ᴀᴅ ᴍᴇʟɪᴏʀᴀ ~ ᴅᴘꜱ (ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴍᴇᴇᴋꜱ)

33 - hello?

I don't stop to catch my breath until I see it.

The phone booth, tucked away into a nook of space on the corner of the level, just as before. Completely ignore by the rest of campus, just as before. There's one gleaming difference, though:

A new layer of paint coats the walls of the booth.

A gasp hitches in my throat. I race over, ignoring the compounding tears obscuring my vision as I run my hands across the paint job.

They're gone; all the notes, the numbers, the drawings, the pairs... All erased at the mercy of a paint roller. The protruding edges of some of the carvings still remain, though totally illegible now.

I briefly search for my contribution, the uncaged I + M, but give up. I don't have time to mourn the loss of some metaphorical vandalism; I'm trying to reach the motivation for that vandalism, Steven.

Even without the number scrawled to my left, my fingers effortlessly dial the number for Founder's Hall. I hold the phone up to my ear, the telephone cord and my face twisting into more and more fear as each ring passes.

Then, finally, a soft click, followed by:

"Hello?"

I let out a sigh of relief. "Thank God. Hey, this is Ivy—"

"Ivy?"

I register the unfamiliarity of the voice coming from the other end. "...Yeah? Who is this?"

"Uh, my name is Dave. Are you calling for someone, or..." he trails off into the crackle of the phone.

"Yeah," I continue, internally scolding myself for pompously assuming that the dead poets were the only ones to use this phone. "Yeah, I am. Is Steven Meeks around?"

"Steven Meeks? I don't think I know a Steven Meeks."

I adjust the phone against my ear. "He lives in this building."

"Yeah, lot of people do," Dave says.

His shortness almost surprises me, then I remember: Right, I forgot that 90% of Welton's student body is just snobby white guys.

"He's got red-brown hair, glasses, he's a bit of a nerd... does any of that ring a bell?"

"Again," he repeats, "That could be a lot of people."

I scour my brain for any more descriptors. "He lives on the same hall as Neil Perry!" And then, as I rephrase, "Or, as Neil... did..."

A brief moment of silence, then: "You knew Neil?"

I click my tongue, immediately regretting my words. "Yes, but I'd rather not—"

"I'm sorry for your loss. I can't believe Mr. Keating was the one who coerced him. I never had his class, but he seemed like a nice man."

"What?" I say, before I remember: the testimony. "Dave, no— you've got it wrong, it wasn't Mr. Keating's fault." I lower my tone. "Is.. is that really what you think happened?"

"I mean, it's what administration has been pushing."

I restrain myself from launching into a rant. I have a goal here, and a very limited amount of time to reach it. "Dave, I'm just going to tell you that's false and move on. I really need to speak to Steven."

"I wish I could help, but I don't know what hall Neil lived on."

I begin to plea for Dave to ask someone, anyone, for information, but the sound of footsteps down the hall stops me prematurely. I glance over my shoulder, but I can't see who it is.

Resigned, I give up. "I'm sorry— thanks anyway, Dave. I know it's a long shot, but if you somehow have some revelation and find him, can you just... tell him Ivy needs to talk?"

"Well, judging by the urgency in your voice, I certainly hope you get to tell him first. I promise I will, though."

"Thank you, again," I say, then hang up the phone.

-

It's Friday, I finally deduce, and Meeks leaves for winter break tomorrow. I don't have the time or resources to make the trek over to Welton by foot. Even if I tried, I'd freeze halfway over, and going back to my dorm for a coat or better shoes is, at best, a waste of time and, at worst, a death sentence. I have to fix everything up with Amy, and Bee, and I have no idea where or when either of those things can happen. To top it all off, I have reason to believe I'm being actively pursued as a grief-stricken and deranged menace by administration and/or my parents.

If I could go back in time and tell all of this to September Ivy, I think she'd pass out.

I'd left the phone booth as stealthily as possible after hanging up, creeping away with no clear destination in mind. My head and feet wandered until I found myself in front of the library. Now I sit, curled up on the same bench I'd used on the last normal day of my life, frustrated and terribly alone. The cold from outside seeps through the cracks in the walks, but I barely notice.

Solution after solution cycle through my mind, all getting axed through after moments of consideration. A bike? A guardian angel? Teleportation, maybe?

As if divinely sent from above, when I finally open my eyes and sit up, I happen to see a book on display just within the library: 'Letters from Home, A Collection of Lost and Salvaged Messages from the Battlefield.'

An idea pops into my mind.

A letter.

Holy shit, a letter.

I bounce off of the bench so fast that I'm surprised my head doesn't hit the ceiling. I scan around desperately for a sheet of paper and something to write with. I try the library door, but it's locked.

Waivered, but not defeated, I wander down the hall in search of an unlocked classroom or closet (is it trespassing? Maybe, but I'm not technically a student anymore, so what are they gonna do?). I stumble upon an open door leading into a Speech and Debate classroom a few yards away.

Perfect.

Except, not quite, because I can only find a knobby pencil and a single piece of paper in the whole room.

...It'll have to do.

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bruh moment