a teacher could have swayed the statistics. Standing next to the poster, I recognized one of Camilo’s other theater friends—Jay.
Then, a familiar-looking plant caught my eye. It sat on a table next to Max. His normally plain shirt was accompanied by a bowtie for the occasion, while the poster behind him was titled “Growth Rate in an Angiosperm.” My classmate didn’t look back at me, but instead, gazed at the plant next to him. An enamored smile crossed his lips—it was the same expression my parents had after finishing a season of honey harvesting.
I inspected the plant more closely. At a second glance, I recognized it as the one which the bees had reacted to in the greenhouse at lunch. Its growth was impressive. Back then, it had been the size of a pineapple… Now, it was more like a watermelon. Whatever its species, it must have been the perfect candidate for a project on growth.
I tried to remember what the bees had said about the plant. Something about pollen and nectar… Or the lack thereof. Which one was it? The latter, I thought, which wasn’t really typical for angiosperms—meaning, flowering plants. Should I let him know that the plant could be misclassified? Would that be helpful, or just patronizing? As I mulled it over, I realized that Max was staring at me. With his chin lifted slightly, he gave the impression of looking down at me—although I was somewhat taller than him. He carried himself differently from when I had seen him last.
My decision made, I turned away. I quickened my pace as a nearby volcano model started to foam at the mouth. Moving toward my table, I scanned the crowd for Camilo. There wasn’t any sign of him.
“Scouting out the competition?” my mom said once I reached her. She had already set up the poster by the time I made it to the table.
“Something like that.”
I had brought five ladybugs with me. I pinned the samples to the cardboard, lining them up alongside one of the bar graphs. I had carefully selected each sample based on the diversity of their spot pattern. Some had larger or smaller spots, whereas others had a more varied distribution. My mom looked them over, then re-pinned the middle sample. She took a step back, as if assessing a newly hung photo frame. “Perfect,” she concluded.
“Is this my project or yours?” I commented.
“Sorry honey, I’m just so excited. You’re not quite in college yet, but this is just like the things we used to do at Universidad Austral,” she said, referencing her college in Chile.
Before I could respond, a voice sounded over the speakers on the walls: “Welcome students, family, and faculty, to this year’s Science Fair.” It was Mrs. Perez—the principal. She stood by a podium, which had been brought over by the climbing wall. Three figures were seated in a row next to her. It was difficult to distinguish them at a distance, but I was able to recognize Mrs. Abrahamson by her silver, frizzy, hair. They must be the judges, I realized.
“We’ll get started officially in just a couple of minutes, but first, I would like to say a few words.” The microphone winced. As the piercing sound penetrated the speakers, a hush swept over the gym court. I stood still. Everyone who wasn’t already looking at the principal oriented themselves toward the podium. Once the sound faded, the principal continued. The speakers carried her small voice as she read from a note, “It’s been two weeks since Mr. Albert Howells tragic passing. He often said that the fair was one of his favorite times of the semester. Not just because of his expertise within biology and the sciences, but because of his students. Today is the day we get to see all your creativity, passion, and innovation come to life. These are the things which inspired Mr. Howells to be the amazing teacher he was. He always guided the classroom with respect, wisdom, and kindness. He was what we all—as educators and as people—aspire to be.” Her rattling inhale was just audible through the speakers. She went on, “From community donations, we were able to put together the Howells Award, whereas 1,000 dollars will go to the fair winner. Although it can never replace what we have lost, the Howells Award will hopefully serve as a reminder of how proud Mr. Howells is of all of you on this day and beyond. Now, let’s share a moment of silence.”
Mrs. Perez took out a lighter from her pocket, flicked it, then lit a white candle on top of the podium. Even at a distance, I could see the faint shimmer of the flame. My mom squeezed my shoulder. I didn’t look at her. Instead, I turned to the clock above the gym door. I followed its hand as it journeyed in a slow orbit. The gym was eerily quiet, as if everyone held their breath. After the clock hit a minute, Mrs. Perez spoke up. “Again, thank you all for being here. You’ll have a few minutes to finish up any last preparations before the judges start making their rounds.” She stepped away from the microphone.
It was quiet at first. Slowly, people started talking again, but less freely than before—their voices turned to murmurs, and any hint of laughter was gone. A somber atmosphere had replaced the former sense of anticipation. My mom, still delicately holding onto my shoulder, spoke softly, “Hey, how are you?”
“I’m fine.” I took a step away from her.
She let go. Her mouth opened slightly, then closed again, as if she had been on the verge of saying something but changed her mind. Throughout the gym, conversations between classmates, teachers, and parents picked up again. I looked around for Camilo. My gaze traced the rows of tables and posters, until finally, I saw him walking through the entrance. His curly hair looked more ruffled than usual, as he carried a rolled-up poster under his arm.
“Mom, I think I’m going to…”
I had barely started speaking when I was interrupted by a resounding “Dr. Reyes! What a surprise to see you here.”
I turned my attention toward the speaker. A man in a black suit loomed over us. He looked to be in his 40s or 50s, with a wrinkled forehead, broad shoulders, and a rich, brown, complexion.
“I could say the same thing. Aren’t you stationed in Washington these days?” my mom replied, standing a bit more rigid than before.
“Yes, but when I heard about the call for judges, I thought it would be a nice change of pace.”
“I’m so glad we ran into you.” My mom then gestured towards me. “This is my son, Florian. He’s presenting his project on coccinellids today. Florian, this is Dr. Everett Morris, one of my colleagues.”
Dr. Morris reached his hand out to me. I returned the gesture, and he shook my hand with a firm grip. “Nice to meet you, Florian.”
“You too,” I mumbled. Once he let go, I instinctively put my hands in my pockets.
He turned to my poster. I could see his eyes dart between the figures and text bubbles as he spoke. “It’s good to see some love for insects here as well. Although your mother’s specialty is in pollinators, IMAGO is also looking into the elytron exoskeleton. You might find it fascinating.”
My mom looked at me with a glimmer in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. I knew that an elytron referred to a beetle’s hardened forewings, but if he were suggesting that I should follow my mom’s footsteps into IMAGO’s laboratories, I wasn’t exactly interested in looking at beetle wings for the rest of my life. “Is IMAGO looking at spot patterns as well?” I said as neutrally as I could.
“Not exactly.” Dr. Morris turned back to me with a smile. He folded his hands behind his back. “But, your hypothesis is well-articulated, and the project has some interesting evolutionary implications.”
My mom chimed in, “I never would have guessed that directional evolution could be pushing Hippodamia toward a new spot distribution until Florian showed me the figures. Admittedly, I’m not a coleopterist, but I always thought it had more to do with temperature exposure during metamorphosis.”
I tuned out the conversation as it became increasingly specialized. Even with the research I had done over the week, they started to talk in terms that went over my head. Thankfully, neither of them seemed to be paying attention to me anymore, so I could get away with just the occasional nod. My attention only piqued again when Dr. Morris steered the conversation back toward reality.
“Are you busy later? How about we catch up over dinner this evening?” Dr. Morris suggested.
“I would be delighted,” my mom replied.
“Weren’t we gonna go driving?” My voice was barely audible.
“But, honey, we can go another time, alright? It’s not every day Everett is in town.”
I could say the same for you, I thought, but I held my tongue. I wanted to tell her that there wasn’t another time, but thought better of arguing with her in front of the person who was supposed to judge me.
My mom turned back to him. “Do you mind if I accompany you? I wanted to take a look around while I was here, anyway.”
“Why, of course. Isn’t it refreshing to see the creativity of students in action?”
My mom nodded, and the two of them started walking away, deep in conversation. I stared after them. The sudden desertion felt like a sucker punch, but somehow, one that I should have seen coming. Even at my own school, she couldn’t keep herself away from IMAGO.
Maybe if you weren’t so inadequate, she wouldn’t keep leaving you. The snide remark came from the Queen. In the distance, I saw my mom laughing at something Dr. Morris said.
The buzz of the swarm rose within me. The quiver of their wings underneath my skin became a churning, like a sinking feeling growing in my guts. With a bristling restlessness, the bees yearned for an open sky… And in that moment, part of me wished I could take off with them and go far away from all of this. But instead, I was left with the sickening feeling of them all writhing within me, like a yawning well that never reached its bottom.
But you don’t have to be so inadequate, so pathetic, the Queen continued. Just stop resisting us, Hive. Your purpose is greater than this.
I closed my eyes and started counting from one, massaging my thumb against each of my fingertips in turn. I thought back to my morning in the greenhouse; how I had concentrated on individual bees, controlling one at a time to create different shapes. So now, I focused on one bee—narrowing my awareness of the swarm to just her. If I could subdue her, I could calm the rest of them. Gradually, I expanded my focus from one bee to ten. From ten to a hundred. From a hundred to a thousand, from a thousand to the swarm. And, as I did, the hum of the bees gradually quieted.
As the swarm slipped back into silence, I opened my eyes again. My mom and the judge were out of sight. Maybe I should check on Camilo, I thought. But as I scanned the crowd, someone else caught my attention.
The red-haired girl’s self-assured strut made her stand out from the other students. But more than that, she was heading my way.
I expected her to change course. She didn’t. As she marched onwards in her Doc Martens, I realized who she was.
I froze.
Amber Wren advanced toward me.