Chapter Text
You know, something has to be said about the feeling of sitting on your bed with the haze of weed in the air and a walking wallet resting his head in your lap.
Actually, a fucking lot can be said about this moment.
If I was a different kind of person, I might have deemed this scene photo-worthy.
“C'mon, Vic,” Nathan says languidly with a doped-up grin on his face. “You can't space out after one hit. It's not allowed.”
“I'm a photographer at an art school,” I retaliate. “Pretty sure that gives me a free pass for pretentious space-outs.”
“Oh?” A shit-eating grin spreads across his lips. “Should I start calling you Max Caulfield, too?”
“Shut the fuck up, Prescott.”
Nathan laughs at that, but I'm certain that if he wasn't stoned to hell, the reaction would be different entirely. Way to watch your step, Victoria. The game's changed since last year.
Of course, things could equally go to shit if he ever finds out I only got close to him for his family name. Even the runt of the litter has connections, right? I'd thought, in the beginning. Now, I wish I could say that's still the case a year on.
Even if Mom and Dad are full of shit, they're right on one thing: the art world is a pit of vipers. The only way to survive and thrive is to play to win and use every advantage you can get. Even if said advantage is the jumped-up son of the richest family in town with a probable psychological problem.
Nobody ever said gambling was safe.
I reach over to the bowl and take a few tokes of the joint to appease Nathan. He seems to relax as the smoke blows out my mouth.
It's enough for a good buzz. Not quite enough to get high. It would probably be an incredibly stupid idea to lose myself when alone with Nathan Prescott. Especially since he came back to Blackwell Academy this September lined with so many drugs that there's no way they can be all on prescription.
Over the summer since our first year, something's changed within Nathan on a fundamental level. I don't know what, though, and it's equally frustrating as it is dangerous.
“That's the spirit,” Nathan says, helping himself to a portion of the weed that can't possibly be healthy. “It's no good when you're sober. What's the fucking point of that?” Quite a lot, actually.
I keep quiet.
We remain still for a few moments; enough for me to look over to my window and see the dust suspended in the light filtering through the curtains. It's all such pretentious bullshit; the kind of hipster crap that half these Blackwell wannabes get hooked on.
It's not until there's a banging against the wall that the scene is disturbed.
“Oh shit,” I say, crushing the joint in the bowl. Nathan is still fumbling around with his by the time I've moved across the room, applied some more perfume, placed a piece of mint gum in my mouth, and opened the window.
“We gotta get this out of sight.” Even as a Prescott, there's no way that being in the girls' dorm with a bowl of weed won't go without some kind of repercussion, minor as it is. I've never seen a puppet as sad as Principal Wells, but that doesn't mean he has absolutely no power.
“Just put it under the bed,” I say. Nathan scrambles to shove the bowl under the bed as I fix myself up in the mirror. Shit. There's no way he didn't spill that all over.
If I have to wash my bedsheets again, I swear to God not even Nathan's money and reputation will help him.
“Fuck,” Nathan utters, standing to his feet again. For a guy that supposedly owns the school, he sure has become jumpy and incompetent at the first sign of authority. The reckless bravado I had always associated with him is just… gone.
There are lines on his face, too, and I can't shake the feeling that something happened in that three-month period we were apart.
“Just—go stand by my closet. I'll go check it out,” I say. “And don't touch anything, all right? You're paying for the dry-cleaning if you do.”
“Whatever. I'll just buy you a new wardrobe,” Nathan says as he crosses the room with jittery movements. Jesus.
I open my door and take a step out into the hallway. “Okay, who thought it would be a good idea to—what the fuck are you doing in this dorm?”
It's some punk girl – tattoos, beanie, blue hair. She's standing by my slate, staple gun in one hand and a stack of paper in the other. I glance at the wall and want to throw up.
Yet another missing poster for Rachel Amber.
“Door wasn't locked,” she replies evenly. I can't help but stare at her, open-mouthed. “Besides, it's not like I'm some pervert trying to get hella off on creeping on your dorm rooms. I'm literally just putting some posters up.”
“Yeah, we get it,” I say. “The bitch is missing. Who gives a shit? Now stop polluting the campus with this crap. Nobody even cares.”
The girl's face darkens. It's at this point that I recall who she is – that loud bitch who got expelled after flying off the rails. She was gone the year before I even started at Blackwell, but she hung around Rachel Amber like her groupie enough that her face isn't totally unfamiliar.
“Fucking say that again,” she says. Her entire expression darkens and she takes a step towards me. Stand your ground. She's not worth your time.
“Nobody at this school gives a fuck about Rachel Amber,” I tell her. “So take your pathetic little posters and get lost. I could call security, you know.”
“David Madsen? Like that douchebag frightens me.” She flips her middle finger at me – no wonder she got expelled – and proceeds to staple another poster to the wall.
“Vic? What's going on?” Nathan calls out, evidently loud enough for our intruder to hear.
“Is that Nathan Prescott in there with you?” she asks. A bewildered look falls on her face. “You must be hella fucking stupid to get close to him. And I'm so not in the mood to deal with that prick. I'm out.”
She just drops the posters all over the floor and leaves. I grab one off the wall and tear it in two. Fuck you, Rachel Amber.
“What was that?” Nathan says.
I retreat back into my room and look at him. “Rachel Amber's groupie,” I tell him. “She just decided to throw a pile of missing posters all over the dorm.”
“Chloe Price. No fucking way,” Nathan says in a disjointed way. Maybe getting high like this wasn't the best idea. “She was expelled.”
“Well, evidently that doesn't stop her from coming back to paint the walls with Rachel Amber's face,” I say. Irritation ticks away inside me.
“Let's just… let's stop talking about Rachel,” Nathan almost whispers, twitching. Maybe he should have let up on the weed before getting worked up like this. “She's not here either.”
I blow a bubble that deflates rather than bursts. “We still need to get rid of them,” I say. “Before someone like Kate Marsh decides to put them up.”
“Yeah… sure.” Nathan straightens his jacket with another series of twitches. “Nobody wants to see any more of Rachel Amber, right? Right?”
We end up burning the posters in the parking lot that afternoon. Nathan doesn't say much.
-
[10/04 – 14:11]
TAYLOR: hey girl!!
TAYLOR: i'm on the quad and i got some new photos that might be good 4 the contest
TAYLOR: wanna meet up before photo lab????
VICTORIA: Sure!
VICTORIA: Just doing something with Nathan. I'll be there in ten.
TAYLOR: k <3
-
Nathan stays by the poster pile as I leave him. He doesn't even offer a 'bye', like he's stopped noticing me.
He just stares at the ashes, and keeps staring.
I snap a picture of him before I go. He doesn't react.
-
Taylor sits on the edge of the fountain in the middle of the main quad, one hand running through her blonde hair and the other holding her portfolio in place. When she notices me her face lights up.
“Vic! You made it!”
“Hey,” I say, sitting next to her. In the afternoon light, the fountain's rim is warm. “I heard my girl has some photos to show the world?”
Taylor nods. “I'm, like, really proud of these ones,” she says, gesturing to her portfolio. The images glisten in the sunlight. “Wait, let's check 'em out someplace shadier.”
We move to sit beneath the tree across from the fountain, shaded by the yellowing foliage and the looming shadow of one of the new Mark Jefferson exhibition panels they installed over the summer. The grass is still soft, even though we're pushing into October.
Taylor begins to flip through her portfolio until she reaches the last page. “Here,” she says, moving the pink ring binder into my lap. “I think I want to submit one for the Everyday Heroes contest, but I want to hear what you think first.”
I take hold of the binder as Taylor leans back against the tree, one shoulder brushing against my own. There's a series of images on the page: a single crutch and a hand clasping onto it before a blurred-out background, two differently-sized hands holding each other over the spine of a medical skeleton, and a sharp-featured woman with thick dark hair smiling in a wheelchair.
“These are of your mom,” I say before thinking. Then, I take a closer look at the photos. “Shit, T, these are really good.”
“Really?” Taylor says, her voice raising. A couple of rays of light shine down onto her face through the leaves, but it pales in comparison to the glow coming from within.
It's been so easy to think of Taylor as just another Vortex girl, a subordinate to make me look good, but that's not quite right. There's a true friendship between us, strong and sturdy and unbreakable. I try not to think of how it's everything that Nathan and I aren't.
“Yeah,” I say to Taylor, pulling myself back to the present moment. “I mean, the framing of the crutch shot's a little weak, but the colour composition's really good. I really like the one of your mom in her wheelchair, too. You really got that inspirational mood down.”
“I took it the day after her surgery,” Taylor says. Her voice hitches. “She nearly didn't make it; she was so strong on that day, Vic, like you wouldn't believe.”
“I can tell,” I say. There's a light, warm breeze in the air. I let out a contented breath. Here, I'm in my element. You're a better critic than a photographer, Victoria, I hear my mother say. I shake the thought away. I can be good at both. I am good at both.
“But my favourite,” I say, guiding her hand to the middle of the page, “is this one.” Taylor looks at the image of the two hands with a quirked eyebrow.
“Seriously?” she says. “I mean, I like it, but I didn't think it was that good.”
“I admit, it is a little rough around the edges,” I say. “But if you spend some time touching it up a little, this shot could have a lot of potential.” I lean back, just enjoying Taylor's presence. “I'd submit this one.”
“Wow, that's…” Taylor says. “Thanks, Vic. You're a way better critic than Mr Jefferson, totally.”
Playfully, I nudge her shoulder. “Come on, Taylor, that's not true,” I say. “Mark Jefferson's a professional. I'm just a student who grew up around a gallery.”
“Still, I really appreciate what you have to say,” Taylor says. She smiles and wraps one arm around me in a brief hug. “Seriously, thanks. I'll work on it during Photo Lab this afternoon.”
A comfortable silence descends between us. I sit back and look out across campus and soak in the atmosphere. It's a pleasant afternoon, a little unseasonably warm, but still nice. The quad's alive, but not bustling; a few of the art-types congregate around the benches, fawning over Evan's latest pretentious portfolio; there are a couple washed-out skater types tearing up the neatly-maintained grass with their boards and blasting some tinny grunge track; a drone zips through the air, piloted by one of the science nerds; and across the road, there's the faint shouting of the cheerleader squad from the football field.
Blackwell is an empire, and I am its queen.
The moment is interrupted when a girl, some freshman Vortex lackey, approaches me and Taylor with a stack of flyers. For a moment I think of the girl—Chloe Price—outside my dorm, but put it out of mind.
“Uh, yeah?” Taylor says, folding her binder shut.
“Sorry to bother you,” she says, “but there's a Vortex Party tonight at the Blackwell gym. Everyone's gonna be there. Free food and drinks, too. Come along!”
I have the good grace to stifle a laugh as she hands each of us a poster – a blue chalk outline of a dead body with the ubiquitous Vortex spiral consuming it from the inside out – but Taylor can't keep quiet.
“Oh my God,” she says, a cruel edge to her expression. “Do you even, like, know who we are?”
The girl takes a step back, blinking owlishly. “Um—um…”
I add my voice to the growing assault. “You're a Vortex VIP, right?” She nods. I push a laugh out from behind my lips. “Well, I'm pretty sure you can't be if you don't even recognise the people in charge when you see them.”
“Wait, you're…?” she says, and then blanches with realisation. The sudden expression shift, the dawning of horror, sends a dark thrill through my system. “You're Victoria Chase… oh my God, I'm seriously so sorry, I didn't think—”
“Save it,” I say, waving my hand. “Just go put the rest of the posters up and I won't take you off the list.”
“S-sure thing, Victoria!” she squeaks. “I am so, so sorry about that!”
She turns, and then she's gone. I don't even know her name.
-
“I can't believe these Vortex noobs don't know who we are,” Taylor is saying as she retrieves her camera and textbook from her locker. “Like, hello, seriously, we run the show here.”
Nathan runs the show, and I pretend like I do. I don't say that.
“Whatever,” I say with a sigh and an eye roll. “We'll just put her in her place at tonight's party.”
“I like the way you think,” Taylor says. “It's been a while since the last good Vortex-style humiliation.” She gives laugh. “Just a shame we can't get Max Selfie to show up.”
“Yeah,” I say. I don't really want to think about Max Caulfield right now. “Anyway, let's get to class. We have ten minutes, so we can get the best seats since we're early.”
“Sure thing,” Taylor says. “Plus, we can talk party plans. Let's go.”
I walk beside Taylor down the hallway towards the photography lab. The book in my hands reads CAPTURING THE IMAGE – MARK JEFFERSON. I look at that instead of the growing number of Rachel Amber posters on the walls.
-
[10/04 – 14:28]
NATHAN: sorry abt earlier
NATHAN: didnt mean 2 like ignore u
VICTORIA: No, it's cool.
VICTORIA: Weird fucking afternoon, that's all.
NATHAN: yeah
NATHAN: u still going 2 th party?
VICTORIA: I wouldn't miss it for the world.
VICTORIA: I have a feeling tonight's gonna be a good one.
NATHAN: yea mayb
VICTORIA: Anyway, I have class now. Talk later?
NATHAN: cool
NATHAN: c ya
-
Taylor and I aren't the first people to get to class. At the far end of the room, sitting alone at the desk at the back of the class, fiddling with a practically prehistoric Polaroid camera, is Maxine Caulfield.
“Max Selfie,” Taylor announces, deftly moving to her own seat. She doesn't look away from Max. “Hey, what's up?”
“N-nothing,” Max stammers out, unable to make eye contact. “Just… just thinking.”
“Really?” I chime in. “That's a first. Thought your whole thing was just point-and-shoot, and not actually using your brain.”
I take my seat. The plastic feels hard beneath my skirt. Max's eyes are on me, but she says nothing.
There's a strange bubbling beneath my skin, a kind of anger I've only felt once before. My thoughts scream who does she think she is, sitting there and doing nothing? Why does she have talent? What makes her so fucking special? on a loop.
It reminds me of another spiral long-unravelled in my mind. I don't think about that.
Instead, on impulse, I pick up my phone and switch on the front camera. I'm front and centre in the frame, Taylor a nebulous presence in the mid-ground, and Max the doe-eyed background focus. A couple of taps and a filter makes the rays shining through the window stand out like a hipster's wet dream.
For good measure, I add the poop emoji on top of Max's head. It makes me feel better.
“Say 'selfie'!” I say, and see on my own screen the way a viciousness crosses my expression.
Max, startled, looks up right into the camera, and the moment is captured.
“Thank you so much, Max,” I croon falsely. “You're such a good model.”
I open up Facebook and Instagram simultaneously, and hit 'upload' twice in quick succession.
Just chilling before class with Max Caulfield, Blackwell's very own #selfiehoe, the caption reads. I consider tagging Max personally, but instead I just link it to the Vortex Club page and call it a day.
“Victoria,” Max says once I'm done. There's a watery edge to her eyes, like she's an over-saturated photo about to bleed out. “Why are you so mean to me?”
My mouth goes dry, and I look to Taylor to ignore Max's gaze. I find I don't have an answer for her.
-
Mark Jefferson files in a minute or so after the last of the students arrive. Hayden gives me and Taylor a quick grin before sitting at the front of the class. Stella sits across from him, shielded by a fortress of textbooks and sketchpads. Alyssa and Daniel take up the remaining front seats.
Kate Marsh quietly makes her way to the window seat. She gives Max a brief, warm look, but that's it. Alyssa leans back in her seat and mouths a 'hey' to Kate.
Taylor sits beside me, texting behind the pages of her textbook.
Max Caulfield sits at the back of the room, and she is on her own. Funny how a year ago that exact seat had felt like the centre of the universe, and now it's just a desolate spot, the dying gasp of a black hole.
I suppose that's apropos, in its own way.
“I know it's Friday,” Mr Jefferson begins, “and I know several of you have a busy night-stroke-weekend ahead of you, so I'll try to keep the lecturing to a minimum.”
That said, he still lectures for forty minutes on symbolism, basically just quoting from his own textbook yet still expecting us to take notes. He's a great man, an even greater photographer, but I hate admitting that maybe his teaching isn't up to scratch.
Then again, he's only been at Blackwell a couple of years. I'm sure he's still just finding his feet.
The next topic he segues into is, unsurprisingly, the contest. “Now, I'm sure you've all been dying for more information on the Everyday Heroes contest,” he says. Everyone perks up at that, even the half-high, half-asleep Hayden. “Well, I can now tell you that you can start submitting your entries from Monday up until the deadline of midnight on Wednesday. I won't repeat the small print, but be sure to read the submission guidelines before turning in a photo. The winner will be announced Thursday night at the upcoming End of the World Vortex Club party, so be sure to be there for the results. I wish you all the best of luck.”
Mr Jefferson finishes the lecture by setting us the reading for Monday's class—portraiture—then leaves us to work on our portfolios as we see fit.
Taylor brings out her laptop and starts working on her portfolio shots next to me. I grab my notebook and start taking notes on the portraiture chapter in the textbook.
“Arbus?” I muse aloud. “Strange way to introduce portraiture. Robert Frank's stuff is way better.”
Taylor looks over at my note-taking and smiles. “God, you are such an honours student sometimes, Vic.”
I shoot back, “You won't be saying that when I send you a copy of my notes.”
“Touché, touché,” Taylor says. She looks over to the other side of the classroom, where Mr Jefferson is helping to correct Alyssa's research report. “Anyway, let's talk party.”
“I thought you wanted to work on your photo?”
“Now that I know I have nearly a week to turn it in? I can chill out a little,” Taylor says. “So, I heard through the grapevine that Nathan's out getting party favours as we speak.”
I turn the page and start copying down a few contemporary criticisms of Arbus's Identical Twins. “Nathan hasn't said anything to me about tonight,” I say. “Guess it's a surprise.”
“He's said shit about the End of the World, though,” Taylor points out.
“Well, tonight's only a regular Friday night gathering,” I say. “The End of the World's meant to be, like, special. The party to end all parties.”
“Party like it's our last night alive,” Taylor murmurs. “Rachel liked to say that.”
I think of the posters spreading across Blackwell's walls like a fungus. “Rachel liked a lot of things,” I say. I look behind me to Mr Jefferson as he harshly critiques Daniel's portfolio. A lot of things.
Taylor seems to sense the shift in mood. “So,” she says, dragging the sound out. I glance over as she methodically airbrushes the flaws out of her shot. “It's been such a slow fucking week. I can't wait to get absolutely trashed.”
“Really?” I say. “Even willing to do lines behind the bar with Nathan?” The jibe comes easily, but something constricts in my chest as I think of Nathan staring at Rachel Amber's embers, existing somewhere far beyond his body.
“Wine and vodka will be enough for me, Vic,” Taylor says. “Might try to bum a gram or two off Hayden, if he's willing—”
“Taylor, Victoria. How's it going?”
We're interrupted by a presence at the end of the table – Mr Jefferson, giving us a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. I pretend it does, anyway, and feel the artificial rush.
“We were just taking notes on portraiture, Mr Jefferson,” I say smoothly. “And helping Taylor work on her Everyday Heroes entry.”
“And talking about tonight's Vortex Club party,” says Mr Jefferson, and I swallow back ice as he sees through the façade. “Not that I mind, of course. How's your own entry coming along, Victoria?”
I think of my entry, a shot that's been edited half to death and that nobody's seen except for Nathan. “Pretty well,” I say. “No spoilers, but it's a pretty good one.”
Mr Jefferson chuckles. “I can't wait,” he says, and it feels like he is my captive audience. I soak in the attention, until he glances to the back of the room.
I follow his gaze to see Max Caulfield sitting there, mindlessly reading through her notebook but not actually doing much of anything. How the fuck does she get better grades than me?
“If you'll excuse me,” Mr Jefferson says, and the moment is lost. “I think I need to go help someone get their head out of the clouds.” He turns and leaves, his face and warmth replaced by the back of a black blazer.
“Earth to Max,” I hear him say, hear how genuine it sounds, and stop hearing.
“God, he's so far up Max's asshole it's not funny,” I say to Taylor. There's something molten inside me.
“Like, I don't get why,” Taylor says. “You hear that apparently she only got her scholarship on an IEP? Like, the rest of us busted our asses off to get in, and Max just, like, gets a full-ride handed to her because she has ADHD or some shit.”
“She's only here because if they had to replace Rachel Amber, they might as well replace her with someone who brings in extra funding,” I say, forcing myself to believe it with every word. “There's no way she'll make it to graduation.”
Across from us, Mark Jefferson says, “Very good work, Max,” and I have to pretend it means nothing.
-
The rest of class rushes by in a blur until the bell finally rings and Mr Jefferson dismisses us.
“Be sure to work on your Everyday Heroes entries, but please do not forget about the reading for next week,” he says, but nobody really seems to pay him any heed.
“I gotta go, Vic,” Taylor says, slipping her backpack over her shoulder. “I promised to Skype my dad before the party tonight. See you later?”
“Later, T,” I say. We kiss one another's cheeks, and then she's scuttling out of class like the other students.
And then, like that, I'm alone in the room. Even Mr Jefferson is gone. I'm not sure why I hang back for a moment, but I do.
We're only four weeks into the semester, and most of the content so far has just been a recap of last year, but the whole Blackwell landscape feels so alien. Like a new era, even though it's still the same places and faces. The post-Rachel world, a more cynical part of me thinks.
I look back over to her desk, because it will always be her desk, no matter how many waif hipsters sit there.
On top of the desk, sitting forgotten, is an old Polaroid camera. The original model was white, but this one has been stained through age (and probably sitting in a thrift store for twenty years) to make it an off-shade of yellow. One of the hinges is a little loose and the lens is so scratched up it's a miracle any clear shots come out at all.
Max's camera. She left it behind, like the ditzy, spacey wallflower she is.
Curiously, I pick it up and look at the classroom through the viewfinder. It's oddly clunky in my hands. So this is the world as Max Caulfield sees it. It's been forever since I last touched an instant camera, and I find it unsettling to be without so much as an innate zoom function. It's all just analogue and point-and-shoot, but somehow Max makes it into art.
There's graffiti etched into one of the desks. It reads RACHEL AMBER 4 EVER. Without thinking, I lean over, and from the vantage point of these words, snap a shot of the empty classroom.
It takes forever for the picture to come out and it feels like an eternity before the shot comes into focus.
I hold my breath. It's a good shot. Great, even. There's an almost-aura to the piece, as if the memories of Blackwell's past have attached themselves to the frame like an imperceptible miasma.
Is Rachel Amber's memory there, too? Can you be a ghost when you're not even dead?
God, listen to yourself, Vic. You're getting, like, hipster cooties from touching that camera.
I carefully set the instant camera back on the desk and look at it. It's so fragile. One knock and it would be shattered into pieces, ruined beyond repair.
There's a moment where I envision my hand reaching out with cat-like laziness, and sending Max Caulfield's hopes and dreams to the gutter with one lazy swipe. I could do it so easily, too, put an end to Max's threat before it begins.
Instead, I open up my phone, look up Max's Facebook profile, and hit the 'message' tab. With my other hand, I carefully slip the Polaroid shot deep into my bag, safe and hidden.
-
[10/04 – 16:02]
VICTORIA: Hipster. Max Selfie.
VICTORIA: You left your instant camera behind in lab. I've got it.
VICTORIA: Don't ignore this message.
MAX: Victoria, if you've fucked with it, I swear…
VICTORIA: Chill out. It's fine. I'm not that heartless.
VICTORIA: I'm messaging you because I want to return it.
VICTORIA: Where r u?
MAX: On the quad.
VICTORIA: Cool. Be there in five.
MAX: Thanks Victoria. Guess you aren't as Regina George as you look.
-
Max stands by the noticeboard on the quad, framed by half a dozen posters adorned with Rachel Amber's desaturated face. Her expression is stained with suspicion as I step out of the main building and make my way down the stone steps.
As I walk up to her, I hold out my hands and show her the camera. “See? I didn't touch your thrifted pile of junk,” I say, because I have to keep up pretences.
“Thanks, Victoria,” Max says, taking the camera. “I didn't need the insult, though.”
“You're lucky I even noticed,” I say, folding my arms. “Almost mistook it for another pile of dust in that classroom.”
Still, Max investigates the camera thoroughly, her gaze bouncing between me and her old Polaroid. I stay, even though there's no reason for me to.
“You really didn't mess with it,” she says. “Even though I thought you would…”
I take a step towards her.
This close, I see how small Max is. Not only do I have a few inches on her, height-wise, but she also carries herself like she's actively trying to shrink, even more timid than a deer in the headlights. There's absolutely nothing special about her; she's just another shy hipster who takes not-mediocre shots, who'll never have the confidence or the drive to get anywhere in life.
Max is looking at me, expecting a response.
I oblige. “I might not like you personally, but as an artist, I don't play dirty.”
“Well, I can respect that,” Max says, and she's barely avoiding stammering on her words. Her eyes flit around, looking for an out to this conversation. Nothing like the girl whose seat she stole, I observe. “Good… good luck on the Everyday Heroes contest, Victoria.”
“You too,” I say, meaning it more than I want to.
“Yeah…” Something in Max's expression shifts, as if I've struck a nerve. “Anyway, I have to get going. I'm meant to meet Kate for tea, so, uh, I'll see you in class, Victoria.”
“To Monday,” I say, but between breaths, Max has scurried out of here.
She moves like prey, I realise. The thought sits ugly in my head, almost as ugly as the fact that throughout the whole conversation, I only really had eyes for Rachel's posters.
-
[10/04 – 16:44]
COURTNEY: HEY VICTORIA I JUST GOT OUT OF MATH TUTORING
COURTNEY: I'M HEADING BACK TO MY DORM. WANNA GET READY TOGETHER?
VICTORIA: Sure.
VICTORIA: I'll grab some outfits from my closet and I'll be right there.
-
Courtney's room is the same size as mine, but it somehow feels smaller. Her walls are lined with posters from some K-pop magazine she likes to collect, and thick blackout curtains the same shade as her hair hang from the window to block out the street light that stands just outside.
Everything is thick and plush and comfortable, none of the sterile minimalism you'd associate with money. But that's Courtney; she's always been nebulous about herself, her life, and her wealth. In fact, even now, after a year of friendship, all I really know about Courtney is that she's from Portland, has a knack for taking headshots, and lives and breathes for the Vortex Club.
“Victoria, hi,” she says as I slip in through the unlocked door. Soft shadows from her lava lamp dance up the wall, over a blown-up flyer for last year's Vortex Block Party she's hung up. The room smells of lavender incense. “How are you, girl?”
“Class went fine,” I say, sitting on her bed and draping a perfectly-pressed cashmere sweater over one of her plush pillows. “We can start submitting for the Everyday Heroes contest from Monday.”
Courtney has her back to me, rooting through her closet. “Neat,” she says. “Kinda close to the deadline, but I suppose it deters slackers, like Max Selfie.”
“God,” I say. Courtney turns back to me, holding two tops. In her left hand, an off-the-shoulder number, and in her right, a striped V-neck straight from the Parisian high-street. I point to the right. Courtney smiles and sets the top on her desk. “Don't even talk to me about her; she left her camera behind in class like a dumbass, and I had to return it to her.”
“Mr Jefferson make you do it?” Courtney asks, and I nod, an innocent enough lie.
“God, she's so fucking hipster,” I say, nodding as Courtney shows me a pair of low-cut jeans and I pick out which bracelets I'm going to wear. “It's almost enough to make you miss Rachel Amber.”
“Yeah,” Courtney says, and like everyone else, she doesn't have much of a response. It makes me want to scream. Now that Rachel's missing, suddenly we can't talk about her? “Heavy or light on the eyes?”
“There's a smoke machine, and both Hayden and Nathan are bringing weed,” I say. “Light, unless you wanna end up looking like a raccoon.”
Courtney laughs, high and clear and just a little forced. “Anyway, when did Taylor say she could get here?”
“A little later,” I say. Courtney's onto her shoes now; she cycles through a few until I decide on a pair of dark flats for her. “It's Friday, so she's Skyping her parents.”
“Oh yeah, right,” Courtney says, but she's a little disinterested, rifling through her jewellery. “Her mom's been improving, right?”
I nod. “They're gonna try and get her to walk in physio next week or something, I think,” I say. “It's looking good.”
“I'm so glad it's not my mom,” Courtney says. She walks over to her desk, flips open her laptop, and starts up her music library. “Thanks for the help with the outfit, girlfriend.”
I find myself tapping along to the beat; it's the pre-approved playlist for tonight's party, obviously.
“Let's make the most of the night like we're gonna die young,” Courtney sings along as she starts undressing.
Beside her, I get ready and force myself not to think of the person who dances in the corner of my mind like a phantom.
-
[10/04 – 19:35]
TAYLOR: hey vic seriously sorry i'm not ready yet!!
TAYLOR: both mom and dad were available tonight which like never happens
TAYLOR: i'm all dressed up already so don't worry about that
VICTORIA: Taylor, you don't have to apologise. We get it.
VICTORIA: Courtney and I are leaving the dorms now. Meet u outside.
TAYLOR: on it! :D
-
I walk across the Blackwell campus in the dying light of the evening with Taylor and Courtney flanking me on either side. A certain power exudes from us as we walk, matched perhaps only by Nathan.
The pounding beat of the party can be heard all the way from the dorms, and only grows louder as we draw closer. Like a siren song. A couple of already-drunk jocks sit on the grass of the quad under a sepia glow, and holler, “Woo! It's Queen Bee Victoria C! Hey, let us in the VIP section tonight, yeah?”
It makes me feel invincible, seeing the peons of Blackwell defer to me. Even Taylor and Courtney, close as they are, act as my second and third place, respectively.
We round the corner to the entrance of the gym. The night is warm and a little muggy, as if Arcadia Bay itself is already a little loaded. Taylor brushes my hand and I let her clasp it, and blame it on the fever dream-like atmosphere tonight has.
There's a queue outside the gym, like there is at every party. Two bouncers flank the doors, Bigfoots thugs who took the job for the promise of free weed and maybe a dance with one of the cheerleaders. It's a smaller crowd than normal, but the fact that people are still queuing up shows that the Vortex still means something.
With one glance, the three of us jump the line and the bouncers open the door for us.
“Let's go, ladies,” says Taylor, half framed by escaping strobe lights, and half by the shadows of the night.
I nod, and we enter the Vortex.
-
[10/04 – 20:00]
NATHAN: runnin l8
NATHAN: supplies takin longer than i thought
NATHAN: sorry
VICTORIA: Cool.
VICTORIA: See u soon.
-
Within five minutes I can tell this party won't go down as one of the Vortex Club's legendary ragers. The only people that have really showed up are pre-existing Vortex VIPs and freshmen eager to impress, eager to make their existences have some kind of purpose.
I find myself on a couch by the VIP bar, nursing a glass of wine that's a little too sour for my taste. The lights that pulse and dance around the gymnasium alternate between varying shades of crimson and plum that remind me of a sea of blood, cresting and surging.
Courtney's made a beeline for Hayden and his bros, coveting his bong like a precious relic. Taylor's lost in the music, taking swigs straight from a bottle of vodka between beats.
The entirety of the party is visible from the vantage of my couch, like a kingdom unfolding before its queen. A hiss cuts through the music and the smoke machine leaks into the air, only a few shades purer than the pre-existing smoke.
It's hard to find anything truly pleasant about this party, but that's the case with most Vortex events. It's never been about having fun so much as it has been about looking better than the riff-raff and getting absolutely fucking wasted.
I feel the sofa cushion dip as he sits next to me, dressed in his omnipresent red jacket. He wraps an arm around my shoulder. I let him, and lean my body into his, wine making my head swim.
“So, you made it,” I say. “Some fucking party this is, though.”
“Still, wouldn't miss it for anything,” says Nathan. His face is slack and his pupils are blown out like dead stars. I wonder what he's taken, if knowing would really matter.
“You, like, want a drink or something?” I ask, but Nathan just shakes his head and rolls a joint from his pocket.
“Already pre-gamed,” he says, putting the joint in his mouth as he uses the same hand to root through his jacket for a lighter. The arm around my shoulder stays where it is. “'Sides, the high's way better.”
Finally, Nathan finds his lighter, a battered metal thing lined with countless scratches. He takes the first drag, then offers it to me.
“Unless, you, uh, don't wanna get high tonight,” he says. He leans close to me. His face is warm.
“Fuck it,” I murmur, taking the joint. “When in Rome…” I breathe in. The taste is strong and sticks to the back of my throat. Another drag and I can feel it rush to my head.
I pass the joint back, and that's how we sit for a while, passing the joint back and forth in a comfortable silence. It almost makes the night bearable, and Nathan is calm enough beside me that I can almost put his reactions earlier today out of mind. Lights and smoke spin around, and it's like we're breathing through an artsy dreamscape.
It feels a little how things used to be, like the old us might be back, instead of Nathan teetering on a knife's edge of off-prescription pills and worrying therapist's notes, and me, circling a distance within myself I'm too afraid to examine. For one moment, I let myself hope.
My phone is in my pocket. I pull it out, switch it on, and snap a selfie.
Nathan laughs suddenly and for no reason, but I find myself laughing, too. “What?” I say when I catch my breath. “What?”
“Just… us,” Nathan says, slurring like something else just kicked in. He sways to and fro for a moment. “I fuckin' love you, Victoria.”
“You, too,” I say softly, but Nathan's eyes have rolled back and if he's still awake, it's only by the medical definition.
“Ooh! Check out the king-on-queen action!” Taylor shouts from the other side of the VIP lounge. She's smiling, but there's a jealous edge to her eyes. “Dance with me, Victoria!”
“One second, Taylor!” I reply, and gently untangle myself from Nathan's embrace, setting his head down against the cushion. He almost stirs a little but he otherwise doesn't move.
(His breathing is regulated, controlled, too much so for someone apparently wasted. It occurs to me he might be faking his high, but I can't think of any reason why he'd do so, so I dismiss it.)
When I stand, the rush to my head is enough that the room spins. I head to the bar to refill my wine, then walk across the lounge to where Taylor stands expectantly.
There's a nice buzz going in my head, but it's not enough to distract me from how underwhelming the whole affair is. The drinks are shitty, the music is sub-par, the crowd is tiny, and Nathan's already hit his limit. Even Taylor, with all her boundless enthusiasm and not-so-subtle crush, isn't quite enough to alleviate the ennui.
Still, I dance and drink, and steel myself for a dull, forgettable night and an even more forgettable party.
-
When the VIP curtain slides open, however, the party suddenly becomes very interesting. A figure slips through, conservatively dressed and swaying from side-to-side.
“Hold on a sec,” Taylor says first, her voice a little bubbly from the pill she just washed down with her drink. “That's Kate Marsh.”
“Kate Marsh? The Jesus freak from class?” I say, a note of disbelief on my tongue. “Her?”
Taylor grabs my hand, and points to the corner of the lounge. Under the clearer lighting, the stumbling figure is unmistakable. Kate Marsh is standing in the VIP section of a Vortex Club party, glass of wine in hand.
And she is fucking wasted.
“Way to go, Kate,” I say, crossing the distance between us in no time at all. “Didn't take you for a wild one.”
Taylor's laughing next to me, and when Kate spills some of her drink down her blouse as she turns towards my voice, I laugh, too.
“Vic…Victoria…” Kate looks at me with glossed eyes and a sheen of sweat dripping down her face. Her hair has come undone, blonde curls plastered to her forehead, shoulders, and back, and the top few buttons on her shirt are undone enough that a more-than-modest amount of cleavage pokes through for those indecent enough to look.
This is the complete antithesis to the quiet, mousy girl who helps teachers grade papers, runs the Sunday worship group, and advocates for abstinence like it's the second fucking coming of Christ.
The cross that normally hangs around her neck is gone. Part of me wonders if it was a deliberate action.
“Who knew you had it in you?” I say, teetering somewhere between mockery and genuine awe. The way Kate is, it's a fucking miracle all on its own that she's still standing. “Damn, Kate, how'd you get so fucking hooched? It's enough to put some of the Vortex Club members to shame.”
“No… No I'm not…” Kate slurs, worse than Nathan. “I just had a little…” She hiccups, and stumbles backwards. “I'm fine, it… It was just a little wine.”
“How many glasses?” asks Taylor, a Cheshire Cat grin unfurling across her lips. “Three? Four? A whole bottle?”
Kate seems bewildered, almost frightened all of a sudden.
I reach a hand out to her shoulder. She feels hot to the touch. “You should have said you were a heavyweight drinker,” I tell her. “We'd have totally let you party with us sooner.”
Something is not right with this situation, but it's so absurd, so uncanny, so entertaining, that I just roll with it.
“Why are you even out here tonight?” Taylor asks. “Not that I'm like, not cool with it. Just curious.”
“I… I…” Kate tries to say, but I can physically see the words wither and die on her tongue. “I don't know, I…”
“It's cool,” Taylor says. “Nothing wrong with letting loose. Go wild, sista!”
Her facial muscles are slack and she's nearly totally out of it, but I watch as a spark of shame ignites in Kate's eyes as best it can.
Then, Kate takes a staggering step back, turns away from us, and stumbles towards the lounge. Logan's finishing the last of a white powdery line when Kate stands before his couch. There's a strange moment of statically-charged stillness, before Kate wobbles forward again, leans in.
And locks lips with Logan's, falling into his lap.
“Oh my fucking God!” Taylor shouts. “Jesus, Kate!”
On the other side of the lounge, Courtney lifts her head, sees the unfolding scene, and her eyebrows skyrocket. “Holy shit, what is this?” she says, detaching herself from Hayden's bong and practically skipping over to me and Taylor. “What the fuck is going on here?”
“Kate Marsh has gone fucking wild!” I say, shouting to quell the weird nervous energy inside me. “I mean, look at her! This is who our local nun-wannabe really is!”
Logan keeps making out with Kate, until he spots the rest of us staring at him, and pushes her away, clearly not wanting to be the focus of whatever kind of spectacle this is shaping up to be. “God damn,” he says, then laughs as Kate staggers away.
She makes her way through the VIP lounge, going through Hayden, Zach, and another of the Bigfoots jocks in quick succession. She doesn't stop there; whichever boy gets in her path, she shoves her tongue down his throat. It doesn't seem to matter to her.
There's a rising chorus of laughter that's quickly drowning out the music as Kate finishes with the last VIP, some freshman who thinks he might actually one day make it in the sports world. Once Kate's done, stepping away from the haze of weed and stumbling around in circles, Hayden opens up the VIP curtain, and directs her through. She gives us all one last look before one of the Bigfoots gives her a push on the back, and Kate Marsh is unleashed on the general populace of Blackwell Academy.
Tears stream down Taylor's face as Kate begins to advance towards some poor unsuspecting skater boy. “Oh my God, please tell me someone's getting this on camera,” she howls, nudging me in the side a little too forcefully. “Victoria, get your phone out! This needs to be saved for Vortex posterity.”
Rationally, I know I should step back and actually examine what's going on here, think for even one second why Kate Marsh of all people is acting this way, but then a hysterical giggle presses from my mouth, and the decision is made for me.
-
I stand back, open up my phone, and begin to film.
For seven minutes I watch Kate Marsh stumble back and forth and shove her tongue down the throats of boys whose names I don't even know, let alone her.
For seven minutes I watch, and I laugh, and I do not help.
-
It's when I finally finish recording that I notice Nathan's no longer asleep on the couch. Instead, there's an empty spot where he should be. Another glance around the VIP section reveals nothing. I glance out to the main bulk of the party itself, and don't even see as much as a flash of red.
“Hold up,” I say to Taylor and Courtney, who've been reduced to laughing on the floor. “Anyone seen Nathan?”
“He's not here?” Taylor says, and for a fraction of a second, I think she's going to be serious. Then I see the rosy tint to her cheeks and she lets out an ugly snort. “Probably went to get in on the action with Kate.”
Courtney giggles to herself. “Saint Slut is nothing but generous,” she says, and has to wipe a tear from her cheek.
“No, seriously,” I say. “I didn't see him leave.”
“Check a dark corner,” Taylor says. “Or not. Kate might have decided to really go to church with him.”
“Oh, gross!” Courtney shoves at Taylor, and the two of them look like sloppy messes on the ground beneath me.
I pretend that my nausea comes from the wine and the strobe lights. “Could you two, like, actually try to be useful? Nathan was fucking trashed from the start and we've already had one disaster tonight.”
“Yeah,” Courtney says, laughing again. It's beginning to grate on me. “He needs to see the video anyway.”
That said, Taylor is the one who dislodges herself from the floor, steadying herself on the wall for a moment. “Hey, I'll go find him,” she says with a drunk bravado. “Don't worry your pretty face off, Vic. Like, anyway, I'm feeling myself sober up and I know Nate's meant to have some hardcore shit on him tonight. No way does he get to check out early.”
“Thanks,” I say. Then, when I sense the mood getting heavy, “I'll be sure to capture any more of Kate's antics if she decides to slut her way back to our corner of the woods.”
Taylor smiles. “Awesome,” she says, retrieving her jacket from the coffee table she discarded it upon. “I'll text you.”
“Later, Sweet T.”
Taylor slips out of the VIP section and I guide Courtney to the nearest couch with a full bowl and an unopened bottle of wine. She lights up, and I lean back, my head feeling light and my phone feeling heavy.
It's not until some time after Taylor's left to look for Nathan that it dawns on me that Kate, too, is gone.