Agrippa
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Periodical Cicadas – Chapter 5
🕑 Added 2022-01-22 20:54:16 +0000 UTCThis can’t be happening.
“So… Taylor, tell me how do you feel?”
Definitely not happening.
“I… Ms. Lang—”
“I told you to call me Kristen,” the brown-haired woman says with a genial smile that screams practice, practice, practice.
And probably a dash of botox.
“I don’t really feel like…” I drift off, trying not to flail around and point at the various knick-knacks around her office that are carefully displayed to tell anyone who comes in how ‘quirky’ and ‘unique’ she is—like the little dreamcatcher, the miniature phonograph, and... Right. No need to do an extensive catalog. Basically, I’ve instantly despised the affable woman since the moment I was forced to step into her office.
“Oh! Boundaries! Yes, of course, sweetie, it’s all right to want to establish them. It can even be healthy. Just make sure not to turn them into barriers, will you?” she says, still with that cheerful tone that makes me want to stab through my eardrums with a pencil. Then she nods and winks.
… Never mind. I don’t want to stab myself anymore.
“Ms. Lang, I’m sure you mean well, but I really, reallydon’t feel the need to talk to a counselor.”
“After discovering two victims you don’t think you should talk to a qualified professional? And what does that tell you, Taylor?”
That adding you to the list would be a very bad idea, because it may confuse the actual, relevant investigation.
“That I don’t know you,” I finally say, after about ten minutes of trying not to be confrontational with the infuriating manic pixie dream girl who refused to grow up.
Yes, Noah, I know about some cinema tropes. Especially ones a feminist mother would find particularly annoying.
And I never knew why she hated the trope so much until right at this very moment.
“That’s a fair statement, sweetie, but it’s not like you know too many people around here, is it? I’m sure your father tries, but any bit of extra support—”
“Ms. Lang, up until this very moment, I’ve assumed you were just trying to do your job and failing, but I’m ten seconds away from filing a formal complaint.”
“See? All that pent-up aggression can’t be—”
“Seven seconds.”
“Taylor, I appreciate—”
I stand up.
Then turn around and walk out the door, trying to ignore the squeaky encouragement to set healthy boundaries from behind me.
“So… That bad?” Audrey asks from where she’s been waiting for me beside the door.
Which I guess could constitute a violation of my privacy or an attempt at snooping, but, really, it’s not like I didn’t know she was here, and her presence as a potential witness may have given me enough restrain not to prove to Ms. Lang that survival of the fittest is still a thing to worry about.
… Oh gods, Sophia’s infected me.
And I can’t get access to a competent therapist to get rid of it.
“She really means well, you know?” Audrey says, maybe taking my prolonged silence as an invitation to keep speaking rather than me internally seething in unfulfilled murderous impulses.
“I’m pretty sure anyone with a psychology degree knows not to dig when the patient tells them to fuck off.”
“All right, she means well, and she’s a spaz. Maybe she’s related to Noah?”
I laugh at that.
Damn it.
“There, very well, turn that frown upside down,” she says in the most deadpan way imaginable by someone with a pretty good imagination.
I glare at her, and then she chuckles.
“Come on, Broody, let’s get you outta here and into the sun.” She takes my sleeve and turns around, dragging me through the school’s corridor toward, presumably, the yard.
“You can’t fool me. You despise the nuclear ball of hellfire as much as I do.”
“And why would you say that?”
“Because you are pale and wearing long sleeves.”
“I could just be used to the weather?”
“Being pale is not an adaptation to Florida’s weather. It’s the opposite of an adaptation to Florida’s weather. It’s like claiming having a good sense of smell is an adaptation to living in New York.”
She takes a turn when we reach the stairs, the high windows letting in far too many rays of the positively hostile celestial body that dapple the floor like a very clumsy kid handling glitter.
… So, my metaphors aren’t up to my usual standards. Bite me.
I mean, it’s not like I’ve got two murders, one secret identity unwittingly discovered, a forced relocation, and a very uncomfortable conversation weighing on my mind at the moment or anything.
Yeah, maybe I should get my internal editor to cut me some slack.
“Ever been there?” Audrey asks as she pulls open one of the double doors to the far too green yard behind the school and steps aside so I can go through first.
I raise an eyebrow, and then she does an absolutely sarcastic bow, flowery waving of her left hand to point beyond the door included.
“… You spend far too much time with Noah. Also, been where?”
“He’s like a bad habit I can’t quit, but with puppy eyes. And to New York. You know, the place you just claimed smells bad enough to be used in your little simile against Florida’s fair weather.”
“Oh, that. No, it’s just… one of those things everybody knows, right? Like… Alabama cultivates circular ancestry trees, California will destroy the whole ecosystem in its bid for more avocados, and New York smells like something that should have been buried and laid to rest after the last Behemoth attack.”
“… Ouch. Are you feeling all right, Broody? That’s a bit more morbid than I would expect.”
“You met me yesterday.” And already gave me a nickname that I hate.
Ah, no. That was Noah.
How surprising. How unexpected. What a twist.
I swear if he makes me watch any Shyamalan films as part of his ‘investigation’…
“And we already have such an incredible rapport,” she says, tone as dry as a fossilized sponge.
“… That would’ve sounded far more believable with some actual enthusiasm.”
“Maybe I could muster some of that if you went ahead and stopped making me hold the fucking door.”
“I never made you do anything.”
She glares at me. I feel weirdly pleased by that.
“Fine…” I finally say.
And step through the door.
I don’t hiss when the sun hits my face, but it’s a near thing.
“Finally…” Audrey steps around me, taking advantage of my momentary blindness to once again drag me through my sleeve toward a spot in the yard beneath a wide tree with broad leaves that is not a pine and, thus, outside my ability to identify it.
… Fine, it’s a sycamore. But I still think it would be funnier if my hatred of hostile greenery extended to not being able to recognize anything that wasn’t a pine or an aluminum Christmas tree.
Also, what is it with these people and sitting on the ground? Is this a local culture thing? Do they abstain from furniture for religious reasons?
“Broody, Bicurious! We were waiting for you!” Noah greets us.
Emma smiles, Gustavo nods, Brooke waves, Jake grunts, and Will also nods, but in a somehow more reserved way.
… Are they doing this on purpose? Do they rehearse so that each one gets a distinctive reaction?
“I rescued her from attempting to murder Ms. Lang,” Audrey clarifies.
Emma flinches, Noah sagely nods, Gustavo tilts his head—oh, fuck it. They do rehearse this.
“And I would’ve gotten away with it if it wasn’t for you darned kids and your superpowered serial killer.”
“… If I pull on your face and it turns out it’s a mask with a weird old guy beneath it, I’m going to have some very conflicted feelings, Broody,” Audrey says, looking at me like…
Uh…
Nope. That does not compute.
Also, I already had enough bi-panic last night to last me for the rest of the month, thank you very much.
“Are you two going to make out? Because I could be filming—oof!”Brooke mercifully shuts Jake up by the very expedient method of elbowing his side.
Good. It saves me the trouble of outing myself by having him swarmed.
“You are a moron, you know?” she says, apparently deciding physical abuse isn’t enough to get her point across and adding the verbal variety for good measure.
“Well, it’s not like you haven’t been telling me since second grade…”
“Maybe if you weren’t so much of a moron, it would’ve already sunk in. Come on, sit down before the moron finds anything else inappropriate to comment on.”
I go to stand with my back against the three-trunked sycamore before Audrey drags me down by my sleeve so I end up sitting between Noah and her.
Noah throws me a wide smile, and Audrey a smug one.
“Get used to getting in touch with nature, Broody. You’re no longer a Brocktonite.”
“Do you even know how many bugs there are under your butt right now?” I say. And Emma makes a face and wiggles before catching my eye and stopping herself.
Nice. At this rate, she’ll inadvertently out me before the week’s over.
“If they are strong enough to get through my jeans, they deserve to cop a feel,” the girl with a biologically extruded leather jacket says.
… Do I have any bug that can get through jeans? And would coping a feel through it be anything but a really gross and detached experience for all parties involved?
“Well, now that we’re all here,” Noah interjects before anything else can get between him and a good monologue, “you may be wondering why I’ve gathered you all here tonight.”
There’s a silence stretching across the circle that tempts me almost irresistibly to gather a chorus of crickets.
Then Audrey smacks him over the head, and all is right with the world.
“Seriously?” she asks, the tone implying how little she trusts any answer she may receive.
“It’s not like I expect the chance to say this line to come often, you know?” Noah says, rubbing the back of his head and looking at her with a hint of reproach.
Audrey sighs, and Emma giggles. Then Brooke—nope. Not doing this again.
Seriously, couldn’t they all gasp in shock at the same time or something?
“Fine, fine, no more theatrics,” Noah finally relents with the tone someone may use to claim that they may be able to survive with half a liver. “Anyway, I think we all missed a very important detail last night.”
“If you missed it, chances are we did,” Gustavo says. And that may be a compliment or a commentary on Noah’s… Noahness. The pale kid eats it up regardless of intent, so I guess it’s all good.
“Thanks! Well, I was thinking, and the motif of the painting should be a hint. Nina’s display was an obvious ironic twist on Ophelia’s innocence—”
“Obvious?” Jake asks.
“Well, yeah? I mean, the bawdy display of Nina with her multiple partners is a clear contrast with Ophelia’s virginity in the original play.”
“I thought it was implied that she was actually pregnant with Hamlet’s child when she drowned,” someone with far too much time alone and a clear lack of social graces interjects with pointless trivia.
Crap. That someone was me.
What a twist.
… Seriously, though, no Shyamalan.
“Yes, of course, but in the context of the painting, we should go with what’s presented visually. There’s nothing in there that hints at that particular reading of the play,” he calmly elaborates.
“But what if it was a hidden clue? Precisely because it isn’t the more obvious reading, the killer may use it as a way to disguise another hint, something only apparent after a more thorough investigation.”
“Interesting! But what would the message be, then? That Nina was pregnant at the time of her death? Or that—no, no, we are thinking about this with too narrow a focus! If Nina is Ophelia, who is Hamlet? That would have to be one of her lovers, most likely Tyler… And Hamlet faked his madness, but Nina’s lover may not? No, but Hamlet was a killer, so it’s unlikely that Nina’s lover would be the actual killer—”
“Right! It would be… Maybe he’s one of the next victims, and that’s a subtle way to announce it? Or a victim that hasn’t been found… yet…”
Everybody’s looking at us.
And Will is looking kinda green. And at us.
“You… Do you realize we’re talking about actual people, right?” Brooke asks.
On the one hand, my face’s kinda heating up with all the embarrassment self-awareness usually brings me. On the other, she still hasn’t thanked me for saving her life.
The bitch.
“To be fair, Broody here didn’t know any of them. She may as well be talking about something she read in the newspaper,” Audrey intervenes, apparently thinking she’s helping.
Which, seeing as everybody’s eyes focus a bit more on Noah, may be the case.
… Thanks.
“I’m me?” he posits as a reasonable explanation.
There’s a chorus of shrugs and grunts that seem to agree with the validity of the claim.
Will keeps being green, though.
He must be very environmentally conscious.
“Hey, we gathered here to do precisely this. It makes no sense to stop them when they’re on a roll,” Gustavo comments.
Which… I mean, after seeing a few of his drawings during psychology class (my first taste of Ms. Lang… idiosyncrasies), I think the guy may be a bit closer to Noah’s mindset than he actually lets on.
Gruesome stuff. Especially given the cut faces with red blood inking the profiles in harsh lines that draw the eye to—
I mean, given he’s drawing his classmates.
Dead. His classmates dead and murdered.
… With a serial killer focused on art projects running amok.
It can’t be this obvious, can it?
“Right. We should be contributing, not throwing accusatory looks,” Emma comments in a way that makes me feel guilty for a moment, but…
I… I kinda have the perfect powerset to stalk Gustavo while remaining hidden. It wouldn’t hurt to do so.
“Well, if you aren’t going to get your pitchforks and torches, maybe I could say what it is that we missed last night?” There are a few glares thrown Noah’s way, but I don’t think they’re at an intensity he’s unused to.
“How could we ever stop you?” Audrey asks.
“Thanks! I mean—”
“No, it’s an actual question. Do you have an off-switch, like some kind of evil robot, or…”
And now I witness something that may be a first in the annals of Washington High.
Noah glaring at Audrey, and Audrey shutting up and looking bashful.
… What?
“Right. As I was saying,” the boy who’s surprisingly firm when it comes to having his hobbies interrupted resumes, “the killer recreated the composition of La Fábula de Aracne, with Mr. Branson taking the place of Arachne herself and the mask of Brandon James judging him in the role of Athena. But what was Arachne judged for? It was hubris; it was daring to compare herself with the goddess and even trying to surpass her in her own domain, so… Is the killer telling us something about Mr. Branson and his relationship with Brandon James? Are they claiming he was an inferior killer? What is the actual message, besides that he stepped into what the murderer considers their own domain?”
Noah leaves the question hanging in the air, and the group turns toward me.
“… What?”
“Aren’t you gonna do the thing?” Brooke answers my question with one of her own.
Rude.
“The ‘thing?’” I’m not rude. I’m just asking for clarification in a very terse manner that befits the atmosphere.
“You know, getting into the killer’s head and explaining things from their perspective?”
I look at her incredulously. Then Jake and Will nod, Gustavo shrugs, Audrey snickers—oh, fuck off.
“That’s not a thing! That’s not something I do! It’s basic pattern recognition!”
Audrey pats my shoulder, and Noah looks at me weirdly.
… Which I find very concerning.
“You… You really think that’s what you’re doing?” he finally asks.
And Emma catches my eye. She’s looking very nervous.
She finally makes a zipping gesture over her mouth that I’m pretty sure nobody else catches.
… I have no fucking clue what she means.
“Are you insinuating I’m the serial killer? Because I’m pretty sure I’m the only one in here without a motive and a solid alibi.”
“No! No, Hell, Broody, why would you even jump to—never mind, trauma things. It’s trauma things, isn’t it? Which explains the outsider perspective… alienation? Yeah, certainly, that would make some detachment an ingrained part of your worldview, so—”
Noah shuts up.
It may be because I’m grabbing him by his shirt’s collar.
Just, you know, a wild hypothesis I’m throwing out there.
Also, it looks like Audrey’s hand got kind of frozen mid-smack. Sorry for interrupting your weird bonding ritual-slash-flirting, Bicurious. I’m sure you won’t lack for further opportunities.
Unless I, you know, murder the little twerp.
“I already had to deal with a very inept psychologist today, Noah. I would appreciate it if you didn’t add to the tally.”
He smiles at me. Really smiles—wide, bright, cheerful.
“I knew I liked you for a reason,” he says, our faces kinda close, given I’m halfway strangling him.
… Uh?
“Are you… flirting?”
“What?! No! I mean, unless it’s working. Then, definitely.”
I drop him.
“What the fuck’s wrong with this town?”
Audrey drops yet another comforting palm on my shoulder.
“You’re not in Brockton anymore, Dorothy,” she says.
I look at her over my shoulder and try to incinerate her with my eyebeams.
Which it looks like I don’t have.
… It is really unfair I’m not getting a second trigger out of this whole morning.
Comments
Agrippa
Press "X" to doubt. But really, her divergent mindset is... kind of organic. The anger, snark, and resentment were planned from the start, but something about the way she described the first murder made her character shift in my mind, and I keep discovering these weird things about her that somehow make sense. To me. Sense to me. Which is not, at all, a universal standard.
Agrippa
Thanks! Not what i set out to write, but this Taylor's head keeps surprising me.
Nick Russo
That was absolutely hilarious
Gods, what happened to Taylor to cause this quasi-alien mindset? Even Brockton Bay has kind of normal people
