Monday rolls around too prematurely.
I let the autumn sunlight penetrate my eyes through the curtain as my phone's alarm vibrates beside my bed.
It's not until the rhythm of the vibrations change that I finally remove myself from the sheets.
My heart clenches in my chest as I unlock the phone and silence the alarm.
It's Nathan.
[10/07 – 06:31]
NATHAN: vic
NATHAN: shit
NATHAN: oh fukk i fucced up
NATHAN: did sum stuupd shit
NATHAN: im fukin ded
I shower and adorn my cashmere sweater with a tight knot in the pit of my stomach.
Nathan never texts me like this. His command of the English language can get pretty questionable when he's loaded on whatever shit Frank has that only a Prescott could afford, but the messages are always detached. Controlled.
This is a plea for help. I feel it deep in my core. Something is wrong.
Overcome by a powerful feeling of pity, I apply the lightest coating of make-up and leave my room.
The Everyday Heroes entry lies nestled underneath a pile of images taken on Friday night. Specifically, between a selfie with Nathan and a blurry image of Kate locking lips with some boy whose name I will never know.
I'm all but blind to Taylor's latest addition to Kate's slate.
Will bang 4 JESUS followed by a crude scribble of a steaming pile of shit with a ha ha ha tacked onto the end.
A distant part of my mind wonders how much Kate cares about this.
It's when I push open the door and hurry up the staircase to the boy's dorms that my brain registers something that is deeply off.
Without fail Kate plays her shitty violin at the break of dawn every single fucking weekday.
Today the halls are silent.
He sits on the edge of his bed in relative darkness.
But even in the dim light I can see the dismal state of his bedroom.
A poster is torn in two. A lamp is shattered, the fragments spread across the carpet. The couch is overturned.
Oddly enough, my attention focuses on the open boxes of pills on Nathan's dresser and the colourful meds that spill out like candy.
"Shit, Nathan."
All this is before I notice his appearance. I actually have to place my hand to my mouth like some clichéd sappy movie.
There's a red mark on the side of his face and his hair is more dishevelled than I think I've ever seen it. Deep, deep bags encircle his glazed eyes. One hand is clutching his phone for dear life, and the other is defensively placed in front of his crotch. A whimper that is almost silent comes from his lips.
I don't know if I want to cry or run away.
All I can say for certain is that there is more to Nathan Prescott than I will ever know.
It takes a whispered "Fuck" from Nathan's mouth for me to make up my mind.
I sit on the bed next to him, consciously moving a pile of Rachel Amber posters that are half-buried beneath the sheets. He doesn't seem to care as a handful fall to the ground.
"Hey," I begin, feeling horribly tense and upset and wishing this entire situation wasn't happening. "Nate. Talk to me."
Two minutes of silence happen first. Nathan just looks at a point on the wall with distant eyes. I didn't notice it before, but there is a definite tremble as he sits there.
Tears roll down pained cheeks as his mouth opens. "Fuck, I… shit. I fucked up."
"Okay?" I say. "Care to fill a girl in?" There's the distinct feeling that I'm walking on eggshells. Too much curiosity could prove deadly for the both of us.
"I didn't mean to," he says between hitched breaths. "There was the bar and the weed and I don't know and… M… my dad gave me the new meds but I didn't take them and then she…" His words are swallowed up by sobs.
I hesitate on my own words for a moment, torn between wanting to know the truth and telling Nathan what he needs to hear. "I'm not sure what you're on about, but there's no such thing as a fuck-up you can't get out of with the right connections, resources, or money. Things which we have a fuckton of."
"It's..." Nathan says, his voice breaking. "Not that simple. I didn't take the meds and he'll know I fucked up and… Jesus shit."
The movement is so sudden I let out a yelp. Nathan reaches over, grips a Rachel Amber poster, and tears it to shreds. "Your fault," he says to the poster. "Fuck you, Rachel. Fuck you for doing this to me. If you hadn't… bitch. You brought this to us."
This is one of those things that I know for a fact Nathan will never spill. Rachel Amber went missing pretty soon after I came to Blackwell, so I didn't know her as well as Nathan did. But if the mere thought of her has driven Nathan to this state, then…
I don't finish the thought. I grab a poster and destroy it myself.
We get through a dozen posters each before Nathan just drops the one in his hands and weeps. I let him lean on my shoulder and soak my cashmere with his tears.
I don't move, letting the distraught, hiccuping sobs stab deep into my being. Pity drives me to wrap an arm around the most dangerous person in Blackwell Academy and not let go until he is pacified and calm and sane.
The moment he pulls away my phone buzzes. "Probably Taylor or Courtney," I offer softly. "Probably pissed they have to start the Monday morning slutshaming by themselves."
Nathan doesn't seem to register it. "I… I have class," he finally says. He sounds so small and weak and so broken. Nathan Prescott. What's happening to you? "I should… I'm sorry."
"Yeah," I say. "You should probably clean yourself up. Skipping class would just be the icing on this particularly shitty cake." I move to stand up, but Nathan puts a hand on my shoulder. The touch is surprisingly tender, devoid of all the jittery motions that are ingrained into his character at this point.
"Thanks, Vic." I don't think I've ever heard something so sincere come from Nathan Prescott's mouth.
"Don't mention it," I reply as another buzz shatters the silence. "See you soon."
As I pull open the door and step out into the hallway, I pay no attention to the handgun manual under Nathan's camera.
Nor do I look back. If I do, I fear my heart will break.
And I can't do that. In class, I have an image to maintain.
So instead I don my armour and block out Nathan's snivelling.
[10/07 – 07:25]
TAYLOR: vic omg where ARE you girl?
TAYLOR: you missed not-so-virgin mary's slutwalk of shame
TAYLOR: PLEASE tell me you saw kate's slate at least
VICTORIA: Sorry, Taylor.
VICTORIA: I had to go beg my parents for money like a fucking hobo.
VICTORIA: That's the last time I carry cash when we're near Frank. :/
TAYLOR: L M A O
VICTORIA: And yes, I saw.
VICTORIA: The steam marks on the shit? That's the real everyday hero here. XP
TAYLOR: glad you liked it vic
TAYLOR: she should feel shitty for being a viral slut
VICTORIA: For a Christian she sure had no qualms about breaking that old commandment.
VICTORIA: You know, "Thou shalt not be a slutty whore"?
TAYLOR: you're slaying me here vic! ;'D
TAYLOR: also am i hearing new slate message inspo here?
TAYLOR: and don't even get me STARTED on juliet omf G
VICTORIA: Now, now. Save some surprise, okay?
One good thing about being an artist is that you have an innate talent for lying.
When your career thrives around making false images believable, false words seem that much easier.
It doesn't need explaining why I tear Rachel Amber's face off the wall and throw it into the trash.
If she managed to reduce Nathan Prescott to a wreck, then the bitch had better stay missing.
Because if I ever see Rachel Amber, I will give her hell.
Juliet Watson is red with fury as she pounds against Dana's door like a woman possessed. "Dana, I swear to God I will hurt you if you do not open this door!"
Next to me, Taylor whispers, "Dana's at morning cheer practice. I erased that message before Juliet even woke up."
"We are such evil beeyotches," Courtney giggles quietly.
"Yes. Yes we are," I say.
As Max Caulfield walks by, we pretend her judgemental glares don't exist.
Twenty minutes before class starts, I decide my Everyday Heroes entry isn't good enough yet.
Oh well. I have photography last period. I'm sure Mr Jefferson will understand.
By noon, Kate's video has gone well and truly viral within the walls of Blackwell Academy.
Even the quiet and nerdy Brooke and Warren huddle over a phone for seven minutes with incredulous smiles on their faces.
Weird how the mockery of one student can bring an entire school together.
I don't have any classes with Nathan today and as such I can't do much about the quiet dread sitting in my stomach.
It's distracting enough that I give a wrong answer. And that is something I never do.
Kate's video reaches a million views the moment I start eating lunch.
It's incredible, actually, how quickly this thing spread. If there was ever any hope of being a good person and salvaging Kate's reputation by erasing the video, it's long gone.
"I swear half the students on campus have reposted it," Courtney says as she sips a Coke. Her eyes are fixated on her silver phone and the image of Kate locking lips with some hipster guy that plays out on a screen coated in small scratches.
"We've gotta put her on the VIP list for the End of the World for sure," Taylor says. "Who knows? Maybe there's a sequel on the horizon."
"We've got photography last period. I'm sure Mr Jefferson wouldn't mind if we asked her about it." Courtney's smirk is wide and devious.
Our laughter lasts longer than would be comfortable.
From under a tree, Stella looks up at us with raised eyebrows, but quickly returns to her notes.
And that's the worst thing, really. Nobody actually gives a shit about Kate Marsh, or anyone but themselves.
If I wasn't who I am, I would probably despise every second of being here.
[10/07 – 14:19]
NATHAN: cpradrmj
[10/07 – 14:20]
VICTORIA: Nathan?
VICTORIA: Hello?
I get no reply.
I can only hope he caught his phone or something and that his nonsense doesn't mean anything worrying.
Jefferson's class passes by with the weirdest sense of déjà vu.
It starts when my phone buzzes and Max Caulfield suddenly has some kind of spasm from the back of the class. My eyes shift away from her bewildered face and instead drift to the phone.
It's Zachary. Ugh. The oaf probably thinks there's something serious going on. Whatever. Dana and Juliet can solve that clusterfuck themselves. I'm done.
Then Taylor throws a note across the class – Dear Kate, we love your porn video! - XOXO Blackwell Academy – which lands on Kate's head. Taylor smirks beside me, but I'm struck by a weird sensation of familiarity. Just the stress getting to you, Victoria. What you need is some serious blaze and chill time.
"Now, can anybody give me an example of a photographer who perfectly captured the human condition in black and white?" Mark Jefferson is asking to the class.
Even though I kinda zoned out for a moment, the answer still presents itself immediately. I raise my hand as my phone stops vibrating. "Diane Arbus."
This is all new stuff, but why does it feel like we've gone through it before?
"There you go, Victoria," Mark says with that haughty smile that does things to me. When I first heard that the photography teacher was a renowned photographer, I saw it as another advantage. Only when I found it it was Mark fucking Jefferson of all people, well…
You can't just do nothing when there's someone that hot. Yeah, it's such a stereotypical teenage girl thing. Fucking sue me.
"Why Arbus?"
And once again, the answer comes to me naturally. "Because of her images of hopeless faces. You feel, like, totally haunted by the sad eyes of those mothers and children."
Then Mr Jefferson launches into a lecture about capturing people at the height of their innocence. It's all totally new, but not at the same time.
Jefferson does have a tendency to go off on tangents. Maybe he's said similar things before.
I turn my head to look at Max Caulfield a couple of seconds before she actually takes the selfie, almost like I'm compelled to look over there.
Maybe I'm just thinking too much into this.
Jefferson quickly hushes the class and makes the shittiest pun on the planet. "Selfie-expression"? Really?
I take a second to remind myself what he stands for. This man could be the difference between my success and failure. In the long run, attending a prestigious school means very little. The art world is a relentless, unforgiving environment. I can't afford to lose sight of the prize.
"Could you please tell us the name of the process that gave birth to the first self portrait?"
I hide my amusement behind a blank face. We won't be studying the Daguerrian Process until a few months from now; that chapter is much further ahead than where we are now. Maxine Caulfield, prepare to fall.
And then, impossibly, Max says, "The Daguerrian Process. Invented by a French painter named… Louis Daguerre. Around 1830."
It's almost as if my entire reality is displaced for a moment. That's… That's not something she should know. Every fibre of my being is telling me that she shouldn't have known that, and that I should have corrected her.
And instead, Mark Jefferson is praising her. Something acidic sticks in my throat. Despite everything, Max Caulfield is actually pretty good at photography. But her shy awkwardness has kept her in place, and from presenting more than three images.
If she's only just now decided to step up her game…
A sense of dread fills me as I think about my unfinished Everyday Heroes entry. She could snatch it all away in the course of an afternoon.
I have to speak with Mr Jefferson. I have to.
This photo contest, lame as it is, is the most important thing right now. My entire future could rest on the outcome.
Mark is pretty receptive to me as I lean against his desk, exuding a false confidence cultivated over a lifetime.
Yes, I know I still have to submit an entry, and yes, I know I still have to do my homework.
But I need to convince him I truly am a cut above the rest.
He seems to buy it when I tell him how truly dedicated I am in this pursuit, and how I will accept nothing less than perfection. It softens the blow when I finally tell him my entry isn't ready. And still he seems receptive to what I'm saying.
Until he notices Max Caulfield rushing out of the classroom like it's the end of the world or something.
"I see you Max Caulfield," he says, suddenly diverting all his attention to her. "Don't even think about leaving here until you talk about your entry."
A look of venom works its way onto my face as Max reluctantly approaches us. She honestly looks like she wants to be anywhere but here right now; why the fuck is Mr Jefferson wasting his time on her?
You know why. She's the best photographer in the class. I pay no attention to this thought.
"I'm sorry Mr Jefferson, but I really need to—"
"Yes, excuse you," I snipe before she can finish. Almost nervously she plays with the strap of her bag. It's all some bullshit act of endearment. How can anyone fall for it?
It's both deeply upsetting and unsurprising, oddly enough, when Mr Jefferson says, "No, Victoria. Excuse us." He gives me a stern look that causes the most awful churning sensation in my stomach.
If it wasn't clear before, it's now apparent that Mark Jefferson's favourite student is Max Caulfield, of all people. It's so disgusting I want to run to the bathroom just to throw up.
"I'd never let one of photography's future stars avoid handing in her picture."
Future stars. Give me a fucking break. She's been here for a few weeks, and Mr Jefferson's fawning over her like she's the next big thing. Sure, her photos are good, but it's not like she'll ever do anything with them. She's too hipster to make it in the art world.
Max hesitates for a few moments, before finally saying, "I'm on top of it. I think John Lennon once said that 'Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans'."
Mr Jefferson's face lights up. "Max, you're on fire today. All the right answers. Good. Make sure you finish working on it by today. I have faith in you."
The entire exchange is so fucking nauseating.
"And as for you, Victoria," Mark says, giving me a stern gaze. I tense up. "It doesn't matter how devoted you are to your entry. The winner must be announced on Thursday night regardless of whether or not you turn your entry in." An unreadable expression crosses his face. "Just have it in by tomorrow, okay? You're a good photographer, Victoria. Don't shoot yourself in the foot in the pursuit of perfectionism, all right?"
When he walks over to Kate Marsh, who decided to take it upon herself to be his assistant for some unknown reason – probably to sleep with him as well, the slut – I waste no time in collecting my bag and leaving without another word.
I know when someone's being fake. In fact, even dense-as-fuck Max Caulfield would have seen how transparent Mr Jefferson was just now.
I'm just a 'good photographer'. Not 'one of photography's future stars'. What the fuck?
Obviously I have to step up my game. If I don't win this bullshit contest and Mom and Dad find out… The Chase Space will quickly become the Hell Space.
All my life they've told me how brutal the game has to be played. I've been prepared for this since I could operate a camera. And yet I'm still making all the amateur's mistakes.
It's pretty fucking shameful, to be honest.
Taylor and Courtney are standing by their lockers, waiting for me like loyal dogs waiting for their master. Sometimes I wonder how terrible it must be to be that desperate for acceptance and popularity.
"Hey Victoria," Taylor says. "How'd it go?"
"Mr Jefferson's still a pretentious bastard, Max Caulfield is still too hipster to live, and Kate Marsh is still God's favourite slut." I roll my eyes. "Wait until I submit my entry tomorrow. Then all this bullshit will be done with."
"Preach it, sister," Courtney says with a giggle. "You know—"
The fire alarm decides to start screaming at this very moment. I glance around to see every other student looking at each other in bewilderment and alarm.
"Ugh. What the fuck?" Taylor shouts over the high-pitched blare. "Seriously. This is not cool."
One minute later and David Madsen is herding us out of the building.
[10/07 – 16:13]
VICTORIA: Nate. Please tell me you heard that fire alarm bullshit.
VICTORIA: I swear to god I will punch whichever asshole decided that was a fun prank idea.
VICTORIA: Seriously. My ears are still ringing.
"Would Nathan Prescott please come to the front office. Thank you."
Courtney looks up at the speaker, flinching in surprise. "Looks like a certain rich kid's been a naughty boy."
Taylor giggles.
I pretend there's no dread bubbling up inside me. Nathan, what have you done?
"Seriously. I can't believe Kate Marsh is still trying to get into Mr Jefferson's pants. You'd think a little viral video would stop that," Taylor says, thumbing through her phone.
"Well, it's apparent that innate stupidity is a curse nearly all the sluts at Blackwell possess," I say, placing one hand on the step as I sit. Across from us, Zach and Logan are tossing a football around like mindless zombies. "I mean, why the fuck would Juliet even want to go for such a Neanderthal? If anything, we're doing the bitch a favour."
"True," Courtney says. "I saw her in science today, and man was she pissed." She smirks coyly. "Let's just say it's a good thing that she and Dana don't share any classes. Otherwise, Kate Marsh might have some competition for the most infamous student at Blackwell."
"Yeah," I say airily, glancing down at my phone. Still no reply from Nathan. What are you doing?
"Well, now both of them have to run into each other," Taylor says mischievously. "Shitstorm in T-minus…"
The afternoon sunlight is cut off by a figure standing in front of us. Max Caulfield, of course. She just stands there, looking at us for a few seconds with that bullshit front she puts on. She's not saying it, but it's there in her body language. Mr Jefferson's praise has made her look invincible. Just rub the salt in the wound, why don't you?
"Oh look, it's Max Caulfield, the selfie hoe of Blackwell," I say, standing up. Max looks at me defensively, with wide eyes. Like some kind of cornered animal. Well. Even if that's the case, two can play at the predator-prey analogy.
I circle her whilst Courtney and Taylor give jeering smiles. "What a lame gimmick. Even Mark – Mr Jefferson – falls for your waif hipster bullshit."
And yet Max still stares like she couldn't give two shits about what I'm saying. Unconsciously I fold my arms as a light chilly breeze blows through. "'The Daguerrian Process, Sir!' You could barely even say that." Keep your cool, Victoria. Keep your cool. "I guess you got your meds filled."
Taylor and Courtney don't laugh until I look at them.
Max still looks at me, saying nothing, as I sit back down, surrounded by my false solidarity. Not that I would ever rely on either of these bitches in a crisis. Already the stone step is cold even though I was sitting there only a few seconds ago. "Since you know all the answers, I guess you have to find another way into the dorm. We ain't moving." Translation: fuck off, bitch. This is what you get for playing the smart-ass photography protégée.
Max doesn't move, either. Overcome with irritation, I once again decide to try humiliation. Seems to be your party trick, Victoria. "Oh wait, hold that pose!"
I pull out my phone and snap a picture of Max staring there, dumbfounded. We can all play at this paparazzi crap. She rolls here eyes. I let a triumphant smile work its way onto my face. "So original. Don't worry, Max. I'll put a vintage filter on it right before I post it all over social medias."
Taylor and Courtney are looking at me expectantly, and Max is glaring with quiet fury. Time to deliver the final blow. "Now, why don't you go fuck your selfie?"
I receive one final glare from Max before she walks away. Good fucking riddance.
"She's just jealous of you, Victoria," Taylor says. "It's not your fault she can't take a good enough picture to enter the contest with."
The thing is, she probably can. And that's what frightens me the most. "It probably does explain why she was practically kissing Mr Jefferson's ass in class today."
There's a sudden low rumble. "Hey, what's that—" Courtney begins.
All at once the sprinklers erupt in a gushing stream of water that succeeds in soaking our clothes and bags pretty fucking thoroughly. Taylor lets out a surprised shriek.
"What the hell?" I say as the water soaks through to my skin. "Are you kidding? Look at this?" The most basic rule of human existence: do not fucking mix cashmere and water.
The money this sweater cost… if it's damaged, there will be blood.
Courtney decides now is the perfect moment to place a "supportive" hand on my shoulder. "Chill, Victoria. It's just water—"
I pull away violently. "Yeah. Water on my cashmere! Do you know how much this fucking outfit cost?" This seems to shut down their pathetic attempts at pacifying me. Yeah. This one outfit probably cost more than your scholarships.
"You look… great…" Taylor tries to offer, and oh my fucking God I have never heard such a shallow attempt at trying to regain my favour. I elect to ignore it. For her sake.
"I can't even chill on the steps." In the autumn air, a chill is already setting in. Jesus. Can this day get any fucking worse?
I spoke too soon. It's like rule 101 of comedy. Never say the cursed words "it can't get any worse". Because guess what. It can.
Above me, Samuel reaches to grab his can of paint when it falls off the hook. There's no warning before it hits the ground and a wave of white paint completely fucking soaks me. "No way! No fucking way!"
"Oh, Victoria. You okay?" Courtney says, but I bat her away. Nothing about this fucking situation is okay. Nothing.
Samuel is climbing down the ladder and walking towards me sympathetically. A chill runs up my spine. "Ol' Samuel is sorry. Wet paint is not good for hair, nope. Sorry—"
"Get the hell away from me, weirdo!" I spit, backing up. Taylor and Courtney are flocking around me, trying to be useful and trying to make sure I'm not pissed at them. How fucking shallow.
"Hold on, hold on," Courtney says, her eyes flashing with worry. "We'll get some towels. We'll be right back!"
"So move your ass before I dry!"
And they're off like obedient drones wishing to appease their queen bee. At least they're not here to piss me off even further.
I begin to shiver as I sit on the steps, willing for a massive fucking black hole to swallow me up. There's no way nobody else saw this. I just hope to God it was nobody important.
(In all this bullshit, a certain contact on my phone slips my mind, not to be remembered until the sun is going down and snow is in the air.)
Max Caulfield of all people walks up the path, and stops a few feet in front of me.
Bitter, vulnerable, and humiliated, I have nothing to lose. "What do you want, Max?"
I consider, briefly, that this encounter could go in one of two very differing ways.
However, luck finally decides to be on my side for once.
"I am sorry," Max says and seems actually genuine. I sit up in surprise. "That's an awesome cashmere coat…"
I try to ignore the feeling of paint drying in my hair and instead look up and down my outfit. It'll take a miracle to salvage it. "It was. But there will be another." I have never felt so much like utter shit before.
"Well, you always seem to know how to pick the right outfits." It's honestly like I've stepped into the Twilight Zone or something. Max Caulfield, pretentious selfie slut, is giving me a genuine compliment. And I'm accepting it. Can paint fumes still get you high even if you're not directly inhaling them?
"I do have some talent," I tell her, trying to ignore how my teeth are chattering. "Mr Jefferson told me—"
"I've seen your pictures," Max says, almost enthusiastically. Seriously. It's as if I've entered some alternate reality or something. "You have a great eye. Richard Avedon-esque." And—
—It's stupid, but that one comment means more to me than any of Mark Jefferon's bullshit fake praise. You have got to be tripping balls, Victoria.
"He's one of my heroes," I finally say. If I am losing it, then I might as well go all the way. "Thanks, Max."
There's a moment of silence where I can feel the paint hardening on my face and I am convinced this is what hell feels like. "I hope those sluts get a towel before they hang a sign on me," I say to Max, who seems genuinely amused by my comment. Too fucking weird.
Max gives me a faint smile and… fuck it. This girl isn't deserving of all this bitter hate and envy. She had every right to be bitchy after what I did, but instead she's showing decency. Just goes to show that you can never truly know a person.
"You deserve a better shot," I tell her, pulling out my phone. Luckily it survived the chaos. "Sorry about blocking you, and… and the 'go fuck your selfie'."
IMG201310071644 – Are you sure you want to delete this image?
I remove the picture before Max can speak again. She deserves better than to be caught up in all this petty bullshit teen drama. "That was mean… but pretty funny."
"Just one of those days, you know?" And it feels like there's a moment of actual solidarity between us. It's weird, but not wrong. Better than the alternative.
"I know exactly what you mean, Victoria," Max says with a small smile. "I'll see you later."
I move aside to let her pass, and will myself to ignore the cold dampness of the stairs.
As I sit on my own, with nothing but the sounds of meatheads tossing a ball and Alyssa turning the pages of some trashy novel for company, it occurs to me that I was probably played by Max Caulfield.
She wasn't trying to bury the hatchet. She was just using you to get into the dorms as quickly as possible. All those compliments? Bullshit lies to get you to go along with what she wanted.
Feeling shittier than ever, I pull out my phone again. At least she wasn't a bitch to me. She didn't try and start some more shit. I have to give her that at least.
Still, to use someone like that is a pretty fucking low blow.
[10/07 – 17:06]
VICTORIA: BTW THX BUT WE'RE NOT FRIENDS
Even so, I don't regret deleting the photo.
I've started enough shit at Blackwell for one week.
The towels are ultimately ineffectual. All they serve to do is smear the paint that hasn't dried. Parts of my hair stick to my scalp and if it has to be cut out Samuel is losing his job.
Taylor ends up paying the bus fare to the dry-cleaners.
[10/07 – 18:12]
NATHAN: fukn rachel amber
NATHAN: all her fault what a hore
NATHAN: i hate
I change my clothes in the dry-cleaner's bathroom and rinse my hair as best I can using the sink.
Taylor and Courtney ask no questions as I leave without a word.
I find him sitting at one of the benches on campus with a camera.
My stomach drops as I see the scratch marks on the left side of his face. "Nathan..."
"Just. Don't ask," he says, his voice strained. "Don't."
I sit in front of him and we look at each other in silence. "Shitty day, huh?" I say softly.
Nathan is shaking, but I don't comment on it. "Fuck this entire school right up the asshole," he says with venom. The setting sun behind him almost seems to fuel his fire. "Fuck Principal Wells, fuck Max Caulfield, fuck Rachel Amber."
"Max Caulfield?" I ask.
"Bitch though she could be a smart-ass," Nathan says. "Tried to sell slander to Principal Wells to get me in the shit just 'cause she's jealous of the Vortex Club. Set the record straight, though."
Drama between Max and Nathan? I guess there's more going on at Blackwell than I care to know.
"Oh Jesus Christ what the FUCK!"
Nathan suddenly punches the table and reels away. My heart skips more than a few beats. "Nathan?"
"Oh fuck it's happening. It's gonna happen." Genuine terror tinged with madness laces Nathan's words.
"Nathan, you're seriously weirding me the fuck out right now—"
"IT'S ALL HER FAULT!" Nathan shrieks. "If… if Rachel Amber hadn't… If she hadn't… SHIT!"
"Nate?"
When he finally comes to, tears are coming down his face. My heart flutters in my chest like a trapped butterfly. "All her fault… All her fault…"
Not for the first time, the thought enters my head. Rachel Amber, what the fuck did you do?
I always saw her as an aloof, too-cool-for-school kind of girl. But, as I'm quickly realising, everyone is shrouded in layer upon layer of secrecy.
And the fact still stands. If the mere mention of her can make Nathan so vulnerable, then she's obviously done some fucking terrible shit.
My hate for her grows more and more with every passing hour.
When Nathan's phone buzzes, he looks at me like a deer caught in the headlights. "I've… I've gotta take this privately," he says. A few seconds later, his eyes mist over and I know more freaky shit's about to happen.
"It's cool," I say shakily, standing to me feet. "I'll see you tomorrow, Nathan."
I quickly hurry out of earshot, becoming increasingly aware that there is something horribly wrong surrounding Nathan Prescott.
And for some reason, it terrifies me.
[10/07 – 18:44]
COURTNEY: OMG VICTORIA I AM SO SORRY ABOUT YOUR SWEATER GIRL
COURTNEY: IF THERE'S ANYTHING I CAN DO I'M HERE FOR YOU
VICTORIA: You know, all that shit with the paint did mean I wasted a lot of time I could have used working on my entry. :/
VICTORIA: There's no way I can do my homework AND submit a photo.
COURTNEY: DON'T WORRY I'M ON IT
COURTNEY: JUST FOCUS ON YOUR PHOTO I'VE GOT THE HOMEWORK COVERED
VICTORIA: You are a life-saver.
VICTORIA: Thanks Courtney!
COURTNEY: ANYTHING FOR MY GIRL VICTORIA
At least there are some perks to having minions.
As I walk over to the dorms, I stop by the noticeboard. It's plastered with Rachel Amber posters.
The root of all Nathan's problems. It's you, bitch. You're the one fucking my friend up, even when you're not here. It's always got to be about you, doesn't it?
Furious, I tear a poster off the board, ripping it in half in the process.
It flutters to the ground as the first snowflake touches my skin. What the hell?
I look up to see an entire flurry of white flakes descending from the golden sky.
It's only just autumn. There's no way this should be possible.
Well, you know what? Of course this shitty day would be heralding the fucking apocalypse.
I stand there for an unknown amount of time, mesmerised and disturbed as millions and millions of individual white flakes whirl from above to touch the ground and melt into the pavement like a graceful, powerful, silent force of nature.
It's hauntingly beautiful.
God, I wish I had my camera on me.