Ten

I wake suddenly in the night with a feeling as if I've been thrown from my bed. I lurch up, gasping, still beneath my covers. I was dreaming. Confused images leap out at me, as if from the corners of my nightmares. Masses of writhing cicadas, tangles of copper hair, bats exploding from an underground cave, the trees in the cemetery swaying and creaking. I gasp in air, trying to recall what exactly I dreamed, but the images fade too quickly, leaving only a shivery unease in their wake.

I peer over at Wren's bed in the darkness, but they're not here. Their quilt is still covered in books and papers and clothes. They never came to bed. I glance at the glowing blue of the clock on their side of the room. It's 3:43 in the morning. The room is cold. I get up and put a sweater on over my pj's and pad out of the room in my socks. As soon as I open the door, I hear it: piano music.

I sigh and make my way downstairs, trying not to look at the shadows in every corner. I try not to think of Meredith Brown. I try not to imagine her walking beside me through the sleeping house, red hair like flames against the dark.

I go to the kitchen first and make two cups of chamomile tea. Then I head to the music room. Wren is at the piano, lost to the music, which pours like a trickling stream, sad and lonesome. They look exhausted. Their hair is a rat's nest of matted curls, and the purple rings under their eyes are nearly black.

"Wren," I say from a yard away, but they don't notice.

"Wren!" I say louder, but get no response. I set a cup of tea on some sheet music that lies scattered on top of the piano. With my free hand, I touch their shoulder. They don't respond right away, so I shake it.

Wren reels back from me, striking random keys, a look of pure terror on their face. I almost spill my tea. My hand hovers in the air, and I'm not sure what to do in the face of their shock.

"Sorry, but did you know it's nearly four in the morning?" I say, keeping my voice low and soft, once we've both recovered.

Wren blinks at me. "Is it?"

"Here, I made you a cup of tea," I say, nudging the steaming mug toward them.

Wren takes a sip. "Thanks."

"What are you working on?"

Wren shakes their head. "Huh? Oh, I don't know. Is it really almost four?"

"Yeah," I say, ill at ease with how out of it Wren seems. "Why don't you drink your tea and come to bed?"

Wren nods and tries to get up from the piano bench. But they are clearly stiff and sore, maybe a little light-headed. They nearly fall once they're on their feet.

"Did you eat dinner?" I ask, steadying them.

Wren bites their lip, thinking. "I can't remember."

"Are you hungry?"

Wren pauses, as if it takes great effort to tell whether they are hungry or not. They even touch their stomach. "A little," they finally say.

"Come on, I'll make you something," I say, gesturing toward the kitchen.

Wren glances longingly at the piano, but when I frown at them, they follow gingerly behind me, still sipping their tea.

"Do you have any food in here?" I ask.

Wren shakes their head.

"Neither do I," I admit. "We'll have to purloin something."

Wren laughs, the sound breaking up the heavy atmosphere of the sleeping house. "Purloin?"

I grin back. "It's a good word."

"All right, Agatha Christie," Wren says. "Make us some eggs. Neil always keeps some in there for his keto nonsense."

I frown. "I don't know. Neil already hates me."

"He'll never know it was us," they say. "Besides, he deserves it after he was so rude to you."

Wren goes to one of the fridges and pulls out three eggs. They toss one to me without warning, and I barely manage to catch it before it hits the floor. Before I've recovered, they've tossed another one. I catch this one too, but it hits the other egg in my hand and cracks.

"Wren, stop!" I laugh. "We want to eat the eggs, not wear them."

Wren snickers and walks the last egg over to me and places it gently in my hands. "Scrambled?" they ask. "I bet we can rustle up some cheese too."

Wren sits on the counter while I make the cheddar-covered eggs. They chatter about Magni Viri gossip for a while—who's sleeping with who, who's fighting for a top spot—but then they go quiet and their fingers start to move against the mug like they're feeling out musical notes. Even away from the piano, it drags them back. Their compulsion is almost unnerving, going far beyond ordinary artistic obsession.

"Eggs are done. Grab me some plates?" I ask, nudging their leg.

Wren startles. "What?"

"Plates and forks?" I ask.

Wren eases themself slowly off the counter and searches in the cabinets. But they don't seem to know where to look. They have to try three different ones before they produce a plate. It's as if they've never been inside this kitchen. I guess exhaustion can do that to a person.

We sit at the table and eat our stolen breakfast, exchanging a few tired words now and then. When we're done, Wren goes groggily up to bed. By the time I've finished washing away all evidence of our crime, the sky is a deep, dark blue through the window, the first signs of dawn beginning to stir.

I decide there's no point in going back to bed now, and besides, I don't want to return to those horrible dreams I was having. So I put on a pot of coffee and tiptoe up the stairs and into my room to get my computer and books. Wren is passed out on their bed, still in the clothes they were wearing, mouth open and snoring.

Once downstairs and in possession of my coffee, I set up in the library, turning on every lamp to banish the shadows. I open a new Word doc and stare at the blinking cursor. I have to figure out what to write for Dr. O'Connor. I have only one week. I need to have something to show him. I sit for ten minutes, racking my brains for a place to begin—a setting, a character, even just an interesting sentence. But nothing comes. My mind is as blank as the page. There's no way I'm returning to my awful flash fiction piece. I need something much, much better than that. Something like Meredith would write.

Against my will, my mind wanders up the stairs and into Meredith's room. I think about the notebooks sitting on her desk, the laptop that probably contains dozens of stories and novels. What are they about? What worlds did she weave with only her words?

For a moment, no matter how weird and creepy I know it is, I close my eyes and pretend that I am Meredith Brown—gifted, prolific, effortlessly cool. I sit at my desk, bright red hair pulled up into a voluminous, gloriously messy bun, green cardigan draping my thin frame. I take a deep breath, the air scented with the lily of the valley perfume on my skin, raise my fingers above the keys, and—

Nothing. Nothing comes. The fantasy dissolves into mist. I am Tara again—average looks, average style, average brain. There is no story inside me waiting to get out. There's no work of genius brewing. Pretty soon, O'Connor is going to realize what a mistake he made in choosing me for Magni Viri.

I stare at the blank screen, watching the cursor blink, willing words to appear. I have to write something. I have to prove to O'Connor and to myself that I belong here. Because what happens if I can't do it? Will he kick me out of the program?

If I can't write, I don't deserve to be here.

A wave of despair and self-loathing washes over me. All this time, I've been saying I couldn't write because I didn't have time, because I had to focus on work and school. All this time, I thought my mediocrity was because of other people, because of circumstances outside my control. But what if it's just me? What if it's always been me?

With a moan, I slam my laptop shut. I can't look at that blank screen any longer, can't face the emptiness for one more second. I need something else to do, something to distract me. Something that won't make me feel lost and ashamed. I remember I have problems to do for quant reasoning and a reading response for Freshman Seminar. Those, I know I can handle.

I'm reaching into my bag for a textbook when suddenly I freeze. The fine hairs at the back of my neck stand up and goose bumps sweep across my body. Cold spreads through me, as if my blood has turned to ice in my veins. Slowly, slowly, I lean back up, the book clutched in my hand. My body begins to tremble, and my shoulders go rigid.

My mouth goes dry, and my chest tightens. I'm afraid, but I don't know why.

A feeling grows around me, greater than my fear. It's like... loathing. Contempt. Like the very walls of Denfeld are watching me and finding me wanting, finding me weak and unworthy. I feel judged, scorned, despised.

I would get up and flee the room, but my legs have stopped working. I am rooted to the couch, my feet frozen on the floor. Terror fills me.

Is it... Meredith? Is this her hatred I feel? Does she see my mediocrity and despise me for it?

My ears fill with the sound of screaming cicadas, an insect tinnitus so loud it makes me dizzy. For a moment, I'm not sure where I am, cast back into the horrible dreams I woke from this morning, confused images flashing across my vision.

Softly, beneath their screams comes the sound of footsteps in the hallway, heading toward the library door. I turn painstakingly slowly to see who's there, my heart pounding.

Jordan stands at the door, wearing a striped blue-and-gray sweater, a mug in one hand and his messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He smiles at me. "Morning."

Relief floods through me at the sight of him, and the cold in my bones seems to abate. The horrible feeling of being hated subsides. The cicada screams fade to a distant pulse.

"Hey," I say, all my panic releasing in a shaky breath. I don't know what that was, but it's over now. It's almost like I gave myself a panic attack—thinking about Meredith, thinking about all the ways I can't measure up to her. All the ways I wish I could be her.

"Did you make this coffee?" Jordan asks, holding up the mug.

"Why, is it bad?" I ask, struggling to sound normal.

He smiles. "No, it's the best I've had this semester."

"Well, at least I'm good at something," I say, my voice still tremulous.

He comes and sits next to me on the couch, dropping his leather satchel on the floor. "Quantitative Reasoning, huh? The bane of every English major." He says it so seriously I can't tell whether he's teasing me or not. "Half the students I tutor need help with this class."

"Really?" I ask, clinging desperately to the normalcy of the topic, relieved he didn't notice my earlier panic. "So it's not just me who finds it impossible?"

He shakes his head. "Can I help?"

"Are you sure?" I ask. "I don't have any money to pay you. I haven't gotten my stipend yet."

"I think my help is a fair exchange for this coffee," he says, then takes another sip.

"Wait," I say as his earlier comment finally filters through to my tired, shocked brain. "You tutor? But I thought we weren't allowed to have jobs?"

Jordan puts a finger to his lips. "What O'Connor doesn't know won't hurt him. Besides, it's only a few hours a week. I like teaching."

It's a pretty tame rebellion, but I'm still surprised by it. Jordan seems so upright and rule-following. Maybe he has to behave that way to survive in this rarefied space.

I smile and mime zipping my lips. The last of my fear subsides, only a shaky unease left behind in its wake. It's hard to feel afraid with Jordan next to me, solid and reassuring, making the dim library feel warmer and brighter than it was.

I show him some of the problems I've been struggling with, and he explains what I'm missing in such a calm, patient way that for once I don't feel like a complete failure at math. He nods approvingly as I apply his advice to the next problem. Then he pulls out his laptop and starts doing his own work.

We go on this way for an hour, him pausing every ten or fifteen minutes to help me get unstuck. Jordan is revising an essay and asks for my help a few times—whether to use a semicolon or a colon, how to reword an awkward, clunky phrase. I'm not sure whether he genuinely needs the help or wants to make me feel better about myself. Either way, I do feel like less of a charity case.

Around seven, the rest of the house finally starts to wake. Voices drift from other rooms, footsteps sound overhead, a blender runs in the kitchen. The force of what I felt earlier fades, the ordinariness of the day smoothing it away.

I move on to my reading for Gothic lit. Jordan disappears, but Azar shows up before long to take his place, as well as several older students I don't know. The library and the house itself hum with activity and life. I can practically feel the thinking happening all around me as the others work at their laptops, scribble in notebooks, flip rapidly through pages. That sensation I felt during the initiation ceremony, of an immense electrical current running through us all, joining us together—I feel it now, here. We are part of something; we are something.

But doubtful questions keep breaking through my feeling of belonging. What if I don't have the same genius as the rest of Denfeld's students? What if there is no story inside me waiting to get out?

What if that cold hatred I felt earlier was more than my own nerves? What if it was a warning? A reminder that I don't truly belong in Magni Viri?