A/N: This is a new story that I may/may not continue, just depending on the reception and whether or not people want me to. If you want more of this story, just review or PM or whatever. Anyway, let me know what you think!

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

Chapter 1

An adventure may be worn as a muddy spot, or it may be worn as a proud insignia. It is the woman wearing it that makes it the one thing or the other.

-Norma Shearer

THALIA DIDN'T SEEM angry, which surprised me.

She stood framed in the doorway, kohl outlining her lightning-bright eyes, lips shaded mauve, a dark rosary dangling from her neck. It glittered on her collarbone. She looked different: slimmer, hipper, more aloof. Her dark hair was pinned up high on her head with a pair of chopsticks.

"Annabeth," she said, and smiled. "Long time no see, bitch."

I hugged my arms to my chest. It was summer in Southern California, where the sun shone bright and hot, but it seemed suddenly much, much colder. "I…" I hesitated. "I didn't… I didn't have anywhere else to go."

Thalia shrugged. "I figured." She cracked open her door, jerked her thumb over her shoulder to show me inside. "Come on in."

IF ANYONE WAS an expert at skipping town, it was Thalia. She had run away seven times throughout the course of her life, the first when she was only nine years old. Thalia didn't put up with anything less than what she thought she deserved. I envied that.

Her mother was a would-be film actress from the 1980s, a woman whose career had come to a screeching halt when Thalia, the product of an illicit affair, had been conceived. She'd moved from the Hollywood hills to Santa Barbara when she got a job as a weathergirl, and never really forgave her daughter for her own mistake.

It was a household of drugs, drinking, and misery. Thalia ran off so many times that her mother stopped phoning the police to tell them her daughter was missing. Eventually, when the streets became cold and her stomach began to gnaw, Thalia returned home, and her mother didn't say a word.

About two years after Thalia's brother was born (the product of a rekindling of the affair that had created Thalia in the first place), her mother was found passed out in the street, drunk and O.D.'d on so many drugs that it would make a lengthy shopping list. She and her brother were tossed into the foster system without so much as a consolation wave goodbye. And that was how, some years later, miles north in San Francisco, I first met Thalia.

Unlikely friends didn't begin to cover it. She was dark, gory, a senior in high school while I was a freshman. She swore like it was her job and smoked clove cigarettes in the parking lot during lunch. She was the kind of girl that had t-shirts that read Death to Barbie or Eat it, Whore (much to the chagrin of the high school administration). Her favorite book was Helter Skelter, the in-depth true crime book on the Manson murders, and she listened to Iron Maiden.

She was a cold, hard, kickass bitch. I should've squeaked and run away in fright.

But I didn't, for whatever reason. And that was how, two years after she graduated, I ended up on her front doorstep in L.A.

THALIA'S APARTMENT WAS small and empty; echoey. It consisted of a futon, a kitchenette, a bedroom to the right, and a bathroom to the left. The furniture looked as if it had been plucked from thrift stores, worn and beaten-down. Posters cluttered the walls. There was one of Sharon Tate in particular that I couldn't stop staring at.

"So," Thalia said, walking into her kitchen and opening the fridge. She pulled out a bottle of water and took a swig, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "What gives, nerd?"

I picked at a stray thread on my sleeve. "I got fed up."

"Okay," she said. The thing about Thalia that I loved the most was her lack of judgment. She took whatever you'd done, no matter how bad, in stride. "What was the breaking point?"

I shook my head. "I don't…" The words sounded clumsy, awkward, in my mouth. "I don't really want to talk about it."

Thalia arched an eyebrow. "Normally, I'd let it slide, but if you're gonna crash on my couch, I'd like to know if I should expect a couple of cops on my doorstep."

"No cops, I promise," I said. "Nobody's looking for me."

"I doubt that." Thalia walked a few paces over to a mirror and fluffed her hair. She looked lovely, I realized, more sure of herself and less abrasive. Her skin was pale as ivory, her cornflower-eyes intense, but despite the new bones sticking out like needles from an acupuncture patient, she had softened somehow. She looked happy.

"It's true," I said. "No one will come looking for me after this. I promise." I took a deep, shuddering breath. "I won't stay long, I swear. I just need… I need a little while."

She turned around with her eyes narrowed. "You look like shit."

That was another thing about Thalia. She was blunt; called it like it was. She was right, too. In the mirror over her shoulder, I could see my face reflected back at me. I looked haggard, lips thin, hair scraggly and damp with grease.

"I know," I replied, because I did.

She sighed, tapping her index and middle fingers against her lips. "You have a week."

I blinked, startled. "A week?"

"Not to stay here," she said. "You know that you're welcome here anytime. I'll be glad to have the company, and my biotch roommates can kiss my ass, far as I'm concerned."

"A week until what, then?"

"Until you have to fess up to whatever made you run for the hills," she said. "It's not healthy to keep that kind of shit bottled up inside. Sooner or later it'll come out in the worst way possible."

Our eyes met, and a kind of mutual understanding passed between us.

Thalia's eyes flicked to analog clock mounted on her wall, and she swore. "Fuck. I need to be at the set in an hour."

"The set?"

She nodded, grabbing her purse from the kitchen counter and slinging it over the shoulder. "I got a job as a writer for this new crime show that's debuting. It's a dime-a-dozen, probably won't last; but it's a good foothold, and it pays well."

"Thalia," I said. "That's great."

"Thanks." She smiled, pulling a tube of lipstick out of her purse. She walked over to the mirror and began reapplying, talking while she did so. "You can hang out here for the meantime, though. Take a shower, because you smell like manure."

"Gee."

"Don't get offended. I'm sure you've been taking trains and Greyhounds for hours." She smacked her lips together and shoved the lipstick back into her purse. "And, Annabeth…"

"Yeah?"

She walked over and gave me a hug. Thalia smelled nice, too, like freshly-mown grass. It was a burnt, sort of tangy smell, but in a pleasant way. "Hang in there, okay? It's never as bad as it seems. Get some sleep. Everything feels better after a nap."

"Or worse."

"Nah. That's a myth." She dimpled and pulled back. "I shouldn't be long. I'll be back at eight to check in on you. My roommates-their names are Zoë and Phoebe-are out of town, but if they ask questions, tell them to call me."

"I don't want you to have to worry about me."

"Oh, please. It's a nice change of pace. Once upon a time, you were the one worrying about me." She grinned and opened the door. "See you."

"Thalia, wait," I said, and she stopped.

"Yeah?"

I swallowed. "Thank you."

She just smirked. "Anytime, bitch."

And then I was alone, and the whirlwind known as Thalia Grace was gone.

I WAS NOT the kind of girl that ran away. I was level-headed most of the time, even if I was stubborn. I didn't do rash things like head down to the train station and get a ticket to L.A. It wasn't me.

Dad like to say I had my eye on the prize. "That's my girl," he'd say proudly, but he wasn't proud of me so much as my row of As on my report card and my squeaky-clean record.

But that day, that morning, as I stood in front of the train station, I had felt less like my father and more like my mother. It was an unexpected change, but one that I welcomed all the same. And that was how my summer in Los Angeles began.

This is a story about a lot of things. It's a story about love. It's a story about family. It's a story about self-discovery. But most of all, this is a story about how sometimes, every once in awhile, you just have to take that leap and run.

A/N: I haven't decided if I'm going to continue this or not; I guess I'll gauge it on what you guys tell me. Thanks so much; let me know what you thought!