Fifteen

Dr. O'Connor asks Neil, Azar, Jordan, Penny, and me to meet in his office late in the afternoon the next day. Laini, the resident director, comes too. I've barely seen her since my initiation. She rarely leaves her study.

"Thank you all for coming," Dr. O'Connor says. "As I said in my email, I wanted to give you an update on Wren and talk about what happened. I'm happy to share that Wren will be coming back to school tomorrow. I spoke to the doctor myself. He said it was nothing worse than a bad case of exhaustion and dehydration, perhaps a lack of regular meals. No concussion, only a few stitches from hitting their head when they fainted."

Of course, we know all this already. We were the ones who found Wren bleeding on the floor, who took that horrible, strained drive to the hospital, who sat anxiously in that waiting room for hours. I bristle at the casual way he brushes off Wren's injury and how little concern he seems to feel about the state they were reduced to.

Perhaps O'Connor realizes he's been too blasé because he clears his throat and adds, "I'm sure it was very unsettling for all of you to find your classmate in that way. Frightening even. But Wren is fine. They will come home tomorrow, hardly any worse for wear. I want to commend you for the maturity you all have shown, as well as the care and concern you've demonstrated for your friend. Things might have been much worse if you hadn't gone looking for Wren when you did. We take care of one another in Magni Viri. You are all a shining example of that."

No one says anything, but Laini nods and gives us all an approving smile. I cross my arms over my chest. I'm not sure what they think I'm supposed to feel. Proud of myself? Sickness still curdles in my gut at the memory of how Wren looked lying on the floor, small and pale and bleeding. All alone.

"Did you all know that Wren was in that bad of shape?" Laini asks us, her voice tentative. "If you did, why didn't you come to me?"

"Isn't that your job, to make sure things like this don't happen?" Neil interjects, an edge to his words. I wonder if it's guilt for sending Wren out to the practice rooms to begin with.

Laini's cheeks redden. She opens her mouth to say something, but Dr. O'Connor waves her off.

"Let's not point fingers. Let's not blame one another. Wren is an adult, and they—"

"They're not, actually. Wren is seventeen," Neil points out.

We all look at him in surprise. Only last night, he accused us of infantilizing Wren. "And so am I, for that matter."

"Me too," I say.

Dr. O'Connor looks annoyed at the interruption. "Your age isn't important. You are independent people with autonomy, directing your own lives. That's what I meant," he says. "That is part of the promise of Magni Viri."

Neil snorts. "Our own lives? That's rich," he says.

The others shift uncomfortably.

I have no idea what he's talking about. But everyone else seems to know. Maybe he means he's tired of being controlled by O'Connor.

"You'd think after what happened to Meredith that you'd take a little more care with your students," Neil continues, his voice full of venom.

Dr. O'Connor shoots an equally venomous look at Neil. "This is nothing like what happened to Meredith, and you know that."

"But it's understandable that you would feel that way," Laini says, butting in. She shoots an unreadable look at me. "Meredith hasn't been... gone... for very long. Of course you can't help but think of her. You can't help but worry that something bad might happen to another of your friends. But Wren is going to be fine," Laini says. "Right, Dr. O'Connor?"

"Correct," he says tightly.

"But how do you know that? What are you going to do to make sure Wren is okay?" I press. A part of me needs to know that this won't happen again, that it won't just be me and the others looking out for Wren, when we failed so miserably this time around.

Dr. O'Connor lets out a frustrated breath. "Look, I know it's cute in our current culture to talk about self-care and boundaries and all that, but to get anything done in this world, you can't think in those terms. You have to give everything; you have to give all. Your time, your body, your energy, your youth. You cannot hold back. I am not glad that Wren is in the hospital, but nonetheless, I applaud them. No one in Denfeld Hall works harder or is more devoted than Wren Norwood. No one will make more of a mark upon the music world than Wren will.

"Do they go too far in failing to eat and sleep and care for themself? Perhaps. But Wren is not the first genius to live only for their art, and they will not be the last." O'Connor's eyes light up with an almost religious fervor. "This academic society is utterly devoted to the human capacity for greatness, brilliance, genius. And Wren is the prime example of that. In fact, I would much rather you follow Wren's example than not."

The words hang heavy in the silent room. I look at the others, expecting to see the same shock on their faces that I am feeling. But they don't even look surprised. Maybe they've heard speeches like this before. Jordan's face is serious and composed as always. Neil leans forward with his face in his hands. Azar bites her bottom lip, gazing at the floor. But Penny stares straight at O'Connor, a look of deep dislike on her face, an open contempt that shocks me almost as much as O'Connor's words did.

"However," Dr. O'Connor says, pausing, "we don't want any more accidents this semester. Please make sure that you are eating, sleeping, and caring for yourselves. Keep tabs on one another, look out for one another, just as you have been doing. If the pressure starts to get to you, talk to Laini or to me. But do not let up. Do not become complacent. Do not let this setback keep you from your goals. You all have work to do."

With that, he dismisses us. Neil bolts from the room without another glance at anyone, his hands clenched into fists. The rest of us file out of the social sciences building, not speaking. But when we break into the open air, Penny swears, which I've never heard her do.

"That son of a bitch," she says quietly, vehemently. "That absolute bastard."

Azar puts a quiet hand on Penny's arm. "He's an asshole, but he's not wrong," Azar says. "This is what we signed up for."

Penny shakes her head. "There has to be another way."

"There isn't," Azar says, her voice tired and resigned. She shrugs. "I gotta go study for my physics exam. See you all later." She turns and walks away without another word. The rest of the group disperses with her, leaving only Penny and me behind.

"Do you really think that's true?" I ask her. "Do you think it has to be like this? Everyone working themselves half to death?"

Penny lets out a frustrated breath. "I think Magni Viri is a fucking cult. You want to go for a walk with me?" She looks at her watch. "Might be able to catch the bats' emergence."

"Thanks, but I think I'd rather be alone," I say. I'm too unsettled to talk to anyone right now, even Penny. I keep replaying what I heard her and Jordan whispering last night, trying to figure out what they meant. They mentioned O'Connor, and their anger at him today seems like it's about more than Wren. Neil brought up Meredith's death, almost as if it was related.

But what does O'Connor have to do with any of that? What does Wren overworking themself have to do with Meredith's aneurysm? Can a brain aneurysm be caused by stress? Maybe they blame O'Connor for Meredith overworking? I can't help but feel that I'm missing something here, something important that everyone else seems to know and understand. But I don't know how to ask what it is. And they're clearly not going to tell me.

I could ask Penny if she and Jordan were talking about me last night and what they meant, but then I'd have to admit I was listening in on their conversation. And I don't want to give Penny a reason to lie to me.

She studies me for a moment before she brushes a fall of hair out of my eyes. "Another time, then."

She gives me a sad, tired smile. I almost lean forward to kiss her, my body drawn to her despite my conflicted thoughts. But I pull myself back.

"See you later," I say, then head back to Denfeld.

Once there, I sit on my bed and stare at Wren's side of the room. Even though they're hardly ever here anyway, I feel their absence keenly. I guess because I know where they are now, what they've been through. They are probably lying in their hospital bed composing in their head, their fingers itching for the piano. But I hope not. I hope they're sleeping, eating, resting. I lie down and pull the blankets up to my chin, my own exhaustion hitting me. It makes me feel guilty, but if I can wish rest for Wren, why not for myself?

Dr. O'Connor said not to let up, not to grow complacent. Maybe how badly I want to close my eyes and sleep shows how unlike the other Magni Viri students I really am. I'm not a genius. I'm not a true artist. I'm a wannabe scribbler.

But at least I'm not in a hospital bed right now.

I try to resist it, but I fall asleep.

When I wake, I am lying on my back in the pitch-black dark. My eyes feel so heavy it's almost as if they are glued closed. I don't try to open them. I lie still and wait for my body to rouse itself. The house is completely silent, except for the distant hum of cicadas. Shouldn't they all be dead by now, or back in the ground?

My thoughts are muddled, confused. The room smells strangely musty, of dirt and rotting things. Close and airless. I shift on my bed, trying to make myself open my eyes and get up. But my sheets feel different, like satin instead of cheap cotton. I run my fingers over them. I touch cool, soft material and then the edge of the bed, a smooth, hard wood, which makes me startle. This isn't my bed. My bed has a metal frame. I try to open my eyes again, but they are unwilling.

Where am I? Did I sleep in someone else's bed? My head swims, fuzzy. I reach a tired hand up to touch my face and meet wood overhead too. My heart explodes in my chest. Frantically, I reach all around me, touching, groping. But I'm completely enclosed—in a closet? A box?

No, I realize, panic surging through me—it's a coffin.

I scream. I scream and I scream and I scream.

I come to at my desk, sitting straight up, pen poised above my notebook. I blink down at my handwriting. The paragraph is barely legible, hardly more than scratches on the page. The pen's ink is all gone. The sentence I was writing hovers in midair, half-finished. Eugenia knew that she—

What did Eugenia know? I have no idea. I shiver again and again and again, my teeth clattering together. I'm out of the coffin, but I still feel frozen, the pen clutched in my fingers. My heart pounds like I was running, and sweat beads on my clammy skin.

I was buried alive.I was buried under the ground in the cemetery, my eyelids glued closed. I was buried in a box with satin pillows. Cicadas hummed, their song audible even beneath six feet of dirt.

With enormous effort, I make my fingers drop the pen. Horror spreads through me, metallic and sour on my tongue, cold as damp earth between my toes. I wrap my arms around myself.

It was a nightmare, only... I wasn't asleep. I didn't come to, slumped over my desk, drooling on the page. I was sitting upright. I was writing. Was I sleepwriting, the way others sleepwalk? Is that even possible?

Frantic, I flip through the new pages. I don't remember writing a word. It's like I sat here, my brain elsewhere, while someone else's words poured from my pen. The worst part is, they're good. Much better than anything I've ever written.

Because I didn't write this, I realize with sudden, certain shock. It's in my handwriting, and I was sitting here moving my hand across the page, but I didn't write this. Not a single word is mine.

I stagger up out of my chair and back away from my notebook as if it's a repulsive, disgusting thing. If I didn't write these pages, then who did?

The answer comes all too easily: Meredith. It was Meredith Brown. I took her spot in Magni Viri, I took her friends. Now I'm writing her book. The idea is so bizarre I almost laugh. But I know, deep down, that it's true. I'm being haunted—no, not just haunted. Possessed.

I thought I was taking over her life, but what if it's the other way around? What if she is taking over mine?

Pacing, frantic, I think back over the past couple of weeks. I remember walking behind Meredith's body as the EMTs wheeled her out of the library, how I felt like someone walked beside me. That must be the moment it all started. The moment her soul latched on to my body.

And all those creepy phone calls? They were her, just as I suspected. She was trying to make contact. So why have the calls stopped now?

Because she succeeded, I realize, my heart skipping a painful beat. She did more than make contact; she took over. She possessed me.

This time I do laugh, a high, giddy sound that makes me clap my hands over my mouth. I look around, as if someone might have heard.

Only someone did hear. Meredith. She's been with me constantly, watching me move into her house, sit in the library where she sat, eat in the kitchen, hurry down the stairs. She has watched me go to class and answer questions she could have answered better. She has watched me argue with Neil and kiss Penny. And she has waited, ever so patiently, for me to fall asleep.

And then she would creep into my dreams, into my body. She would write her words with my pen, with my hand, with my mind. Like the automatic writing that spiritualists used to do. I remember reading about how the poet W. B. Yeats's wife used to do it. She would let the spirits guide her pen, conveying messages from beyond the veil.

But I didn't agree to this. I didn't invite Meredith in. She stole in, when I lay asleep, vulnerable, unable to fight her. She stole in, and she took over.

Suddenly I am desperate to get out of this room, out of this house, as far away from Magni Viri and Denfeld as I can. I throw on clothes and boots and grab my backpack, then sprint down the hall and down the stairs, through the imposing foyer, and out into the night. I walk fast, as if I can leave Meredith behind, as if she is rooted here in Denfeld Hall. She's not, I know that. But I have to try. I have to get away.

I don't look down at the cemetery. I pretend it isn't there. Meredith isn't buried there, but it doesn't matter. Her spirit is here. Her spirit is here and sending me to sleep in her coffin while she uses my body.

I don't think about where I'm going. After all, I have nowhere to go. I don't have friends on campus, except the ones back in Denfeld. And I can't tell them their beloved Meredith is possessing my body at night. It's impossible. They would look at me with disgust in their eyes. They would hate me.

There's no safe place for me. There is nowhere that Meredith cannot find me, nowhere she cannot reach. I walk all over campus, from north to south, east to west. I watch the other students living their normal lives, laughing and talking. I walk past a guy leaning against a tree, strumming a guitar. When I come across a couple making out in one of the gardens, pressed up against a low wall, I walk as softly and quietly as I can, so I don't disturb them.

I walk until I am nearly insensible, until there is nothing but darkness and sidewalk and cold. I'm halfway down the hallway toward Mr. Hanks's office before I realize where I am. I don't know what's led me here. Maybe my feet are just walking a familiar path. Maybe a part of me wants to go back to an easier time. I start to turn around, but Mr. Hanks hears my footsteps and comes to the door.

"Tara," he says in surprise. "Are you all right?"

"Hi," I say, forcing a bright, cheerful tone, even though the familiar sound of his voice has brought tears to my eyes. "It's been a while, so I thought I'd come see you."

Mr. Hanks laughs. "Miss cleaning floors already?"

I laugh too, though mine is shakier. "Sometimes. It was always quiet, gave me time to think, I guess. Not so much of that these days, what with classes and writing and everything." I babble on, hardly aware of what I'm saying.

"Come in," Mr. Hanks finally says, when I pause to catch my breath. "You want a cup of hot tea to warm you up?"

"You drink tea?" I ask with some surprise.

He smiles a little bashfully. "I seem like a black-coffee man, don't I? But my sister is a tea fanatic. We've lived together ever since her partner died, and she always had a pot around. I developed a taste for it. Now she says I make a better cuppa than she does."

He busies himself with an electric kettle and an old chipped teapot. Before long, he puts a mug of very black tea into my hands. "Milk?" he asks.

When I nod, he pulls a little container of milk out of a minifridge and pours it in. "No sugar, I'm afraid."

I take a sip and smile. The tea is strong and malty, its bitterness cut by the milk.

"You do make a good cup of tea," I say.

He nods but doesn't reply.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, sipping our tea. It warms me from the inside, dispelling some of the sick horror of the last few hours. My mind finally stops whirring.

"Do you believe in ghosts?" I ask him, relieved to hear that my voice is no longer the bright, forced thing of earlier. It's my own, anxious but normal. As if he's noticed it too, Mr. Hanks's shoulders relax, despite my strange question.

"I do," he says simply. His answer doesn't surprise me. The working-class people I grew up around believed in the supernatural too. My mom always swore our old trailer was haunted.

"I think... I think one has gotten hold of me," I say. "A ghost."

I expect him to startle, but he stares steadfastly into his mug of tea. It's got the Corbin College logo printed on it. A black swan, beak pointed at the sky.

"The dead girl?" he asks. "From your academic society?"

"Yes," I say, surprised. "I think—I think she's haunting me."

He nods. "They do that, sometimes."

"What should I do?"

He looks up. "Well, it's your life, ain't it? She's got no claim to it. You fight for it. You fight 'er off."

"I could leave Denfeld," I say, "drop out of Magni Viri."

"No," he says sharply. "That's running, not fighting. Don't let her drive you out of your life."

"I'm scared," I say.

"Well, life is scary, girl." He doesn't say it cruelly, only matter-of-factly, the same way you'd say that water is wet, that the sky is blue. "But either it's worth fighting for or it ain't."

Is my life worth fighting for? How many times have I thought that Meredith would live it better, that she deserved breath in her lungs more than I do, that she would make more use of my flesh and blood than I ever will?

And she already has. She's the one who has been writing Cicada, not me. Those are her brilliant words, ideas, characters, everything. I am nothing more than a vessel to pour from. A chipped, tea-stained mug with a faded logo.

"Thank you for the tea," I say, setting my empty mug down on Mr. Hanks's desk. I stand to go.

"Tara," he says, and I turn. "Come back anytime. And if you... if you ever need help, I'm here. You can always come to me." His voice is gruff, but there's so much gentleness in it that tears spring to my eyes once more.

"I will," I promise him.

He nods. "You're a good, smart girl. You deserve more than the whole lot of these kids put together." He waves his hand, indicating all of Corbin College. "And I believe you'll do more than the lot of them too. I really do."

"Thank you," I say quietly. As I walk alone back to Denfeld Hall, I wish I could believe him.