Eleven

These questions don't stop once I leave Denfeld Hall. They dog me all the way across the sunlit campus, up the stairs to the English building, and into Dr. Hendrix's classroom. For the first few minutes of class, I have to work hard to pay attention, but soon I get wrapped up in the day's discussion of the reading.

Dr. Hendrix sits patiently at the front of the classroom, hands clasped in her lap, waiting for someone to attempt to answer the question she just asked. It's our first class back since she found Meredith's body in the library. She canceled the last two class meetings, assigning us discussion board posts instead. Judging by how she looks now, she needed a rest. Her face seems thinner and paler, and her hands tremble sometimes when she lifts them, which is probably why she's keeping them clasped in her lap. Meredith's death has clearly taken a toll, and I'm not sure a discussion of vampires is the best thing for her right now. But I suppose she must soldier on through the syllabus she set.

After a long and painful silence, she clears her throat. "Let me ask the question a different way, then. What makes vampires so emblematic of the Gothic?"

"The juxtaposition of desire and fear," someone says from the back of the class.

"Can you elaborate?"

I turn and recognize an upperclassman from Magni Viri, a Latino boy with gold-rimmed glasses and shoulder-length curls. I think his name is Gabriel. He tends to sleep through half of our classes and crack dark-humored jokes in the other half.

"Well," he says, "vampires are simultaneously beautiful and terrifying. They are monsters with angels' faces."

"Well put," Dr. Hendrix says. "What else? Tara?" she asks, turning her eyes to me.

I hate when professors put me on the spot like this. A hot blush spreads up my neck. But I make myself answer. "Vampires are aristocratic—wealthy, refined... cultured. And yet at heart they are beasts and murderers, who prey on human blood. Plus—"

"Sounds like the one percent to me," Gabriel quips, and everyone laughs. But Dr. Hendrix's eyes are still on me, waiting for me to finish my thought.

I continue. "Well, when you consider the political heart of Gothic literature... I mean, it's about more than aesthetics and the supernatural, right? So maybe what he said about the one percent is right. The wealthy and privileged have always preyed on the poor, sucking their life away."

Dr. Hendrix leans forward, her eyes brightening. "How do we see this playing out in the literature, in Carmilla, for example? After all, Carmilla's victim, the naive teenaged Laura, is an aristocrat herself."

"Well," I say, self-conscious at having the entire class's attention on me for such a long stretch, "well, Laura wasn't Carmilla's only victim during the novel, was she? Carmilla also preyed on young women and girls in the area. Farmers' daughters, maids, all working class. Laura is our narrator because she was the only one with the privilege to be able to tell her story."

"Very, very good," Dr. Hendrix says, and I try to suppress my pleased smile at her praise. I might not be able to write, but at least I'm still good at this.

Dr. Hendrix turns to the rest of the class. "Now, of course, we can't talk about nineteenth-century vampires without talking about anti-Semitism."

She launches into a mini lecture on the historical context of the novel and how its depiction of vampires compares to that of Dracula. I take notes, waiting for the blood to leave my cheeks. Right before class ends, Dr. Hendrix asks us to consider contemporary vampires, especially the ones we see in YA novels and teen TV shows.

"How much of the Gothic have they retained? More specifically, how well do they reflect the image of the aristocratic vampire preying on good and ordinary people?"

"Well, they're always rich, aren't they?" a girl says. "Because who would want to go out with a broke-ass vampire?"

Dr. Hendrix laughs along with the rest of us and tells us to consider this question for our two-page reflection essay, due next class. She answers a few questions and then dismisses us, standing behind her table and shuffling through some papers. I can tell she's hoping we'll all leave quietly and not disturb her. The effort of teaching seems to have exhausted her. Yet when I pass her, she looks up and touches my arm.

"Tara. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," I assure her. "Are you?"

She blows out a shaky breath. "It was such a shock to find Meredith that way. I think it will take me a long time to get over it. I hope it will be easier for you."

I shake my head, thinking of how I dream of Meredith every night, how I feel her in the rooms of Denfeld Hall. Everything reminding me she's still here, still watching. But of course I can't admit to any of that.

"I... I was offered her place in Magni Viri," I say instead.

Dr. Hendrix's eyes widen. "What?"

"Dr. O'Connor... he said I was originally in the running for her spot, that it was between her and me. So they gave it to me."

"Oh. Well, congratulations," she says coldly.

I wince at the condemnation in her voice. "I know it seems kind of callous, taking her spot like that so fast, but the offer was too good to pass up. I'm on scholarship, and I had to take out so many loans," I explain. I'm desperate for her to understand, the one other person who found Meredith in that library with me. I can't stand for her to think badly of me.

Dr. Hendrix's face softens. "I don't blame you, Tara. Not at all. It isn't you who..." She presses her lips together.

"You don't like Magni Viri?" I ask. I vaguely remember some look or word from the night we found Meredith, some hint that she disapproved of Magni Viri.

Dr. Hendrix makes sure the room is empty before she answers me. "Dr. O'Connor is my ex-husband. I know what he's like. How he drives those students. Half of them walk out of Corbin looking like shades of themselves. Many have had breakdowns. I'm not saying they don't produce brilliant work. But it's clearly an unhealthy atmosphere for many of the students, and I don't know why the administration allows it to go on." By now she's breathing heavily, clearly worked up. She shakes her head. "Forgive me for raining on your parade, Tara. Theodore's running of Magni Viri was one of the many things we disagreed about."

"Oh," I say, surprised and embarrassed. "That's okay, but... um, well, I'm really liking the program so far though. I've made good friends already."

"I have no doubt," Dr. Hendrix says kindly. "You're a smart girl with a good head on your shoulders. But if you ever find you need to talk to someone outside of Magni Viri, I'm here, all right?"

"Sure," I say, anxiety starting to make my insides writhe like snakes. "Thanks—thank you, Dr. Hendrix." I start toward the door, ready to be done with this awkward conversation. Not that Dr. Hendrix is totally off base. I have noticed that some of the upperclassmen look run-down and that students push themselves really hard in Denfeld, but it can't be as bad as she's making it out to be.

"Oh, and Tara," Dr. Hendrix calls before I pass into the hall, "your thoughts on Carmilla today were very astute. You seem to have an instinctive grasp of the Gothic. I'm looking forward to reading your next reflection. By the way, you should think about taking my Southern Gothicism course next semester. I think you'll love it."

"Thank you," I say again, more sincerely this time, happiness at her praise breaking through my anxiety. It has been so long since I truly felt like I stood out in any way. "I'll definitely think about it. See you next time." I hurry out the door, flustered and confused.

But as I walk out of the humanities building and into a moody, gray afternoon worthy of a Gothic novel, I realize Dr. Hendrix has helped me solve my schedule dilemma. I'll drop American History I and take American History II next semester, along with Dr. Hendrix's Southern Gothic class. Those fit together and will be a good follow up to Gothic lit. I don't think Dr. O'Connor can argue with that logic.

With that decision made, I realize I can skip American history and squeeze in a nap, something I've never once had time to do at Corbin. As I walk back to Denfeld, I push away the doubt that Dr. Hendrix's tirade against Magni Viri stirred up in me. Things are going to be all right. I'm going to pass my classes. I'm going to make solid friends. And maybe if I can get out of my own way, I'll even be able to write these pages for Dr. O'Connor.

But my nap is the same as last night's dreams, only more detailed. Cicadas buzz in the treetops of the cemetery below Denfeld Hall, then raise their song to a long, drawn-out scream. The trees sway overhead, branches rubbing against each other, creaking and groaning. I'm alone in the cemetery but not alone—another walks beside me, invisible. She takes my hand, and though I can't see her, I can feel her. Her fingers are soft and cool against mine, but they cling tighter than I would like. My heart pounds hard and fast, and the one who walks beside me seems to cling all the harder, as if she could steal away the pulse at my wrist. She wants to, I realize with a bolt of fear. She wants my life.

From the dark, in the distance, comes a scream. My head snaps toward it and then I'm awake in my bed, trembling. My alarm sounds from across the room. I let it go for a moment, waiting for the dream to loose me from its eerie hold, but it lingers. She lingers. The ghost who held my hand was Meredith, I feel sure of it. I can almost feel her now, lying beside me in the narrow bed.

Wren comes into the room and turns off the alarm. "Get up, Tara. Your alarm was going off," they say as they tip an armful of books onto their bed.

I sit up and rub my forehead, ignoring the way my skin feels all shivery and cold. "What time is it?"

"I don't know," Wren says with complete disinterest. They find my phone and toss it at me. I look at the cracked screen and am thrown back to the night I dropped it, when I found my way to the gate of Denfeld's cemetery like a sleepwalker. The night I heard voices calling out something that sounded like "Isabella." Now I'm sure it was Latin—just like the song we sang on initiation night.

I've let myself get spooked by it all. By Meredith's death; by taking her place; the initiation in the cemetery; the strange, isolated way we live up here on our hill at Denfeld. Magni Viri is a dream waiting to wrap you up in cobwebs if you let it.

Perhaps, I realize, I should let it. Maybe that's the way to succeed here. You have to give all, everything, let it take you over like the ghost in my dream. Maybe that's how I'll finally start writing. It's certainly working for Wren.

I watch them as they lean against the edge of their bed, dashing music notes onto staff paper in a composition book nearly as big as they are. They're nowhere near a piano, and yet they are composing, writing, creating art from nothing.

I want that. I want to be absorbed like that. Look how Wren's eyes smolder, how fast their pencil moves across the page, as if it can barely keep up with the movement of their mind. Wren is like flames dancing through a forest, catching every tree in their wake. I'm watching genius at work.

And what have I been doing? Agonizing over class choices, dreaming about dead girls. I see now what Dr. O'Connor meant about focus. Wren is like an object lesson before my eyes. Does Wren go too far sometimes, exhaust themself? Yes. But isn't it worth it, for this? For the art they're making, which will outlast them? Isn't that what I want too? To leave something of myself, of my mind, behind in the world?

Dr. Hendrix said Dr. O'Connor pushes Magni Viri students too hard, but maybe she's wrong. Maybe Dr. O'Connor is doing what it takes to pull greatness out of us. Maybe accomplishing something of value in this world takes sacrifice, maybe even a little suffering. A little bit of madness, even.

Wren freezes, their pencil poised above the page, their mouth slightly open, as if music itself has disappeared from the world. Their expression is shocked, terrified, bereft. I almost ask what's wrong, but then Wren nods once and their pencil starts dancing across the page once more.

I climb out of bed and go to class.

For the rest of the week, I try to write. I sit on the couch in the library with a notebook and pen. I sit at my laptop in my room. But nothing comes. The cursor blinks, the blank page screams. The world is as empty of words as if language never existed, as if humanity were still prehistoric, apelike, swinging in the treetops. That moment of Wren's I witnessed, when the music disappeared from their mind, is my every waking moment.

I go to class and do my assignments. I eat lunch with my new friends. I try not to let my panic grow, try not to obsess over the fact that I will never get out from under Meredith Brown's shadow in this house.

But Neil reminds me daily how different from her I am. Never overt, like the first time. Always little offhand comments that sound harmless.

On Friday morning when I come downstairs, Neil is making eggs at the stove, and Azar is steeping a pot of fragrant tea that fills the room with the smell of cardamom.

"Nice jacket," Azar says, nodding at the gray herringbone blazer I wear over a black sweater.

"Oh, thanks," I say self-consciously. "Quigg gave it to me. He said my wardrobe wasn't scholarly enough." I laugh, but I'm pleased at Azar's compliment. My outfit is simple, structured. I felt very chic when I left my room, which I'm not sure I've ever felt before.

Neil turns and glances at me, uninterested. "Remember that dark gray blazer Meredith used to wear all the time?" he asks Azar. "How she'd pop the collar up?"

"Oh my God, she looked like a sexy spy or something," Azar says. She laughs and launches into a reminiscence about Meredith and one of the first Magni Viri parties.

Neil joins in, adding details where Azar forgets them.

I stand for a moment listening, trying to smile. But I realize they're not talking to me. I've disappeared for them. The very memory of Meredith is stronger than my physical presence in the room. I move around them, making my coffee, listening to their stories like the bystander I am. When I finally walk out of the kitchen, they don't even notice.

Back at my desk, my anxious mind returns again and again to Meredith, to her brilliance. What was her novel about? What words had she written that Dr. O'Connor believed would define a generation, leave a mark on the world that could never be rubbed out? I wish I could see them.

No, more than that—I wish her words were mine, the way her place in Magni Viri is mine, her friends are mine. I wish I could wear her clothes, her hair, her skin. Wish I could have her heart beating in my chest. This girl taken too soon from the world who had something to say, something to offer. I wish I could become her.

After another hour in front of the blank page, something in me snaps. I pull Meredith's stolen pen from my desk drawer. I need to know more about what she was working on. I need to know what caliber of writing O'Connor is going to be expecting from me. The kind of person everyone in Magni Viri wants me to be. If I'm going to fill Meredith Brown's shoes, I need to see exactly who she was.

I get up from my chair, gripping the pen. I know Azar just left for the robotics lab and won't be back for hours. This is my chance. If someone catches me, I'll say I was returning the pen I took by accident.

I nod to myself, satisfied with the excuse. On socked feet I sneak down the hall and try the doorknob to Azar and Meredith's room. It's unlocked. Apparently the residents of Denfeld Hall are more trusting than those in my old dorm. I make sure no one is watching from the hallway before I slip inside the room, leaving the overhead light off in case someone looks up here from the grounds. I cross the room quickly and pull the heavy maroon curtains closed. Darkness fills the space, and an icy fear inches up my spine, making me hesitate.

I take several deep breaths, searching the air for Meredith's telltale perfume. But the room smells only of coffee and Azar's almond-scented lotion. I cross over to Meredith's desk and flick on her lamp. I sit in her chair.

I know it's wrong to go through someone's belongings, to violate their privacy, but a feverish voice inside me presses me along, tells me that this could be the key to finally unlocking the words stuck inside my head, that Meredith is dead, so it doesn't count—right?

With a racing heart, I open her shiny new MacBook and power it on. I groan when I see it's password protected. I try a few obvious passwords like password, MagniViri, even NeilByrd—just in case Neil's love wasn't as unrequited as I suspect. But none of them work. I'm way too technologically ignorant to try to get around even this basic security. With a sigh of frustration and maybe relief too, I power the laptop off again.

When the screen goes black, I startle at the pale face reflected at me. It takes me a beat longer than it should to realize that the face is my own—frightened, with dark, hollowed-out eyes like a corpse. I shut the laptop with more force than I ought, my breaths coming ragged.

But a second later I wish I hadn't—a cool wind blows against my bare neck, making my entire body go rigid, and I wish I could look in the screen's reflection and see what's behind me. I don't want to turn around.

I take a deep, purposeful lungful of air, determined to get my nerves under control. Denfeld is an old building and probably full of drafts. Quietly now, I open the shallow drawer in the center of the desk, hoping to find printed copies of her work. That's when I smell it—when I smell her. Lily of the valley surrounds me, as potent as if I were wearing it myself. My hands start to shake, cold spreading up my fingertips.

But then I spy a perfume bottle in the corner of the drawer, delicate and expensive-looking, half wrapped in a headscarf. I let out a small whimper of relief and get back to the task at hand. There are no papers in the desk. What happened to the story she brought to the lit reading? I glance quickly through Meredith's possessions, looking for clues to unlock her, to understand what made her the magnetic, brilliant, irresistible person she was. But what can a desk drawer really tell you?

She was tidy, based on how neatly everything is laid out—several identical pens, blank index cards, a mini stapler. She had a sharp, well-organized mind. I already knew that.

Where did she keep her secrets?

I close the drawer and turn to the pile of plain black Moleskines on top of the desk, each of their spines numbered with a metallic marker. I open the notebook on top, my hopes rising—only to be immediately dashed. It's full of lecture notes, all of them written in dark ink in an elegant, italicized print. I go methodically through the pile, and each is the same. There's nothing of Meredith's own writing here. Nothing of her thoughts, apart from a few questions she jotted down about syllabi and exams. Nothing to tell me how to become someone like Meredith Brown.

Aren't brilliant writers supposed to be messy scribblers, leaving napkins with half-baked ideas all over the place? Aren't they supposed to doodle in the margins of their notebooks? Meredith may as well be an engineer like Azar for all the artistic touches I see here, in the place where she supposedly created Pulitzer-worthy fiction.

It must all be on her laptop, I realize. Everything she truly was—all of her hidden behind a password I can't guess.

But there must be something here in this room, one single clue to who Meredith Brown was beneath her cool, unruffled surface. There must be something to hint at what she was writing. Or what it was like inside her mind. Or even... something to explain why she was crying on the night she died.

I open the closet on Meredith's side of the room. As I expected, Meredith's wardrobe is as ruthlessly simple as that stack of Moleskines on her desk. I run my fingers over the clothes—crisp, monochromatic button-downs, a few dark-toned blazers, sweaters in gray, black, and the darker earth tones. Everything she owned was cool and sharp-edged, classic and modern at once. It seems too put-together for a college freshman, even one as accomplished as Meredith. I fish in the pockets of each blazer and oversize cardigan, searching for anything she might have accidentally left behind. There's nothing, not even a forgotten receipt or a balled-up tissue.

Almost ready to give up entirely, I walk to Meredith's dresser. I can't quite bring myself to open her underwear drawer, so I scour the top of the dresser instead, squinting to make out the objects arranged there in the dim light from her desk lamp. There's a tube of the dark brown lipstick she always wore, the inky eyeliner she drew on so sharp and perfect, mascara and blush. I pick up the lipstick and open it, raising it to my lips. I pause, my hand trembling.

Just as I'm about to touch it to my top lip, a door slams somewhere down the hall, startling me so badly that my hand spasms, drawing a brown line right above my lip.

"Oh my God," I whisper, panic thrumming through me. I recap the lipstick and drop it fast. I wipe feverishly at my face. If someone were to come in here and see me like this...

Deeply creeped out by my own behavior, I hurry out of Meredith's room and back to my own. I lean against my closed door, trembling, my breaths coming fast, the smell of Meredith's perfume choking me.

I have to get over this obsession with her. Knowing what she was writing wouldn't have helped me anyway, even if I had found it out. I need to get past this block, this paralysis, and find words of my own. Fixating on Meredith will only make it harder, will only make me more afraid.

With new resolve, I sit at my desk and open my notebook, cheap ballpoint pen poised above the first line, willing words to appear. The blank page stares at me the same way it has all week. It seems to look through me, as if I'm made of mist. I do the only thing I can think of and write the very first words that enter my head, even if they're not fiction.

I thinkMeredith Brown is haunting me, I write. And beneath that: Or maybe I'm haunting her.