To whom it may concern,
Attached you will find my essay on the differences between stage and screen acting. Unfortunately, the suggested printers were occupied, so I hope you’ll accept this digital copy. I would not want my first impression to be that of someone who can’t handle adult responsibility.
Thank you,
T
I squint at my phone, wondering why the hell she signed it that way, when it hits me.
T as inTemptress.
That cheeky little brat.
FROM:[email protected]
SUBJECT:RE: Late assignment
Noelle,
Apologies, but it seems I was not clear enough in class the other day. Late assignments will not be accepted.
This is a policy I apply to every student. Better luck next time.
Best,
Professor Dupont
I enter the apartment while I await a reply, opening upThe Delphic Pagesapp.
Several posts from Pythia sit at the very top—mostly welcoming the new semester and recapping events from the fall, though leaving out all the violence and bloodshed despite leaking a lot of information about each incident in the first place.
But only one post catches my eye: a snapshot of a beautiful girl as she stalks across campus, headed for the observatory with a backpack slung over one shoulder. Her long hair whips behind her in waves, dozens of shadows watching in the background.
If you don’t look closely, they resemble a plethora of trees, but the observatory doesn’t border the forest. Squinting, the shadows begin to take on human forms: people passing along between classes, stopping to chat with friends, all existing in the orbit of Elle Anderson without paying her any mind.
Exceptoneshadow.
It stands on the back steps of the Lyceum’s annex, a briefcase in hand, staring directly at her. Stuck in place, watching, as if his feet are glued to the very spot.
Beneath the photo, just one single line of text:Spotted—trouble on campus?
Nausea churns in my stomach. Are they talking about her just being here, or?—
“You’re home late.”
Beckett’s voice slices through my thoughts and causes me to jump, dropping my phone. He scratches beneath his chin, looking up from where he’s lounging on the sofa, readingPersuasionin black sweats.
I keep forgetting he’s staying here.
Bending down, I scoop up my phone and slide it into my jacket pocket, setting my briefcase and keys on the small hutch in the foyer. “Any chance you actually managed to make it to a class today, or are you just readingPersuasionfor leisure?”
“Jane Austen is a literary genius. Of course I’m reading her for leisure.” Beckett glances at me from the corner of his eye. “Why, are you tracking me or something?”
“What?” I kick off my shoes, scrubbing a hand over my face. “No. I’m just wondering where you’re at in the journey of recovery.”
“You make me sound like an addict.”
