It's early morning, and I'm pulled up close to Chloe's bedside. She's still asleep, her beautiful face perfected by sunlit, brown hair and the happiest, most carefree smile. All the shit that she has to deal with, and I can make her smile like that?
There's a photo album open on the bed, propped up against her hip. I guess we fell asleep looking at photos. There's one that's out of its sleeve, Chloe and me in the kitchen making pancakes. I put it back and set the album on her desk.
There's a knock on the door. I open it.
It's William. "Just checking in on Chloe," he says.
I step aside. "Yeah. She's asleep."
He checks some of her supplies, checks her machines, and… just watches her for a minute, with his back to me.
I start snooping around her room, checking everything out the way I always do. There are various medical supplies and spare towels and sheets on pretty much every surface, but interspersed with them are various knick knacks. A shelf of depressing medical shit is brightened up a little, pink box with a hand-painted, white flower on it. Around her TV there are a half dozen snowglobes, a teddy bear, and the stuffed Hawt Dog Man that I got for her on that road trip. On the far wall there's more photo albums, and a framed picture of her and William together in the kitchen. It looks like it's from the same day as the pancake picture, and they're both so happy together. It's beautiful.
"How much morphine did you give her?"
Huh? I didn't give her any morphine. I just woke up.
He doesn't wait for me to answer. "When you and I were talking you had her morphine injector in your hand. How much did you give her?"
He and I were talking? I don't remember that. "I… I don't remember." I don't remember any of this. How did I get here? The last thing I remember is hanging out with my friends at school, and Victoria and I were talking. I was avoiding Chloe-I haven't been here in years. How can I not remember…?
"But you gave her the amount that she told you to, right?"
I… what the hell? I mean, I must have-I wouldn't know how much to give her and I wouldn't have given her any amount other than what she told me to. Did I really give her the morphine? "Yeah?" I answer.
He takes a deep, shuddering breath and runs his fingers through his hair. "I see."
He still has his back turned, why isn't he looking at me? "Is something wrong?"
"No," he says just a little too quickly. "Nothing's wrong. Chloe's going to be out for most of the day, and I'm sure you have to get back to school soon anyway."
I do.
"Why don't you get going?" he says. "We'll see you again soon."
When I'm halfway out the front door I hear him burst into heavy sobs. I turn back around. I should… I should…
I fall into the doorframe. There are black splotches in my vision, growing, surrounded by red rings… burning film. I spin, but they don't move with me. It's not my eyes, it's the walls, the floor, the air. I feel it inside me, eating me apart until I fall to the floor. My head…
My brain is bashing itself against the inside of my skull like a bird trying to kill itself on a window.
I jump, and my chair scratches the classroom floor loud enough to turn heads.
Leaning back against a desk, Mr. Jefferson straightens up. "Miss Caulfield?"
"Yes?"
"You were saying?"
"What?"
"You were just telling us that…" He gestures for me to continue.
Everyone is staring at me. "Maxine?" hisses Victoria.
"You were telling us about the reading that was assigned for today," says Jefferson, "until you nodded off in mid-sentence."
"Huh? I…" I was? "Yeah, it was about…" God, this fucking… it's a sinus headache. It feels like the pain is filling my skull with so much pressure that it's leaking out all across my face and in my nose and my pores and the goddamn spaces between my teeth. Ugh. "The critical moment of the photograph. The spontaneity, and…" My chest hurts too-like someone's holding my lungs and pushing them apart just enough to make it hard to breathe. "How composition can never be truly planned in advance or imposed after the fact. Um…" There was more… I just can't think…
"That chapter is assigned for Thursday. Today's assignment, Miss Caulfield."
Without thinking I blurt out, "Today is Thursday."
A few people chuckle uncomfortably.
Victoria leaps to my defense. "I'm sorry, Mr. Jefferson, Maxine and I were up very late last night studying. We actually had a very long discussion about Daguerreotypes." She adds emphasis to clue me in.
But the reading about Daguerre was assigned over the weekend, We talked about it on Monday.
She turns to me and mouths the words, "It's Monday."
The fuck? Whatever, fine. "It was about the Daguerrian Process and how it, like, turned portraiture into something that anyone can do. You were linking it back to the… democratization of art," great fucking buzzword right there, "as a kind of personal expression."
"Well, well, well," he says. "Class, if you're ever struggling with the workload, be sure to take advantage of Professor Caulfield's office hours."
Nailed it.
"That is, if she can stay awake."
Mr. Jefferson is my personal art hero and all but, god, he's such a fucking dickhead. The bell rings to end class.
I'm slow to get moving-I just feel… off. What was I just dreaming about? It felt so important.
Victoria walks over to put her hand on my shoulder. Leaning in to whisper, she asks, "Is everything okay? You'd tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?"
I don't know.
At the desk next to mine I hear pencil scratching softly against paper. Kate is sketching something lazily, unfocused, head in her hand, eyes almost falling shut. She's sort of curled up, hunched over the desk, shoulders, arms, and legs held close to her body. It's like she's afraid of being seen. Or screamed at. Or hit.
"Maxine?"
I brush Victoria's hand away. "I'll be fine."
She steps back to appraise me. "Catch your breath, okay? I'm going to talk to Mark, and then we can go."
I nod.
From the side I feel Kate looking at me. I glare at her to get her to knock it off and she goes back to being a curled-up ball of ridiculous self-pity.
She just needs some of that sappy, abused-animal-commercial music, right? Poor Kate. Spearheaded a big, stupid abstinence campaign and got caught on video drunkenly stumbling into make-out sessions with random boys while high out of her mind. So unfair. How could this cruel and uncaring world do that to her?
No drinks, no drugs, no parties, no fun, just so she can act superior towards whatever category of you people she's invented to pretend she's better than. Fucking Jesus freaks like her are all alike, judging the rest of us for not following their arbitrarily self-denying bullshit standards that they can't even live up to either.
She's drawing a bunch of silly-looking cartoon forest animals: a bear in a turtleneck sweater, a little deer with a big bow on her head, an owl in a top hat, a bunny in a frilly dress. Running together… in fear. Pencil marks are scratched horizontally through their bodies.
It's like they're all running from a mass shooting.
But that's… Come on, Kate. Really? Does the realization that you're no better than the rest of us really hurt that bad? I mean, get… just get over it.
"Are-"
Shit! I jump. What?
Kate's looking at me again. Startled me.
"Sorry," she says slowly, unsure. "Are you alright, Maxine?"
"Like you care." I stand up-too quickly-and my headache sends me stumbling. I press my hand to my forehead to apply pressure like I expect it to do anything.
"Your nose is bleeding."
I wipe it off on my hand… there's a lot of blood. I wipe again with my sleeve, thoughtlessly staining the cashmere sweater that I got on that shopping trip with Victoria and Nathan. Damn it. "Drop dead, slut," I snap.
There's that look again. Call or go online to pledge your support within the next thirty minutes and we'll send you a photo of a closeted whore that's been rescued from its abusers. We'll also include this free tote bag.
Fuck off, Kate, I don't have any sympathy for you.
I need to splash some water on my face or something. I've got some time-Victoria's still trying to charm Mr. Jefferson, leaning slightly over his desk for maximum… visual appeal. It's kinda creepy but at least I can admire her ass. Ambition. I can admire her insistently heterosexual ambition.
He stops me on the way out the door. "It's not like the great Maxine Caulfield to slink away without proudly showing off her latest work of genius. I'm still waiting for your submission to the Everyday Heroes Contest."
I fidget a bit, playing with the strap of my bag. "Yeah, I know." It's true that I'm never shy about showing off my work but, "I don't have it yet."
"I'm getting worried," he says cheerfully.
"I haven't found my inspiration," which is technically true-ish, in an Obi-Wan 'Jedi truth' kind of way.
After a little more admonishment I make it out into the hallway. I take a deep breath, and try to shake off the weird feeling that followed me out of that dream.
Wait. I check my phone. Monday. How the fuck can it be Monday? I remember… I had a test on Tuesday, but it was cancelled, because… Classes were all canceled on Tuesday because of…
Classes on Tuesday were canceled because…
I…
Am I going crazy?
Victoria walks out and circles around to look me closely in the eye. "Maxine?"
"It's nothing," I lie. "I think I have the flu."
"You seemed fine this morning." She puts her hand on my forehead, twice, after I push her away the first time. "I was going to suggest we hang out with Nathan like we always do, but maybe you should take some Nyquil and go to sleep."
I nod.
"Do you want me to walk with you to the dorm?"
"Sure, whatever."
At least it's a nice day, warm, with clear, blue skies. Everyone's outside, either studying or hanging out. Justin is skating. Brooke is flying a radio-controlled… is it a drone? Stella and Warren are off in a corner together making kissy faces as usual. Alyssa is reading something, until some douche hits her in the head with a football. I feel kinda bad for her, except that she doesn't like me for some reason.
"So," says Victoria. "Did you get in touch with your subject for the Everyday Heroes contest?"
Hey Chloe. I know I've been a totally shitty friend who practically abandoned you during the most difficult time of your life, but real quick can I take your picture so I can win this contest? "No, I haven't been able to reach her," I lie.
"You said she lives in the area, right? Maybe you should just show up at her house."
Yeah, that really is exactly what I should do. The issue is what the fuck am I supposed to say to her? If I knew I'd already have gone. "Maybe I will."
My breathing is still bothering me a bit. Fuck these stairs.
Victoria rushes ahead to hold the door for me. "Do you… have any other ideas?"
"No." It has to be Chloe.
"Mark has a point, you're usually so brave about putting your work out there. I'm trying to be more like that. If you're worried about…" She suddenly grabs me by the shoulders. "Holy shit, Maxine! Your nose is bleeding. A lot."
She leads me by the wrist into the bathroom and leaves me in front of the mirror while she grabs paper towels.
It's serious, like I got hit in the face or something.
"Maybe you should go to the nurse," she says, handing me the paper towels. "I'm worried."
"I'm fine," I lie.
Even staring straight into the mirror I can feel her concerned look.
"Maxine, I, uh, I got the impression that something's been bothering you the last few days, especially after you mentioned reconnecting with your friend for the Everyday Heroes Contest…"
Stop.
"And I realize we haven't been friends for very long, but, like…"
I don't care.
"I respect you and I know that Taylor appreciates how you went with her to visit her mom in the hospital, so, like…"
I don't want to hear this.
"I want you to feel, if something's bothering you I want you feel like you can talk to me…"
Just shut the fuck up.
"But if…"
Kate walks in.
Victoria grunts at her, and chooses not to finish the thought, instead leaning her hip against the sink to my left.
It feels like my brain is trying to escape my head by squeezing out through my nose. I steady myself by gripping the sides of the sink and try to keep alert by staring right into the mirror.
The three of us were in this same situation a few days ago, come to think of it-Kate in a bathroom stall and Victoria and me pretending she wasn't there while we talked about her. I don't remember what I said exactly, but when the two of us were laughing about it later Victoria made a joke about Kate being in that stall to slit her wrists. I thought it was funny.
This time, however, Victoria is wordlessly staring at me and waiting for her to leave to continue our conversation.
Behind me I hear toilet paper rip.
Gushing blood, extreme head pain, blanked out in the middle of class, forgot what day it is… Am I having an aneurysm or something?
Kate rinses her hands, but the soap dispenser is empty. She barely picks up her head to look over at the dispenser between me and Victoria, who waves for her to go ahead.
The second Kate steps between us, Victoria speaks up. "I feel like we bump into each other pretty often, Kate, considering how busy you are with your extracurricular activities."
Kate doesn't say anything and waits obediently for the hit that we all know is coming.
"Actually I heard that you're president of the abstinence club, the hypocrite club, and the drunken slut club. It's really impressive how you manage all that and still find the time to blow random dudes at parties."
I look over at Kate. She's staring at her hands as she washes them, slowly, like she doesn't have the energy to move at normal speed. She put her hair up like she always does, but didn't brush it, leaving it a tangled, ratty, ugly mess. She's not wearing any makeup, which makes it obvious to any observer that she's done nothing but cry for days.
But I was that girl once, wasn't I? On the floor, against the wall, slowly sinking into a ball as my body shook too hard to stay upright. So ashamed of myself I couldn't…
Why am I suddenly so concerned about Kate? I hate her and everyone like her. I wanted to see her hurt; this is exactly what I wanted. Yesterday I enjoyed laughing at a hypocrite who got destroyed by her own hypocrisy. Today it feels like… beating a puppy.
What would Chloe think of me right now?
Within a second I'm wiping more tears from my eyes. It's a question I haven't truthfully asked and answered in a long time.
Victoria says some bullshit, asks Kate a legitimate question, and cuts off her answer with an insult.
Chloe would say that life's too short for this garbage. You gotta make friends, travel the world, learn new skills, try new hobbies, find love when you want it, dump lovers when you want to. And honestly, go to parties, get drunk, and make out with whomever the fuck you want.
So that's it, then. I don't like Kate-at all-but I'm sick of this. I just want to take some goddamn ibuprofen and go to sleep. "Kate, I'm sorry about what I said. You didn't deserve any of it," I lie.
They both look at me like neither of them is sure that that really happened.
Victoria sputters a few sounds that might be the beginnings of swear words, then one that I'm almost positive is "Sorry," and then she storms off.
Well… fuck. I should probably go after her or something. It's only going to get worse.
Halfway out the door I hear a whisper. "I forgive you."
I turn to look at Kate, who looks at the floor. I told her to die. Like, literally I told her to die.
"Do you want to hang out or…" I trail off. What did I just fucking say? "Or something?"
Kate's idea of hanging out is just to chill in her room. It's dark, with the blinds down. I hit the lights when she doesn't bother to.
She starts picking dirty clothes up off the floor and stuffs them into her already overflowing hamper. "It isn't usually such a mess in here."
"It's fine."
She nods towards a little shelf in the corner by the door. "There are some snacks if you want."
Her food shelf is home to some canned, microwave fare, a few boxes of crackers, and a bunch of dishes, half of them dirty. The glasses are knocked over and ready to roll off the side and break. I grab a bottle of water and drink down a few gulps. Water helps with headaches, right? It does when you're hungover. At least it's starting to get a little bit better.
The small trash can next to her bed is full to the top with tissues. Maybe… maybe she has a cold? We didn't make her cry that much. I didn't make her cry that much.
...Right?
On the nightstand is a postcard. There's a Bible quote and a message from her father. "'And the light shines in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.' Katie, you'll always be my brightest light against the dark. hugs n' love, Pop." Family can get you through anything, right Chloe?
On top of the dresser there's a bunny in a cage chilling with a poster of Jesus. The bunny's cute, with white fur and big, black spots around her eyes, her ears pressed against her as she rears her head back to lick at the metal straw of her water bottle. Hey, little bunny. I feel like we met somewhere before…
Oh, there's a framed picture of Kate, Alyssa, and Stella, with the lighthouse way in the background. I had no idea they were friends. I guess it explains why Alyssa doesn't like me.
Kate shifts her attention to the couch. "I'm sorry. I'll clean a place to sit." She stacks up all of papers-homework, sketches, stuff like that-that are covering it.
On her bookshelf is a family photo-Dad, Mom, Kate, and two sisters. They're all wearing white and black-all three girls are wearing black sweaters over white shirts-and no one is really smiling. There are three large, black and white photos on the walls, which are dark brown wood paneling. The largest portrait, hanging center of the wall between Kate's mom and dad, is of some old, bearded guy. Yes, this here is Jeremiah Thaxbytwimble, founder of our church, who tragically died at the hands of an angry mob in 1847 after preaching the truth that black people are the creation of Satan. He is survived by his wife and two daughters, Mrs. Jeremiah Thaxbytwimble, Mrs. Jeremiah Thaxbytwimble, and Mrs. Jeremiah Thaxbytwimble.
I'm terrible. I should stop.
For real, though, this family. Kate's dad looks like he's probably over six feet tall, with short, blond hair. Oval glasses. Clean shaven. Suit with black tie. Thin, rectangular face with an angular jaw and strong chin. One-hundred percent, this guy has a horse and buggy and builds houses by hand, like in the old days before the devil corrupted everyone with his evil music that the kids these days call jazz. Mom has long, brown hair parted on the right side. Long, thin nose, thin, arched eyebrows, sharp cheekbones. White dress, high heels, white pearl necklace, perfect for pearl-clutching. The sister on the left looks older than Kate, probably in college. Her face is exactly like her mom's, she wears glasses that look just like her dad's, and keeps her hair back with a white headband. I'd chat her up, even if she's a little plain Jane, like the main character of a romantic comedy before the part where she gets a makeover and a haircut and contact lenses and learns to appreciate the beauty that was hiding under her frumpy exterior all along. The girl in the middle is the youngest, probably fourteen. She actually looks like a normal person-cute, with a round face, button nose, and big, pouty lips. She's wearing skinny jeans. At her age. My god. The scandal.
Nearby on the bookshelf is an open Bible, with a few papers stacked on top of it. One is a sketch. There's a fire pit full of burning skulls, with more skulls and jawbones strewn around like they were meant to be carelessly thrown into the fire and missed like crumpled paper littering the area around a trash can. Marking the fire pit is another skull, oozing blood from the mouth down the shaft of the pike that it's impaled on. You won't end up in Hell just for making out with boys, Kate.
Next is a letter, on fancy stationery with crosses on it, from 'Auntie Marsh.' I'm guessing this is a great aunt because judging by her immaculate cursive she learned how to write in 1907. 'No spirit or devil could have prepared me for what you have done in that videotape. And like a jezebel you released your harlot image before God's eye. I will pray with my church for your soul to be saved from Eternal Hellfire.' You know what I think, 'Auntie Marsh?' I think you and your opinions are fucking awful, and it's a good thing that no one in the entire history of the world has ever given a flying fuck what her great aunt thinks. I think that, instead of judging Kate for doing what you wished you had done at her age, you should go back to praying for your cats to repent from their sinful ways. Yeah, that's a far more effective use of your time.
I set that letter aside. Carefully. Because I shouldn't rip Kate's things to shreds.
I take a look at Kate's bible. Some pages are dog-eared, some passages are highlighted, and a few pages are bookmarked by sticky notes with quotes on them. And my parents never once took me to church, which is probably good because I have enough things to rebel against.
There's a quote that looks extra important. For no particular reason, I ask, "What's this quote mean?"
"Which one?"
"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."
"That's Matthew 11:28. It's my favorite passage," she says. "It's about how… if you feel like your troubles in life are weighing you down, you can pick up the burden of faith and everything feels lighter." She grabs her desk chair and drags it over by the couch. "I didn't really explain it very well."
I take a seat on the couch, opposite her, gently pushing her tablet out of the way and setting my bottled water on the floor. "It's okay. I get it."
It's… quiet, for a bit. So… I'm trying to make conversation here, I guess. How do I normally make conversation? Asking questions… small compliments, if they're genuine. I already know Kate, so there aren't that many questions to ask. Scanning the room again I spot her violin case, left open with the violin in it. "I, uh, I haven't heard you play your violin in a while. You used to play it every night, right?"
"Oh, I guess I didn't realize anyone could hear me. I hope it didn't bother you."
It's impossible to talk to people who are down on themselves all the time. I might be screwed. "No, it didn't bother me. You're really good actually. It was a nice soundtrack to do homework to."
"Thank you," is her complete, laconic response.
She's giving me nothing to work with here. Compliments, um… Normally when I'm talking to girls I can find something that looks good, some little fashion choice like jewelry, hairstyle, or clothes, but Kate looks like shit right now so that's no good. Come on, she's an art student, I love to talk about art. Her drawings are… are bloody, fiery skull pits. That's a dead end. Um…
I fidget uncomfortably until my foot bumps into something and I realize I've just spilled my bottled water on her floor.
"I am so sorry."
She gets a faded beach towel from her closet and I take it from her to start patting the carpet dry. She immediately gets down on her knees with me and helps.
"Why did you stand up to Victoria for me?" she asks.
I look up. She's, um, really close-and her shampoo has a tropical, fruity scent. Neither of us is doing anything about the spill but with her head down and this close to me it's like she's expecting to get pulled in for a hug where I'll let her rest her head on my shoulder. I really want to leave, like right now, but she's right there.
She's asking me a question. Right. "I… I don't know. Life's too short and too hard to pick fights when you don't have to." I can't keep eye contact with her. The honest answer is that my Mean Girls bullshit feels so insignificant next to what Chloe's going through. "I know I said some things to you that were pretty hurtful. But it's… they weren't really about you." I owe her the truth, I think. "At my last school I was friends with this guy who was really cute and really popular. Eventually I asked him out, and we had fun, and I liked him, and I trusted him, so I slept with him. Except it wasn't really what I wanted. Soon after that, some of my friends started spreading it around that I slept with him on the first date and immediately dumped him."
"I'm sorry to hear that," says Kate.
"Yeah, well, when I see those abstinence posters that you put up," like that one, right there, that she's helpfully stuck to her own wall, "I don't like the accusation that my 'slip-up' ruined my life."
"I'm sorry," she repeats. "I didn't mean to hurt anyone."
I don't think that's an excuse for slut-shaming, but as far as excuses for slut-shaming go, it's better than mine. People called me a slut, so I turned around and called Kate a slut. Clearly I'm the hypocrite, not her. I throw my hands up in exasperation. "And that's not even the real reason either."
"What do you mean?"
"After I moved to Seattle, my best friend was paralyzed in a car accident. I was never there for her. And now that I'm back here, just a couple of miles from her house, I'm too ashamed to see her." I wipe my eyes. I'm tearing up, just a little. I don't know why I'm breaking down like this, especially in front of Kate.
She takes a long moment to think, or maybe she gives me a long moment to decide if I want to keep going. "I don't think it's as bad as you think."
"I was gone five years, and I wrote to her not even a dozen times. During the most difficult time of her life."
"She'll forgive you." Kate reaches over and takes my hand. "An apology goes a long way."
It really does, doesn't it?
Maybe the beach was a bad idea. The sand slopes up and down like dunes, and the only path is made of uneven wood planks.
"It's weird hanging out with you again," says Chloe.
"I know… I'm glad we are, though."
"It was nice that you sent me actual letters," all ten of them in five damn years, "that's more than any of my other friends have done… and you even wrote on that cool parchment paper. That's so Max."
"So pretentious. But I love writing on it, like an English poet. You deserve the best stationery."
"Probably easier to write than to visit me."
I… yeah.
She sighs. "I don't mean that in a bitchy way. Not totally. You probably wanted to avoid awkward conversations like this."
I wanted to avoid her looking at me and seeing what a failure I am.
She turns. "Can we stop? This is seriously the best view of the sunset. What do photographers call that?"
"The golden hour."
"See? Without you here, I'd have no clue. Bet you could take some amazing shots…"
Yeah. Chloe, in her chair, silhouetted against the sunset. I'd win the Everyday Heroes contest for sure. That's what's important, right? Selfish fucking bitch.
We're silent for a long moment before she, probably sensing how I feel, says, "I'm sorry. Your letters meant more to me than anything. I didn't mean to make you feel guilty for not visiting."
I felt guilty long before she said anything. I bite down on it and say, "I wanted to write more, but it was hard when every letter boiled down to, 'Look how much fun I'm having without you.'"
"No," she says with firm sympathy. "Never feel bad about that. I want to know that you're happy."
That's because you don't know me anymore.
She shakes her head. "Hanging out with you makes me feel like a total kid again. You don't even know. Thanks for coming out to see me. You're… you're doing great."
I start to feel the heat in my face and the burning in my eyes and I turn so that she can't see how much I fucking hate myself. "I don't think so."
She says something about being cold and how maybe we should head back.
I don't think I've ever seen her new room, but I swear it's so familiar. Did she send me pictures with one of her letters?
There are various medical supplies and spare towels and sheets on pretty much every surface, but interspersed with them are various knick knacks. A shelf of depressing medical shit is brightened up by a little, pink box with a hand-painted, white flower on it. Around her TV there are a half dozen snowglobes, a teddy bear, and the stuffed Hawt Dog Man that I got for her on that road trip. On the far wall there's a stack of photo albums, and a framed picture of her and William together in the kitchen. I don't recognize it, but they both look so happy together. It's beautiful.
She's got some things pinned to a board, including one of my old letters. It's not one of the better ones-I read one sentence and practically cringe at how ineptly I tried to apologize for never writing. Staring at it makes me more aware of her eyes on me, as she sits in her bed watching.
"So," she says. "Are you sure it isn't too weird for you to be hanging out with me like this?"
It hurts. A lot. I don't face her. "It… makes me feel some regrets."
"Look at me," she snaps.
I do.
"I know you were busy kicking ass. I don't blame anyone for bailing on me."
"I should have done better."
"Yes," she says harshly, "you should have. But you're not Super-Max and I'm not trying to guilt-trip you."
I know that I fucked up. I've always known that I fucked up. She's angry, which she should be, but she says she doesn't blame me. Is she forgiving me? Should she? I have no fucking idea what I'm doing… but I suppose I came here to apologize. "Okay, Chloe. I'm sorry."
She doesn't acknowledge it, changes the subject, and tries to play it cool, but she totally fails to hide a smile. "I, uh… need to get my drink on. Can you bring me some water?"
I grab her cup off her desk and hold it up for her. Somehow the image of her sipping from the straw reminds me of Kate's little bunny.
She finishes, and licks a little droplet off her lips. "Oh man, no wonder my throat is dry. I don't think I've talked this much the whole year."
I set the cup aside. "Is there anything else I can get you?"
"Well, hot monkey sex would be nice."
I quirk an eyebrow at her. "What does that even mean? Like, in a tree while confused children watch?"
"Woah," she says. "Nothing makes Maxine blush. So, are you dating anyone at Blackwell?"
"I'm too busy with school and photography."
"Oh, please. You can't be an artist unless you experience life… That includes boys, girls, whatever."
I touch my fingers to my chest in a 'if I do say so myself' humblebrag gesture. "Back in Seattle I dated the cutest, most popular guy in school. His name was Brad."
"You dated Bradley Cooper. Okay, I'm with you so far. Dish."
"Well we only went on one date, but we were friends and had been hanging out outside of school for months."
"Uh-huh, uh-huh." She nods her head vigorously. "And the monkey sex? When's the monkey sex?"
"No, you gotta hear the whole story. It's a classic." I'm already laughing it was so stupid cheesy. "We went to the state fair. Corn on the cob, corn dogs, mac and cheese, cotton candy. There was a petting zoo, I made kissy faces with a baby cow. I rode a mechanical bull and looked like a total whore. He shot a thing or some bullshit to win me the biggest stuffed animal. We made out on a ferris wheel and I lost my virginity in the back of his mom's bitchin' Elantra. It was great."
"I promised myself I wouldn't cry," she says, acting all choked up. "I'm just so proud. My little girl's all grown up and a world-class maneater."
I laugh. "Yeah, no. I'm a lesbian now."
She grapples with that one for a second, and takes the conversation all serious with, "Do your parents know?"
"I haven't told them yet. I don't think they're going to react badly or anything, I just…"
Why is she looking at me like that?
"Am…" she falters. "Am I the first person you've told?"
Oh, Chloe… I didn't even mean to come out to her, I just blurted it out without thinking, but… She looks so… so lit up, like, genuinely, emotionally touched. I wish she had been the first. The way she's looking at me, it's heartwarming. "No. Some of my friends at Blackwell know. This girl Victoria is my best friend there-I told her first. I'm sorry, Chloe."
In a soft voice she says, "I know I was just joking about being proud of you, but I am. Really. I'm so proud of you."
Chloe proud of me… being accepted by my best friend… I want to remember this feeling until the day I die.
We both take a moment to compose ourselves.
"So this Victoria," she says slyly, "is she…?"
"Nope. That's an absolute no. Trust me, I tried."
"Maybe you just haven't gotten her drunk enough."
I lean in as close to her as I can from my seat. In my lowest, breathiest whisper I say, "Maybe I just haven't gotten you drunk enough."
She rolls her eyes. "You're not going to make me blush. I'm a lady who wouldn't even care if you strapped me to the bed and walked on me in your tallest dominatrix boots. Plus I let strangers from the internet sponge bathe me and watch me poop."
I laugh.
"You know," she says, drawing out the oh, "it would be sweet to chill out together and watch a movie, like when you'd spend the night at my house…"
Hell yes! "What do you want to watch?"
"Uh, I think I'm in, like, a mellow Blade Runner mood. I always cry at the end. Plus, you know I always wanted to have cool colored bangs like Pris."
"Oh, but that would shatter my image of you as the sweet, wholesome…"
"Fuck off!" She laughs. "Don't even finish that sentence."
"Alright, but you better not fall asleep on me, like you always do when we watch movies."
"I remember, Max. Swear I won't fall asleep. Not while you're here. Not yet."
Chloe turns out to be more entertaining than the movie. She makes fun of every dumb little thing-the opening crawl, the stupid 2019 fashion, the characters, the actors, the part where Harrison Ford says it's too bright to do the test even though the whole movie is so dark it looks like it was lit by defective birthday candles. She throws in some interesting facts from the director commentary and online interviews, points out every tiny difference from the book, and around every piece of evidence weaves her argument for why Deckard is, in logically indisputable fact, a replicant. I can't keep up with this queen nerd; without her this movie would be trippy and confusing as balls.
Eventually the credits roll and I let William and Joyce get Chloe ready for bed, while I do the same upstairs. I take a good, long look in the bathroom mirror while I brush my teeth. I look… happy. I bring that smile downstairs to the living room couch, where I pass out on top of the folded stack of spare blankets they left me.