chapter one:

White Pine Bay was home to all sorts of people. There was the drug dealers, the drug deliverers, the law enforcement, not to mention a city council, a motel, and an intriguing little dramatic story. The town was aware of the peculiar boy, Norman, who often did quirky things or said quirky things. In all, he was a bizarre young man. The mother, Norma, was equivalently... quirky. Dressing in the fashion of late 1950's, the dynamic and... quirky duo were known for their questionable behavior.

That's how Caroline Jacobson thought about the Bates'. They were quirky little human beings with a little bit of blood on their hands and dirt under their porcelain nails. They ran their hotel like no one ever died on their kitchen floor, and presented their perfect faces at city council meetings like a body hadn't laid on their front steps. How did Caroline know all this? She had a tendency to put her nose into places it didn't belong. And also she was Remo Wallace's niece, which did help to get the information she always craved.

One day, she decided she was going to befriend the... quirky Norman Bates.


He was sitting outside the ice cream store, under a hot baking sun, with chocolate vanilla being licked into his mouth. His brown, infantile eyes scanned the busy main road, while his bony fingers drummed a beat on his right knee. He wore a plaid t-shirt and beige shorts, almost like he was going to the golf club. An air of innocence, almost purity, dominated the boy as he joyfully lapped at the rapidly melting ice cream.

"Norman Bates, right?" I asked, my voice drawling out of the sound of cars and life around me. I shielded my eyes from the hot sun with one hand while the other hid in the pockets of my shorts. The boy looked up curiously, smiling his childish grin, and nodded.

"Yup," he said, giddy, "that's me."

I huffed and nodded. He was chewing on his bottom lip like it was a piece of chocolate and I had the apathetic urge to rip the lip from his teeth.

"You are?" he asked, cocking a head to the side. His dark hair caught the sunlight and reflected strands of crimson.

"Caroline Jacobson," I answered. He stuck out his head.

God dammit. What is it with people and physical contact? Why does a human need to establish some type of skin to skin contact to be able to introduce his or herself? Just the thought of touching someone made me want to vomit. I was not a germ freak or a super hygienic person, there was just something wrong with me. The feel of skin on my own was gut wrenching.

When Norman saw that his hand would linger in mid air forever, he awkwardly retracted and placed it back on his knee. "Sorry," I mumbled, "I don't do the hand shaking thing."

The peculiar boy shrugged amiably and resumed the licking of his ice cream. He didn't notice the small spot of the treat that had fallen on his shirt, but I did and I could foreshadow an angry Norma.

"You need any help at school?" I asked, leaning on one leg and crossing my arms. The sun had managed to create a sheen of sweat on the length of my body.

"I'm managing," he choked between laps. "I've got an amazing Language Arts teacher. Do you know Mrs. Watson?"

I smiled sincerely. "She's also my teacher, Norman," I answered. He frowned. "I have the same classes as you."

He brightened up, smiling and showing all his pearly whites. Muscles stretched as he craned his neck to view me better from under the sun. The abominable round boiling sphere in the sky had made sight almost impossible.

"Oh, yes!" he exclaimed. "I recognize you! Pardon my rudeness. I've had a hard time catching your features under this sun."

I huffed. He was interesting. What kind of seventeen year old boy spoke with such vocabulary? I mean, for my essays I busted my ass to write like he talks. However, on my everyday conversations I merely used common language.

"Yeah, the weathers been giving everyone a hard time," I sighed, looking across the street and seeing the blurry outlines of the horizon. "My old folks have been having heat strokes since this heat came out."

The remark made Norman laugh, but it was a rehearsed, polite laugh. I knew what I had just said was not even close to funny, let alone laugh-wholeheartedly hilarious. But I admired Norman's cue for politeness and respect. He knew I had tried to break the ice, to alleviate the awkwardness.

"Look," I started, "I need help with that personal response Watson gave us last week. I suck ass at those things. And I saw how perfect of a student you are, Norman. And even though I really want to be your friend, I'm also asking for help."

I sucked on my bottom lip, staring at him while he contemplated the offer. "No one's perfect," he mumbled. "Let alone me. But I'd be happy to help you, Caroline."

I smiled all my pearly whites this time. "Thank you!"

"And I'd also like to be your friend as well," he replied, throwing his ice cream cone in the garbage.

"Do you need a ride home?" I asked. He nodded.


The Bates Motel, situated on the town's most common road, was a gloomy little place. The family had re-patched it up very well, but there was still the air of the old Seafairer Motel lingering. I've heard many legendary horror stories about the old place, but never once had the police confirmed the said myths. Until Norma Bates bought the rundown thing, it had always been the creaking old place that Keith Summers owned. And now Norma had killed him.

But sh, I'm not supposed to know that.

Norman sat like he'd been polished by the Queen of England and educated by the Pope. His hands remained on his knees while he politely smiled at me whenever we made eye contact. Crossing over onto the road leading to the motel, I changed the music to some rap, the powerful bass pounding on the seats and joining with our heartbeats. I wasn't fond of rap music, but just the raw power the loud bass gave off was suiting enough for me.

We arrived at the motel and I parked my Jeep by the side of the office. Norman and I both got out and I followed him up the million steps leading to his front porch. I tried to ignore the reddish stain on the stone, but the need to stare was overpowering.

"My mother is home," Norman declared, almost frightened. "I hope you don't mind?"

I shook my head.

The door to the old Summers' place creaked open, hanging on its petty hinges as both Norman and I strolled in. Creepy, eerie silence washed up to my ears and the heaviness of the Bates/Summers' home crashed over me. It was impossibly gloomy and murky in the house. The only sunlight came from the kitchen, and as Norman walked me to the said room, I caught sight of the living room and its closed drapes, old fashioned cushions and couches, and the old black and white television. The walls were dark, a shade of brown that screamed murder house. Only the kitchen, that nursed semi-old furniture, was basking in sunlight. The smell of cooking break tickled my nostrils as Norman walked me into the Mr. Net smelling room.

"Mother," he announced. I cringed. Who the fuck calls their mom mother?

"Oh, Norman, I made some-"

Norma Bates stopped midway from giving her son a hug and kiss before her clear blue eyes caught mine. She let out a small sound of surprise and looked me over. I could tell the judgment in her eyes as she evidently took in my appearance. Deff Leppard tank top, light jean shorts, fishnet stockings, lazily laced combat boots, corn row braids in my hair and eyeliner on my water line. Some said the typical bad girl look. I said my everyday look. Her shiny eyes landed on my shoulder tattoo and she gasped silently.

Norma was a posh little woman. She was little, but wore heels to show authority. Her light blonde hair was perfectly trimmed and styled as it framed a pretty face with innocent features.

"Who are you?" she asked in a voice mixed with disgust and friendliness.

"Mom, this is Caroline Jacobson. I'm helping her with her personal response for Mrs. Watson," Norman cleared out. I smiled and waved at her slowly.

And then she did the thing. She stuck out her hand and demanded I shake it. "I'm happy to meet you," she said. "I'm always glad to meet Norman's friends." A smile, showing perfectly aligned teeth, stretched on her mouth. I gulped. Oh shit.

There was an awkward silence and a moment where the stillness in the room became impossible. Before I could puke or run, I merely touched her hand and shook it once. A surprised and confused look covered her delicate, feminine features before she smiled.

"Norman," she said, looking at her son like she knew he was going to rob a bank. "Can I speak to you? Hm, in the stairs please?"

"Of course, mother."

Yuck. Mother.

"We'll be right back, honey. You can sit. Do you want anything to drink?" Norma put a hand on the bottom of my back and I felt bile at the back of my throat. All I could feel was the hand, and the burning sensation of her fingertips burning into my flesh. Please, I thought. Don't touch me.

"Water, please," I managed to croak out. She giggled nervously, poured me a glass of lemonade, and hushed her son out into the hallway.

I gulped down the lemonade, that I did not fucking want, and set the glass on the table. Hushed, harsh voices came to me from the hall. I smirked.

Getting up from my chair, the noises in the hall increased and I found myself slowly inching towards the source. My ears craned for any words as I silently made my way out the kitchen. I knew the type like Norma would warn her son to stay away from me. They always do. I was the type of girl that mothers were perpetually afraid of. Not for their own skins, but for their sons. They didn't want their perfect little dickhead boys to marry a tattooed, careless girl that wore fishnet leggings and drove dirty Jeep Wranglers.

A mother of some guy I was seeing five months ago had told me that I was the nightmare of every mother. I was the screaming terror of the mothers who wanted their sons to marry posh blonde women and have red cheeked babies. I had just one fucking tattoo, and now every family snatched their sons away from me like I was quick sand.

"Norman, please," Norma begged in a whisper. "You barely know this girl and you bring her into our house? Norman, she has a tattoo, and she dresses like a stripper."

"Mother!" Norman gasped. "You are one to judge!"

"Norman, honey, I wouldn't have judged her if she hadn't acted all weird when she shook my hand." I rolled my eyes. Humans and their physical contact.

"She doesn't do the hand shaking thing," Norman answered quietly. I smiled at his defense.

"Well, Norman, I'm just saying I don't want you being friends with her," the mother countered. "I think you can do better."

What am I, a school grade? I huffed and continued to listen.

Just as Norman was about to say something, the front door swung open ferociously and in stepped a dirty blonde haired man. The loud clamping of his boots scared me as he swung the door closed and looked up into the stairs. His blue grey eyes scanned what must have been a secretive mess in the stairs before they landed on me and narrowed.

"Who's this?" he asked. His voice was scruff, manly, and a bit attractive. He was rough around the edges and messy, not to mention smelly. An unshaven stubble adorned his chin and the smell of weed smoke and dog shit reeked off him.

"Oh, this is Caroline Jacobson," Norman nervously answered, galloping down the stairs.

The man rose a brow and looked me over. I froze, unable to move under his piercing, intimidating gaze. "I'm Dylan," he said all at once.

"Caroline, this is my brother, he lives here," Norman clarified. I nodded.

Dylan walked right passed me and into the kitchen, the foul smell of his body making me gag internally. I had a good idea where this man worked and who he worked for. It was no secret White Pine Bay lived off of weed money.

"Caroline, I'm really sorry to say this," Norma started as she slowly made her way down the stairs, "but this is not really a good time for visitors. I'd like you to leave please."

I smirked cockily. I knew this was going to happen. A posh woman wearing a flower dress would not dare let her oh so beloved son hang out with a tattooed, dark haired girl with a foreshadowed bad attitude.

"Sure," I mumbled, brushing passed her. "T'was nice to meet the Bates finally!" I shouted before opening the door and letting myself out.

Why did I have the fucking stupid idea to implant myself in the Bates' lives? Like why in the world did I ever think that'd be fun? Seriously.