Act 1, Scene 1

I clutched the telephone to my ear and listened to my father’s gravelly voice as it travelled across the line. As he had personally requested my presence, I was whisked away by the headmistress, Mrs. Philomena to her office.

Being in this room left me uneasy. My father’s phone call paired with the fact that I had only been here once before, sent my stomach in knots. The last time I’d seen the place was before I was even an official Cosima Memphis student. I was eight years old and here to collect my trophy as the winner of the Junior Arts Competition when my mum convinced me to play a piece on the violin. Though I hated every moment on stage and hated every moment of receiving the award and hated every moment of coming to collect it in this stuffy and claustrophobic office; it was worth it to see the look on my big brother’s face.

“If I’m entirely honest, Eleanor, I’m not sure if we can even trust that godforsaken school any longer,” Dad ranted. I was sure a deep frown was painted on his lips by now. “A boy is dead! Do you hear me? A boy, your age, Yves’s age, is dead!”

I stood next to the window and watched as the bare trees danced in the wind, back and forth melodically along to the beat of my heart. Mrs. Philomena was on her office chair and her big brown eyes peered at me curiously, just trying to catch at least a sentence of my father’s words.

My back was turned and so Mrs. Philomena assumed I couldn’t see her, but I could. In the reflection of the office window, as clear as day, I watched my headmistress practically crawling across her desk just to listen to my conversation.

“So, they tell me you’re a suspect,” my father continued. He seemed suspicious of my involvement and I was grateful for it. While my father and I didn’t get along quite as well as you’d imagine from how our family was portrayed, I didn’t hate him. In ways, though I didn’t like to admit it, we were similar.

“I didn’t do it,” I snapped. “They only say that because I made the props.”

He sighed, dragging it along so that it sounded like a brush of wind against my ear. “Cosima Memphis is said to have the best school drama department in the whole of Britain, and that is why we allowed you to join the theatre club, yes? However, as it’s almost your last year in the school, I feel obligated to tell you that your uncle Robin and I are paying for your and Yves’s tuition for you both to prance around on stage, and for what? Will you go into theatre professionally, Eleanor? Are you and your cousin planning on joining the circus, is that it, my dear?”

His words were bitter and I bit my tongue.

“We pay for you to piss about with your friends and then suddenly one of your friends dies and I begin to wonder whether any of this is worth it? I can’t have you showing up like that boy. Do I make myself clear? Are you listening?”

“Yes, Dad,” I confirmed. “I understand but respectively disagree. We don’t mess around, Yves and I really enjoy the drama club and take it very seriously, everyone does. You said it yourself, it’s the best drama department in Britain. That’s worth something. Nothing will happen to me, this was just a one-time occurrence. It could just have been an accident.”

“At any sign of something not going our way, I’ll be driving all the way to Cosima Memphis and dragging you back home by your hair if I have to,” my father declared. While I was sure there was no need for the dramatics, there was no doubt in my mind that he wouldn’t go through with it.

He had never been the most welcoming of men, with his tough exterior and a personality that matched well. He wasn’t the devil-may-care type. In fact, he was probably nicer to strangers because he didn’t expect anything from them. He, however, expected the whole world from me, my brother, and my mother. Except, my brother had left and my mother divorced him, so it was really only me now.

“I can agree to that,” I mumbled. He always had a way of making me feel small, as though I had to watch every word I said and how I moved. When I was a little girl, it was so much different. Back then, he would lift me onto his shoulders with a deep rumble of laughter and clutch my ankles tightly as he swayed back and forth. He made me feel invincible, I wanted to be just like him.

“Very good.” I imagined him nodding his head up and down like a spring in agreement, happy that I obliged. “Be safe, be good. I’ll see you at Christmas.”

“Bye, Dad.”

“Farewell, Eleanor.”

I pressed the telephone back onto the hook and as the harsh bang echoed around the room, Mrs. Philomena jumped back into her chair with a thud.

“If you need to talk, I’m here, Miss Monet,” my headmistress smiled. I found it odd how her thick lips pulled into a plastered smile, as though it had been cut into her face. It didn’t reach her eyes, though. In fact, it didn’t come close and that disturbed me. “People have been letting me know how close you and Archer were. Courting, some say.”

I almost choked at the assumption but immediately hardened at the sight of the desperation in her features. It was a look laced with morbid excitement. While being headmistress of a prestigious boarding school was impressive, I doubted much of worth happened. Now, however, she had a murder case on her hands, something to fill her empty nights with contemplating and I resented her for taking advantage of this.

I detested the idea of this middle-aged woman taking the death of Archer Carlisle and attempting to solve his murder as though he were merely a character in an old crime novel to read before bed.

“If you wanted to talk to a counsellor too, I could set that up for you. Bereavement is a painful process so just say the word-“

“No, thank you, Mrs. Philomena,” I declined as politely as I could. “I’m not grieving.”

Then, I walked out of the office, holding my breath tightly so that my whole body tensed.

I’d felt grief before and what was happening deep in my gut for Archer now, was not that. Not only did I not deserve to grieve over Archer, but I was too numb to be too heartbroken. Besides, I barely knew him. I imagined what his parents must have been going through and what I felt was nothing compared.

To me, he was the handsome boy in the theatre club. He was the funny one, the kind one, the respectful one. The one who sometimes, only sometimes, managed a rare smile to pull at my lips when we snuck behind after the usual rehearsals.

He was just Archer Carlisle and that’s all I could say.

It may not have been grief but I harboured some sort of feelings. I chalked it up to resentment though. Not towards him – nobody could hate him. It was for that final look he’d given me. The one filled with the universe, but I couldn’t read it.

That one look made me want to discover it all. The sound of his wheezing and the way his pouty lips turned blue made me want to find out how he’d ended up like that and whose fault it really was. I wanted justice and closure and to see his shy smile one more time.

But, it wasn’t grief. It was curiosity. Besides, I wouldn’t act on it. I knew I had to stay out of that whole thing because already, I was suspicious.

The police had told me so last night. After they took Archer’s body out in a bag, they questioned me right there backstage. Only briefly, of course, but I knew they were wary of me due to my connection to the props.

Archer had drunk from the bottle of the pretend poison which had peanut oil around the top. Apparently, he was severely allergic to nuts and nobody had thought about his EpiPen that was tucked away backstage in the depths of his school bag. Well, why would they? He was performing after all. The leading man with only a few minutes left on stage and was struck down.

I stepped out of Mrs. Philomena’s office with a deep breath and as the air filled my lungs, my heart slowed. The school was buzzing with this distinct sort of energy that belonged only to Cosima Memphis. It was early, early enough that the sky still looked like a blank canvas of colours that intertwined beautifully, and the students were barely awake but dragging themselves to the song of the birds. It was this atmosphere, when everything was so quiet yet so deafeningly loud, that made Cosima Memphis a difficult place to leave.

I spotted Yves waiting for me on the cobbled path and we fell into step together. “You good?” He asked.

Today, he had a navy beanie atop his head, hiding the unruly mess his brown hair had become. My cousin had a girlish sort of face. Pretty and soft and features that reminded me of a feline. Large hazel eyes, a button nose and high cheekbones. He seemed almost fragile in the way his eyebrows downturned and it made him easily approachable.

I frowned at the group of people who lined outside of the school hall, too much confidence for so early.

“What’s this?” I asked Yves.

“Assembly,” he rolled his eyes. “Probably about Archer.”

It made me feel sick. I didn’t want to talk about Archer anymore than I already had. I didn’t want to see his pictures and think of the faraway look in his eyes. I was kind of sick of it all.

“I’m going back to my dorm to sleep,” I said.

Yves nodded. “Enjoy.”

I watched him jog to catch up with a group of his other friends before turning to make my way to the girl dorms. I weaved my way through students who threw me either sympathetic smiles or sharp glares. Some thought I was a grief-stricken widow while others saw me as a murderer and the divide was clear within the student body today. I’d taken the day off yesterday which didn’t help my case for either side, either too sad to carry on or too guilty to show my face, they had presumed.

I was neither, though. If anyone was heartbroken, it was Hazel. Good Hazel Lowell who’d broken up with her boyfriend only for him to die a few weeks later. Some might have seen her as a killer too. It really could have been anyone.

I didn’t want to think about it anymore, though. I walked gloomily past the rows of dorm doors, dragging my feet.

“There’s an assembly,” a voice called to me.

I carefully turned my head to see Isla Yamaguchi, clad in her signature brown corduroy jacket that looked far too big and far too old. She leant against her shut doorway with a sharp eyebrow raised.

“I’m not going,” I replied. At my answer, I saw her eyes widen and witnessed the excitement swirl dangerously.

Isla Yamaguchi was one of the people I actively ignored in school. It wasn’t because she was a horrible person – I barely knew her. It was because Isla was the school journalist and took the job very seriously. She had a knack for uncovering stories that were none of her business and pissing off everybody she spoke to.

She used to be quiet. Isla was once the type of kid who sulked in the back of the classroom and never dared to open her mouth. She wasn’t much of a journalist back then, writing pieces about the culture of her half Filipino, half Japanese background, but nobody cared much for it which was a shame. They buried her stories at the back of the school newspaper, under mountains of nonsensical gossip and one day, she’d had enough.

She came back to Cosima Memphis after the summer holidays with dark red hair, sharp eyeliner and a passion for journalism that refused to be ignored. Her new stories were in-depth and philosophical, exploiting people with dark secrets but always writing eloquently.

“Why not? The assembly is for Archer, you know.” Isla stood straight and smiled sweetly.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and instead made sure to think over my words not to trip up and have them plastered over the school newspaper tomorrow.

“Why aren’t you at the assembly, then?”

Her eyes, coated in eyeliner that gave her face a depth I otherwise wouldn’t have noticed, flashed with emotion.

“Isla, come on.” She was interrupted by Hazel Lowell who looked like a fresh breeze on a summer’s day with her shiny blonde hair and perfectly rosy cheeks.

I never knew they were friends. It was an odd pairing.

“Hello, Eleanor,” Hazel waved shyly.

I nodded my head with my lips pulled into a straight line.

“Hazel lost her blazer, she’s borrowing one of mine for the assembly. They won’t let her inside without a proper uniform,” Isla explained and Hazel’s cheeks blossomed with scarlet.

“I’m not sure why I’m so all over the place this term,” the blonde shrugged, kicking the carpet beneath her feet. “If you see it, you’ll let me know? It’s just a regular girl’s blazer but the buttons are sewn in with golden thread.”

Hazel’s voice was soft but shaky, as she looked and sounded on the edge of tears. It wasn’t just today, though. Every time I had spoken to the girl, she seemed close to sobbing and every word was vulnerable and quivering.

The pair continued walking closer and closer to me. Hazel brought with her a breeze of lavender that sparked nostalgia and calmness in my mind, I stopped myself from reaching out.

“Are you walking with us?” She asked, wringing her fingers anxiously.

I knew she was just being nice and wanted more than to see me walk away. Even before I got involved with Archer, we weren’t friends. But at least then we were civil. When he was alive, she’d send me tight-lipped smiles and her friends ignored me. Now, I sensed from her tense body language that she was uncomfortable with even the sight of me.

“I have a headache so I’ll miss out on this one. See you later, though.” Then, I turned down the corridor and fled from their heavy gazes that burned holes into my back.