In the hallowed halls of Casper high, the final late bell rung unceremoniously as it always did at precisely eight-forty-five in the morning.
Valerie Grey came through the hallway entrance towards the front of the campus. Lugging her cumbersome hoverboard along, she hurriedly shuffled through the halls. The reflection on the sparse trophy case darted in tandem with her.
Grey's wet boots squelched against the checkerboard tile. She managed to get a coat over her jumpsuit as she burst through those double doors, but that would only hide her for so long.
Skidding to a halt in front of the girl's lavatory, Val dove inside.
Flicking the deadbolt over, she turned to face a dozen or so vacant stalls.
Finally, she was alone.
And here's where she would break down.
Valerie let go of a monstrous wail that had been building behind her ribs since she landed. It was a resounding noise that came from her center of gravity— a furious and hateful roar. She yelled until the air got thin and her face got a shade darker. Until her throat and lungs ached with withdrawal from the delicate balance of nitrogen and oxygen that made up our atmosphere.
The side of her fist found the door. It rattled in protest of her strength, but she didn't care.
The sound was satisfying enough, so she punched it a few more times until the adrenaline waned and her knuckles hurt.
Still in the reaction phase of her emotional eruption, She kicked over the tall trashcan to her side. The metal container clattered and spilled its contents like a wounded animal. Crumpled, damp paper towels and etcetera tumbled out to the floor.
Val began unbuttoning her flight suit; she seethed to herself, "He can't keep getting away. He has to make a mistake sometime…"
Her suit and body armor hit the floor and were exchanged for the civilian clothes in her bag. Gently she pulled her mountain of curly hair out of her hood, letting it rest on her shoulders. She put in her stud earrings, securing the backs.
In the dirty mirror of the girls' bathroom— blotted with flecks of water and lip prints— Valerie stared at her reflection. She was such a pretty girl. It was ironic that she didn't like mirrors. Since the age of Narcissus, there was always something off about reflections. The recognition of her face made her frustrated. There was this growing irritation that she was going to be stuck in this body, and in this predetermined life, with these predetermined outcomes, she would be trapped as the loser. It was the recognition that she was still human despite everything, and there was only so much she could do— she was fallible. Val was more human than she'd like to admit. A human with all the fixings.
She was human in a world that outmatched her ability to keep up with it. She was at war.
The bare minimum she could do was correct the makeup smudged with her perspiration. Val produced a tube of concealer from her pencil bag and approached the discolored rings around her eyes— when something caused her attention to splinter.
It was an amateurish sharpie doodle on the outside wall of the crimson toilet stall. While the inner machinations of her peers' collective consciousness did not interest her— this inconsequential nothing, this drawing nearly made her scream again.
The drawing was of a spikey-haired boy in a black bodysuit giving the thumbs up, paired with a speech bubble that said, 'Don't worry ladies, it's not necrophilia if you do it with me.'
If it wasn't obvious who the artist was depicting, the eyes were filled in with the greenest marker money could buy.
Possessed by a pure rage, when Val's foot made contact with the metal, it warped as if trying to make an exact cast of her ankle. She was a tornado; as soon as she touched down, nothing was safe.
She had to get out of here. Snatching up her hoverboard, Val pressed the button expecting the device to collapse into a more portable form— but it didn't—
Shit . This day keeps gettin' better.
"You've got to be freakin' kidding, Vlad!"
Val had sent in a ticket about this at least five times now! She understood she wasn't precisely the prodigal hunter at the Master's Blasters agency, but she didn't deserve the cold shoulder like this! Perhaps the button could be convinced to work if Grey pressed it harder— longer— maybe? If this day was gonna keep handing her curveballs, she might as well throw in the towel! Even if Valerie weren't running late, she wouldn't want to be on her cell all day wasting minutes with that joke of an automated support line. The button gave its usual cold robotic beep but refused to do its elementary operation.
Fine. The manual way it is.
With so much struggling, Val forced the mechanism and folded the board herself, the gears fighting her every step of the way.
Now a flat square of tin and clockwork, she shoved it into her backpack. Val pulled with the remaining momentum from her emotional high, Undoing the deadbolt. Only to be met face to face with—
"Uh… Hey…"
Her ex-boyfriend. Kwan Byun-Ji. The sophomore linebacker for the Casper High football team. What's Amity Park without running into a few ghosts?
The break-up was mutual. It wasn't on bitter terms or any such dramatic flairs that teenage affairs tend to have. For all intents and purposes, Kwan was about as good a friend as he was a boyfriend. He was good to everyone he came across. Too good, some would say. You would have to squint to find the flaws, but they were there. Kwan often spread himself thin. He was a people pleaser. He wasn't built for fighting. It wasn't in him to be demanding or stand up for himself.
Val would miss him how someone would miss their favorite dish. She loved him. He made her feel good. But neither of them worked together, not in the long run. They didn't quarrel. There was no violent burst of tears when everything was said and done.
Val and Kwan entered into a relationship because, simply put, they were… bored. They wanted to try feeling different from how they felt before. A relationship didn't help. It didn't fix anything; they were still idle. The boredom with the monotony of life still persisted. They took a breath in and took the dive, and they were still the same people underneath it all. There was nothing new to discover there. No spark. No forward motion. If anything, they stagnated each other. They weren't particularly well versed in how these things go. They weren't adults. Even then, no one would say adults were equipped to navigate the awkward waters of a friendship post-breakup.
But, man, if Val wasn't glad to see at least one friendly face after the morning she had.
Startling, Grey jolted in place, "Hey! Uh… hey yourself." She flushed, "Hey…"
Kwan backed away from the door to give her some room. She looked a little peaked. Clearing his throat, "I would've… I would've knocked, but you seemed a little… busy."
Her heart fell with her face, "Oh god, please don't tell me you were here the whole time?"
He scratched the back of his head, not wanting to say anything, but it seemed his expression did the legwork.
Val stared down at her shoes and buried her face in her hands, "I am… so, so sorry—"
"No… no, it's cool— I know your temper," Kwan trailed off. He corrected course, "Are you, like, are you okay, Val?"
Those kind eyes. Even if Grey found the athlete about as attractive as drywall, Kwan always had the sweetest face. It was the face of a good listener and housed a great smile. The kind of infectious smile that crinkled the corner of his eyes. His laugh was something else too.
Val sighed, "You being here is kind of the highlight of my morning."
"Wow, you must really be hurting. That didn't even sound sarcastic." His brow furrowed as his posture changed, "Do you need a hug or—"
Without even needing to hear the second half of the question, she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. It was short. It was painfully short. But for a couple of seconds at most, it didn't feel like the world was collapsing in on itself. Similar to how a stone skips along the water before plunging into the depths of a lake. There was peace in the ripples of the water.
"O-okay… Okay." Kwan said, patting her back gently.
She immediately returned to her side.
She adjusted her backpack strap anxiously.
Probably another reason why they didn't work out. Val couldn't stand public displays of affection. She thought they made her look too weak.
"Um… Sorry about that."
"I don't remember you ever apologizing this much."
Val made a face at this. Something between pained, woefully too tired, and over-caffeinated. The expression was the crossroads between cringing at her immaturity and being old enough to laugh at herself.
"People change," She said. All too simple. After all, they hadn't spoken this long since… the fire. Something like that happens, and the community hardens. Rules become a little tighter. It was like a hug from parents but a leash for the young. Places close a little earlier. People become a little meaner. Some don't change, but they lie. They're resistant. But it happens. In microscopic, invisible ways— people change. It was an easy answer.
Last year would have been comical considering the near rapid succession between tragedies. Axion labs nearly burnt down because of— get this— a rabid hell hound. No casualties, thank god, but Val's father was severely scarred. He wanted to play the hero; that was her Daddy. Everyone counted their fingers and toes. Townsfolk held their loved ones a bit closer that night.
Then barely a month later, before the ashes of labs had even settled… they weren't so lucky.
See, Casper High puts on a 'haunted' house every year. Of course, it was all fake: string ghosts, plastic spiders, and fog machines.
Yes, the irony was not lost on the residents. That's all Amity Park was. A giant cosmic joke.
It has been a tradition since the early forties. The same building, just on the outskirts of town, had been used every year. It had been in the same family for generations, primarily for small-town events such as that. The Casper High Frights was a way to brighten moods, boost the local economy with sponsors, and, more importantly, it kept the students busy. It kept students distracted while their brothers and fathers were at war.
It was a cute tradition sanded down to meet volunteer hours for extremely unimaginative and lazy seniors.
However, some still delighted in the tradition. Dash Baxter, another one of Val's friends that quickly became an afterthought—Took so much pride in his display. Dash Baxter loved kids and loved scaring kids even more. It made sense; it wasn't like Dash ever grew up. He had talked about his haunted house display dream since middle school. He was obsessed. If it wasn't obvious, Dash was an outsider. He had moved to Amity Park when he was seven or so, and Casper High Frights was his welcome wagon. It was a silly little thing that meant the world to a wide-eyed kid who didn't know any better.
But, now, he knows. Dash hates Halloween. His face gets tight, and he fidgets at the mere mention of the day if there was ever a doubt that he was an authentic Amity Parker that had been settled.
Kwan repeated with a shrug, "People change."
They said nothing for a moment. Still doing this social dance where she was on her side and he was on his side—typical high school.
"Did you want to ask me something?" Val figured one of them should get to the point before they graduated.
Byun-Ji shook his head, "Uh, right, right— I spaced out there for a second." He chuckled stiffly. "Erm, you're probably busy with work, but I just wanted to get a headcount."
Val was always busy these days. With her Dad losing his job— and the medical debt accrued from her mother's passing and her father's skin grafts— Val had to shoulder more responsibility than expected of someone her age. She waited tables at the local burger joint, picking up shifts at all hours of the day, covering for whatever coworker didn't mind foisting their work onto a fifteen-year-old. That was her first job, and, by all means, it sucked. Thoroughly it sucked. Her second was a bit harder to explain.
Val's second job came from a series of wild coincidences, great timing, and what some would call six degrees of separation. Valerie Grey had no hopes of a future, to be put bluntly. Any hopes of a college fund caught smoke just as soon as Axion labs did. The story about what happened spread, and it spread far— pity for the Greys had become as viral as any other sickness. That's how it felt. It didn't feel productive by any means; the wishful thinking was sedentary. It hardly undid the trauma of what happened. One of the investors, some shareholder, had reached out to her with an… opportunity .
Vlad Masters was as legit as legit could get. He had the suits, the fancy cars, and the tech to make it happen. He was the founder of the Masters' Blasters program for gifted young adults. Vlad Masers was nothing short of magnanimous and efficient. Vlad wanted to clean up Amity Park of the ghost plague and give its citizens the means to fight back. It bared more resemblance to a militia of teenagers, as the program molded their stalled minds into capable fighters and scholars.
Val was hesitant to accept charity. She didn't like the idea of owing anybody anything .
Vlad assured her their goals couldn't get more alike.
Ghosts had taken everything from them, and together… they would level the playing field.
Together didn't sound so bad when it was with someone as capable as Vlad Masters. He was helping her find her future again. And while both her jobs made her frustrated with her lack of progress, it was better than feeling sorry for herself. The anger was better than feeling anything else.
"—Do you think you can swing that?" The end of Kwan's question floated off the walls with the echo.
"Huh?"
The linebacker blinked and cocked a brow. He looked behind him— since that's where Val had been staring. Kwan cleared his throat and attempted once more, "Dash. He's gonna be the new captain of the football team."
"Wow." She was astonished. Good for Dash. The guy needed a win for once. Val tucked her loose hair behind her ear, "That's amazing."
Kwan elaborated, "Paulina wanted to throw him a small thing— not a party, but we were gonna all go to the Nasty Burger and just grab a bite to eat."
"How's that any different from what you guys normally do?" Val snorted and put a hand on her hip.
"Well, you know Dash and parties—"
"He hates 'em." She cut him off.
Kwan laughed at this. He ran a hand along his messenger bag, "But y'know Paulina, she wants to make it an occasion." Mustering a slight smile, he pointed out, "And I think we're sort of deserving to be stupid teenagers once in and while." Exhaling, his eyes flitted to her, "So…?"
"So?" Valerie reciprocated a grin.
"I know it's short notice, but do you think you can time your break just right so you can come hang with us— for, like, a little bit? It'd mean so much to Dash having the gang all together." Kwan admitted, "It'd mean a lot to me too."
She flushed again.
Kwan could be persuasive by virtue of just having that face and waltzing his way into saying the right thing.
Stammering, Grey managed to get out, "I-I dunno. I can probably do… something . That's not a guarantee, okay?"
The linebacker jumped in elation and pumped his fist, "Yes! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
"Who's all coming?" Val queried, mentally tasking herself to set a big enough booth aside.
After a brief, albeit welcome, bit of Kwan's victory dance, he answered, "I've been basically going through his contact list, finding anyone who's available. Because y'know Dash and friends—"
"Doesn't have 'em," She answered flatly.
"So, There's Paulina, Star Robinson, you, me… Dale's still in the hospital…" He snapped his fingers, trying to jog his memory, "I think the Fentons are coming?"
"The Fentons?" Val tilted her head skeptically, "As in…"
"Jasmine and Danny Fenton, yeah." Kwan put his hand up in a defensive gesture, "I don't get it either. I-I think Jazz is like Dash's math tutor or something, I dunno. Wherever one Fenton goes, the other follows ." He rolled his eyes, "Siblings."
Kwan huffed, "Jazz promised he'd stay quiet. So it's something…" He suggested, "Danny could take pictures, I guess, if he wants to be useful."
Val nodded but gradually ceased, "Is Wes coming?" Her brows arched with her question. A bit hopeful.
Though the linebacker seemed doubtful, "I tried asking if he'd want to come, but… It's probably weird for him. He doesn't seem interested in goin' out much these days."
"I could ask him. We have class together." She blinked at this realization, "Oh shit, we have class together."
Valerie turned on her heel and called over her shoulder, "I-I gotta go! Kwan, it's awesome seeing you again—but I am so so so so late!"
He waved, unsure if she could actually see, "Uh, see you later!"
Val's friends were something of a complication for her job as a ghost hunter. A wrinkle, really. It was hard to be close to people who, without intention, made you feel horrible about yourself. Closeness was tricky for people like Val.
The A-listers, as Dash had taken to calling their little troop, were a group of kids not bound by any actual affection. Their parents had all known each other. They were a friend of a friend, work, neighbor, those types of connections. In a way, it was akin to actual kinship. Proximity made up for a lot. That's all the A-listers were. Proximity. They all leaned on each other for support because they were close enough, regardless of stability. They were seams— unsure stitching in the tapestry of life.
Finally reaching her class. Val braced her hand against the door. She had pulled out a pink excuse notepad Kwan had given her last year. She didn't ask how he got it. Kwan could be pretty slick behind the often vacant expression. Grey had gone to the length of filling out empty space on each slip with her information, so it was only a matter of tearing one off and presenting it to the teacher.
Ripping a sheet of precious pink tender into her hand, Valerie wedged the door open with her shoulder.
The squeaky metal armature above the door frame caused all the students to turn their attention to the front. It was at this point she remembered that this classroom had a backdoor, but she was never in class long enough these days to memorize her exit strategies. C'est La'vie.
Ms Edith was the picture-perfect definition of a cranky old crone. White hair tied back in a bun with cobwebs that dated back to the witch trial days, a comically short stature paired with a hunch that made her all the smaller, topped off with a plain long black dress that left everything to the imagination. It looked like the kind a nun would wear, minus the headdress. Loose skin hung off her skull and sagged with gravity and time. She was… ancient, for lack of a less offensive word. Her back was to Val, scrawling something down on the whiteboard. It looked like a chemical formula. More than likely, arthritis in the old woman's hands made it difficult to draw the string of letters and numbers any bigger.
Val held out her hand, expecting that Ms Edith would want her note— but instead, the teacher hummed, "Find your seat, dearie; we're about ready to start labs."
Before Grey could correct the senile woman, a freckled hand shot up from the back of the classroom, "Uh, back here, Val! I saved your seat for you!"
She blinked in disbelief. Happy to get any break she could. Val hurried to the back, down the center of the large, freshly disinfected black counters that served as desks.
Wes had kicked out a stool for her, and she gladly took the seat. Her heels were killing her. Facing the lab equipment, She watched as the upside-down reflection of Ms. Edith pacing the whiteboard swirled around the glass of their test tubes.
This helped Grey finally escape autopilot and piece together that it was third period. Chemistry.
The lanky ex-jock informed her in a whisper, "I told her you were in the restroom."
Not a total lie , She grunted softly in thanks.
"You okay?" The ginger inquired, a bit of concern betraying his normally stoic voice.
Val gave the same excuse she always did when faced with that particular question, " —Fell off my bike."
In reply, Weston scoffed. Not one of disbelief or derision. Well, it was more than likely in irritation, but it wasn't directed at her. He shook his head in disapproval.
Ms Edith explained that they were conducting a study on several different chemical reactions. Each table was given a handful of ingredients to mix, and they were to write down the type of reaction and time it with a stopwatch. That sort of affair. Each component was labeled, and they would add them to the mixture.
There was a listless chatter that sprawled across the classroom. Some were on topic, some not.
Val and Wes didn't talk for the most part. The partnership was more of a silent understanding. Val would be late coming to class, turning in assignments— and Wes would simply put up with it. Weston seemed to prefer it. He didn't like people in his way.
Suppose that's what Clay was great at. Being in the way. Being in the wrong place at precisely the wrong time.
Wes was his brother's shadow. Their movements almost lined up.
What's a shadow to do without its source?
Val couldn't help but feel… lucky when she looked at Wes. She still had her father.
The Westons had an empty room and boxes. Boxes of clothes and bedding that they could no longer use but didn't want to rid themselves of. It all smelled too familiar. It was a foolish primal thing. It was a pain that they would shoulder for the rest of their lives. The Westons didn't even have a body to mourn… just memories.
It was human nature to bond over tragedy. It was in our hearts to lean towards the sun. We don't like to hurt alone.
After securing his safety goggles, Wes picked up a measuring spoon with precision and practice, "Are my looks just that mesmerizing or—?"
"Hm?"
"You're staring at me."
"Sorry." Val chuckled, setting her pencil in her notebook, "I just noticed you checked out the Ghost Hunter's almanac."
He said matter-of-factly, "it's practically required reading these days…"
The conversation petered out. Awkwardly and stiffly.
"I was just thinking…"
"That's dangerous." Wes cracked a faint smile, and briefly, he paid a glance her way. It had a soft shine to it.
She huffed before continuing her thought, "I was thinking to myself, 'I bet Wes is a record store guy.' "
Brow pinching in the middle, the ex-jock focused on pushing off the excess powder off the top of the heap, "Pray tell, what the hell is a 'record store guy ?"
"You know when you go into the record store, and there's this guy—"
Quipping, Weston murmured under his breath, "So far, this tracks."
"There's always this guy who thinks because he works at the record store, he's invented taste or whatever!" Val could tell by the expression on her lab partner's face that she wasn't making a lot of sense.
This was probably one of their protracted talks to date. It mainly was Val doing the talking— "And he has that dumb serious look and says stuff like ' What do you mean you haven't listened to the Siouxsie and the Banshees Downside Up B-sides?' and, like, you bring your CDs up to pay and then he's all superior—" She sat up a little straighter and put on a haughty voice, " — 'Oh, the Ramones? Is someone feeling a little daring today?' "
Wes blinked, "Are you accusing me of being a hipster?"
"No, no, no—" Waving her hands as if clearing a mental chalkboard, Val clarified, "Record store guys wish they were hipsters because at least hipsters are willing to try new things. Record store guys and hipsters share a common ancestor, and that's the guy who brings the acoustic guitar to parties."
Val could feel her old self clawing back for a fighting chance in the company of total strangers. She wondered if that feeling was mutual. Maybe she didn't want to get to know Wes deeper because that would mean he was just another person she would have to lose. Did he look at her and think the exact same thing? His laugh hit all the right notes in her ears. It was a laugh that was embarrassing. Wes had this snort—it was unbelievably dorky and ruined all his air of unflappability.
The anonymity allowed her the opportunity to pretend to be anyone else. The Val that was human, the Wes that was human, faults and all. Overbearing and pushy and just a bit too funny. He allowed her to be that much. She could be okay. Whatever that meant. Valerie wasn't bound to the image of a jaded teen, detached from life. Floating in and out of rooms with no purpose.
Grey liked to think she offered the same freedom to Wes.
They didn't have to talk about what was wrong. Hell, they didn't have to speak at all. They didn't have to be broken for each other to fix. They could just be. Maybe it was overanalyzing on Val's part, but she looked forward to these little interactions. These little spars. Bickering. For once, someone didn't handle her with kid gloves.
"I-I think you're safe." Wes stammered through a shy giggle, "I'm not—not really into music."
"How can you not be into music?" Val nearly demanded.
He shrugged, "I don't have any strong feelings about any genre."
"Can you even name anything in the top forty?" Grey taunted him, "What do you guys do in the car then? Just sit in silence?"
"For the most part, yeah." Dumping the first compound into the beaker, The ex-jock noted that the powder just dissolved into the liquid without any spectacular send-off. He set the measuring spoon down, exchanging it for his pencil.
She remarked, "That's some serial killer shit, dude."
With levity, Weston shot back, "We also play the license plate game."
Val gave him an incredulous look.
Nervously, he scratched the back of his neck and recalled, "We played that up the coast and through the mountains before we moved here. There was probably something on the radio, but I never really paid attention to it."
"I was typically focused on winning." Wes huffed with overacted wistfulness.
There was a slight lull as the pair watched the beaker. The reaction was muted. To the untrained eye, it looked as if nothing had happened.
Shoveling more grains of powder into the spoon, the ex-jock queried, "So, you're into music? Given your frequent run-ins with record store guys?"
On one of her many rounds around the classroom, Ms Edith had tapped her marker on their counter in a scolding way, "I hear a lot of talking, but not much writing, writing, writing."
"Sorry, Ma'am." "... Sorry." The teens apologized in tandem.
The teacher, clad in black, then migrated to another pairing of students that looked like they were having too much fun.
"Ma'am, huh?" Val teased in a whisper.
Sheepishly, Weston eyed their project, "It's how I was raised."
The conversation stalled once more. Though the chatter and noise around them only amplified their reservation to speak. Others were gathered around their test tubes in awe and trying to get the rapidly expanding foam into the sink before it created a mess. In contrast, Wes and Val sat unsure what exactly they were doing wrong.
Out of nowhere, the part-timer said, "Dumpty Humpty."
"Gesundheit." Wes picked up the palette of powder, confirming the label was potassium chloride. After interrogating the tag with a skeptical squint, Wes got another spoonful of the mixture.
"You've at least heard of Dumpty Humpty, right?"
"That's, like, the egg dude that fell off a bridge from the kids' books?"
"No—oh my god. The band, Wes."
Furrowing his brow, Weston closed his eyes and hummed a familiar riff— querying, "They got that one song with that solo, and the guitars that play backwards?"
"Yes!" Val's open palm slapped the table.
Bracing the bottom of the beaker with his hands so it wouldn't tip too much, Wes warned, "Careful!"
"I gotta burn you a CD."
Bemused, he wasn't sure where her energy was coming from, "I… I'd enjoy that."
He drummed his fingers on the countertop, his white flesh and nails contrasting the utter void of the table's surface. Even with the vibrations, the concoction in the beaker wasn't bothered at all.
"What gives?" Wes asked rhetorically to the experiment kit. He reread the worksheet they were given.
Grey offered her own advice, "Okay, so, hitting it didn't work… maybe add more potassium?"
"Yeah, I'll give that a shot…" Wes trailed off, still squinting at the directions. He poured the solution into the sink before refilling it with water.
"To answer your question, though, I guess I'm very into music." She ruminated more on the subject, remembering the days she'd beat all the pots and pans on the kitchen floor, "That was probably my dream as a kid. To play bass or—"
"You still have time." Wes offered while resetting the lab. Taking great pains to make sure the variables were precisely the same. Eventually, he must have concluded that he overstepped, so he played it off, "I mean if that last wipe out on your bike didn't give you lasting brain damage."
"You got jokes?" Val spoke through a growing smirk.
"I've only got jokes." He wiggled his brows again, earning a laugh from his lab partner.
She was curious about one thing, "So your family's moved around a lot? Any cool places?" Embarrassed, Grey admitted, "I've… I've, uh, never left Amity Park."
"Really?" Wes almost sounded saddened by that revelation, "You've never even been to Detroit?"
Shaking her head, the part-timer gave a resigned shrug.
He recalled, "I think I was born near Cleveland, on the other side of Lake Eerie—"
"Oh, I'm so sorry. I have friends who were born in Ohio." Val touched her chest in mock sympathy, her initial self-consciousness evaporating, "How long have you been from Ohio?"
"Hold on, hold it, I forgot to laugh." Deadpanning, the ex-jock flipped up his safety goggles.
With a snort, he continued, "After Cleveland, we bounced around a lot… my Dad transferred to a few bases on the east coast. Boston, Saint Louis… I think. Eventually, we pulled back north— to some place near Maine. I don't really remember a lot of it. After Kyle was born, Dad got a pretty steady gig in New Jersey. That's when I was about…" Wes' brows knitted together tightly, "four?"
"Five states in four years?" Val thought that was impressive, if not a little scary for someone who could barely process object permanence.
"Like I said, I don't remember much." Wes chuckled a bit, "I know the reputation, but truthfully, New Jersey is probably the closest place I'd call home. It's the house I could probably draw the layout from memory."
"You draw too?" She rested her cheek on her fist and leaned into the table.
"Not very well, but I try." Wes pulled his backpack into his lap, "I'm not too good with words, as you can so clearly tell . I typically just try to visualize what I'm thinking about." He produced a camera. The kind of camera that felt expensive. It had a sort of heft to it when Wes handled it. "I take pictures a lot."
Val could see into Wes' bag, and aside from it being filled with the standard notebooks and folders— there was the distinct tapered neck of a bleach bottle poking out from the confines of the fabric.
Wes presented his camera to her, "You click that button there to see the next one."
Without much else to say, the ex-jock turned back to their project, trying to decide where he went wrong. He took the powder and measured out another spoonful. His frustration with the assignment poured into his stance. His jaw was clenched and annoyed.
Quietly, Grey pressed the buttons to look through the pocket-sized gallery.
She spotted speckled birds resting on branches, pulling down feathers to nest and make their homes a bit softer. Birds shaking their feathers to clean themselves. Tawny sparrows, red-winged blackbirds, blue jays, and their corvid relatives. Some at flight captured in the highest detail manageable. Wes' reaction time had to have been sharp and down to the millisecond to pull off some of these shots.
By far, they were the most beautiful and detailed photos out of the bunch; they felt purposeful and inquisitive. They approached their subject with admiration and astonishment that only man could have over flight. The foliage blurred around the lens while the creatures were so focused— Wes must've gotten close. There were no dead pixels that came with artificial zoom. The ex-jock did have a habit of swinging in trees. He seemed pretty comfortable with the terrain.
Upon noticing her stunned silence, Wes awkwardly segued, "You're probably wondering about the birds—"
"Wes, these are great!" Valerie declared with unfettered honesty and slight breathlessness, "You should submit these to a gallery or contest or— something!"
Humbly, he declined her praise, "Ah, no, that's not really my sc-scene, y'know? I just… I was in the eagle scouts since I was a dot, and I— and I— I just— I really just respect nature." Weston said solemnly, "I don't really take my pictures to show anyone."
With a slight smile, he turned back to fixing their experiment.
"I think when things calm down, I want to take a gap and do my own big year."
"What's a 'big year'?" She brought her knees up to better support the camera in her lap.
Scratching the ridge of his ear, the ex-jock explained hesitantly, "A big year is— is like, uh, a personal challenge… or like an informal competition among… um, bird watchers who attempt to identify as many species of birds as possible by sight or sound, within a single calendar year."
"Oh, so like a…" Val rolled her wrist while grasping for the words just out of her reach, "A bird nerd cross-country road trip?"
Wes wet his lips and agreed with her definition, "Yeah, a big bird nerd cross-country road trip."
"That's really cool, Wes."
He laughed, "It's— it's really not, but, uh, thanks."
Val pressed her nail against the directional pad.
She recognized some people in the candid shots. Kyle, the youngest Weston, was typically at play on his bike or skateboard in his trademark blue snapback. Kyle was as sporty as his older brothers, but he gravitated more toward non-competitive activities.
Easton took more after their mother. Easton seemed more geared toward numbers and arithmetic. The second youngest could be seen often with his homework splayed on the ground or floor, typically objecting to his photo being taken. Easton had braces, so he was a little sensitive.
In one photo, their father, Walter, carried his airforce jacket under his arm. He came through the front entrance of the family home and was greeted warmly.
Strangely enough, there were a few pictures of Wes on the camera back when he was still on the basketball team. At what looked to be the homecoming game, there were enough shots to construct a flip book of Wes springing up from the three-point line and scoring a basket. For a moment, he looked as graceful as one of those birds in frozen flight, the way he teetered off the ground. There was an elegance to it. In the proceeding snapshots, Wes was embraced by Dash first and then quickly taken up onto the shoulders of his other teammates.
A smile unfurled across her face showing off her dimples.
Wes didn't say a word. Rapidly he opened and closed his hands as sweat poured off of them. Pink. His face had become bright pink.
After a few more clicks, she finally saw who was responsible for that sequence. Clay. His short, auburn hair fell in loose strands on his forehead. The eldest Weston's sideburns and patchy peach fuzz were exactly how Val remembered them looking. Clay always said he could grow a beard. Looks like they'll never know now.
Clay was beaming with pride for his brother and the efforts of the Casper High basketball team. He had turned around the camera to solidify the moment of pure joy for his little brother's accomplishment.
Grey faltered a bit at the bittersweetness of it.
There were a lot of pictures of… fire.
Just… things on fire.
Random things. Flowers. Paper. Books. Neglected toys. Old chairs. Mattresses. More often, the subjects had deteriorated too far into ribbons of charred plastic or wood to be gleaned.
Val had to assume Wes had set these fires for the express purpose of photographing them. There were way too many to be coincidental. There were months worth of backlogged photos of fire. None of them seemed to have the same air of artistry. The framing was typically the same, balanced on some kind of tripod or stand, a few yards back from the blaze, on uncompromised, even ground.
All shot around the same time of day, near twilight. The fire was usually the brightest thing in the frame as the rest of the alley was shrouded in shadow. The fire was contained in an alleyway behind a brick building with a road in the distance. It was the same building every time, as the graffiti never seemed to change. An extinguisher was never far away, leaned up against a wall. If the object was small enough, a freckled hand could be seen holding the flame and fuel while the camera was angled down towards the ground. They were clinical in a way.
The next batch were unassuming pictures of the train tracks. Showing the dusty isolation that came with the rail depots, there was something kind of alien about the shots. It more than likely had something to do with Wes' height; he often had to position himself lower to speak with his peers. His height created this dissonance with the landscapes. It was jarring to see the world from his eyes.
Sometimes there was a black blur in the captures. Usually in the sky. Or just off the ground. Its shape was unusual. It wasn't a shadow or a smudge on the lens. It was what she imagined a black hole would look like in deep space. It consumed all light and your attention. It didn't seem to be Wes' thumb. The shape didn't seem humanoid, and it wasn't animalistic either. The stain soon began to dominate the frame as she continued. As Valerie panned through more photos, her eyes naturally came back to this black mass that didn't have any rhyme or reason to be mixed in with scenes of an overgrown dreary cityscape.
It made her… angry . The more she looked at the amorphous blob— The tighter in the chest she felt.
There was something odd about these photos. Sometimes she could see the faint hint of a face trapped somewhere in the scene. She could feel eyes in the image, initially looking at Wes, now piercing through her. The aura of the face within the blob wasn't sinister, maybe threatening— definitely taunting. More than likely, it was a trick of the glare that came from the window she was seated next to. Whatever it was, it was a good bit of photo trickery on Wes' part. They were probably some kind of statement piece.
What followed next was a series of pictures of dishes. All sorts of clean and empty plates. All manner of different kinds and styles. Some had a more antique look with flowers and patterns lining the edges. Others had a minimalist aesthetic, just square plates in a solid color. None of them matched.
"Hey, is that my cake dish?" Val raised the screen to her face to get a better look.
Wes flinched, "Uh, yeah…" He pointed to her and snapped his fingers, "Is yours the purple ceramic deep dish with the really heavy lid?"
The part-timer nodded.
"Yeah, we still have it. Sorry, Mom hasn't really kept track of which plates go back to which people."
Val gestured to the screen, "So, you took pictures of them?"
Wes puffed his cheeks and inhaled while scouring the recesses brain for something clever to say, "Kinda…"
She must've been making a face as this prompted Wesley to clarify further with his voice thin, "I-I don't know how to explain it… but I-I guess it felt nice?"
He sighed, "It felt good that a bunch of—"
There was a misplaced laugh, "Of strangers— wanted to make sure we were eating."
"I know I'm gonna probably sound stupid, but it was honestly one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me—" he corrected himself, "For, uh, us."
"For the first time, it felt like we mattered." A smile pulled at the corner of Wesley's lips, struggling to deny the listless shine his eyes had.
His head lulled onto this shoulder as he hunched over the desk, "When you move around, the assumption is you don't get attached to people, but…" Weston glanced over at her, "You do."
He repeated mutedly, "You do…"
As if to shake himself awake, he straightened up and jostled Val's shoulder playfully, "Silver lining— I-I-I, uh, I don't think I'll ever want to eat cake again. Seriously, everyone brought way too much cake."
Val sympathized, "After my mom passed, I think I ate other people's lasagna for two months straight." her pout tensed into a hard line and popped slightly as she breathed. It hurt. It looked like it really hurt. It hurt every day without her there. It nagged and gnawed at her worse than her surmounting losses.
They didn't say anything for a moment.
She stared down at the camera. She wasn't sure why—embarrassed that she just blurted that out—ashamed that she managed to make someone else's grief into her own talking point. Guilty that this is the context that she's using to introduce Wes to her mother. Numb because her mother being dead is more of a fact now and less of a paralyzing world-ending cataclysm than it was. It seemed the word 'bad' did most of the heavy lifting in this case. Heavy wasn't a lacking descriptor, either. It was suddenly all so heavy, and Val didn't want to admit she couldn't lift it all. She was stubborn that way. That was how she kept her mother alive.
It all felt so far away now. It was before all this. It was before Val stopped being a kid and became this. Whatever this was.
Valerie knew without even lifting her head that Wes was looking at her. Eyes had a certain weight to them. She was familiar with it.
"Can I show you something?" His hand gently touched hers, a hesitant brush. Quickly he added, "O-on the camera—I mean."
Wes gave a glance of permission, his emerald eyes wide with hairline fractures of irritated veins.
"Uh, sure," She managed to get past the lump in her throat, "I mean, it-it is your camera."
There was an awkward throat clear. Weston muttered and scrubbed through the gallery at a blistering pace.
Eventually, the ex-jock slowed down and studied one photo very closely. He squinted and then adjusted the options and zoomed. Cautiously, he returned the camera to Val.
She was met with her own face.
It was candid. More than likely, she was lost in her own world when Wes took it. She was looking towards the sky, watching the migration of the clouds in the grey overcast. The stark white headphone wires contrasted against her heavy black coat and neutral-colored clothes. Through someone else's eyes, she looked beautiful. It was like looking at a posed and elegant runway model. A puff of vapor from her lips obscured everything just enough to give it a sense of life. Pure chaotic life.
Val almost didn't notice it but an iridescent shape on the other side of her gaze in the photo. Small and fragile— it was a bird.
"Hummingbirds are tenacious creatures," Wes began, "They move so fast to stay alive. They're the smallest migratory birds, but instead of going somewhere warm for the winter, they choose to spend winters up here with us." He scratched his eyebrow, "But, none of that is why they're my favorite bird."
He traced a loop along the bird's wings with his finger, "They're one of the only birds that can rotate their wings; they make this infinity shape—" Wesley articulated somewhat hesitantly, "It's hard to explain, but I think that's why people associate them with reincarnation. And I think that's why I see them around you so much."
"I know it's a bit…" The boy struggled for the right word with a defeated shrug, "— optimistic —and I understand if you don't believe me."
Val smiled at this, "You know what the definition of insanity is, Wes?"
He cocked his head, "What?"
"Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result." Grey clung to herself tightly.
Wesley made a face at this. His brow knitted in the middle. He seemed to understand, but accepting the information was a different task.
"I think if I had the choice of being reincarnated as a human or a bird… I'd be crazy to pick this again." She smiled. Her face hurt because she smiled so wide, "Being human… sucks ."
She was smiling because it felt inappropriate to laugh, given the weight of everything.
"It really freakin' blows," Wes agreed, reciprocating the same forlorn smile. He mused, "With birds, their problems end at ground level."
Val found that humorous, rocking in her chair, "Ground level, huh?"
"I firmly believe we have so many problems—because of altitude rather than attitude ." The ex-jock slid the camera back over to her.
Valerie stifled a retort, "How long have you been sitting on that one?"
"Long enough to make it embarrassing." He turned back to the now twice emptied beakers.
The water from the faucet hit the bottom of the sink. It felt like they had covered a lot of ground. And they were back again. Right to where they were comfortable. Yet it didn't fit the same. The air around it all had shifted ever-so-slightly. It was just a little too taut now. That's what happens when you open up. You let everything in again, and you feel. That pain you thought you outgrew reared its head again. But it wasn't angry; it wasn't waiting for a moment when your defenses were down. That pain— that grief is just as surprised as you are. It cradles and supports your head. It reintroduces itself despite not needing to. You were intimately familiar.
The silence was welcome but wasn't meant to last.
Wes kept stealing glances at the bruise on her forehead. It was clear how he kept opening and closing his mouth— he needed to say something. Though judging how, at the very last second, his tongue would dart against his lips, effectively pumping the breaks on committing to a question.
"I'm okay, really, Wes."
"No, I know," He agreed; he knew that Val could handle herself just fine. The ex-jock blinked slowly and swallowed down his hesitation, "It's… it's just—you fall off your bike a lot."
Valerie fidgeted nervously.
It sounded like Wes was going somewhere with this.
She faltered with one of the half dozen excuses she recycled, "I-I'm just clumsy."
"The same way Dale Pritchett is clumsy?"
Val could feel his eyes again. Gaping at her. But there wasn't anything kind about them now. Interrogative. Skeptical. Almost lethal.
The question just sat there. Dense in the air like humidity. It was just as obvious, and it wouldn't dissipate.
Her eyes flitted back to see those eerie emerald eyes that kept following her every move. Wes wasn't just gawking at her. He was looking through her. His eyes—his pupils were tiny irritated shards of onyx. The expression on his face was otherworldly. The way the light hit the whites of his eyes, they shined bulged like marbles placed in the sockets.
Wes continued, "He banged up his collarbone real good. He's lucky he didn't break his neck on those stairs."
"You heard what happened, right?" He asked. His hands balled onto his lap, gathering the excess fabric of his basketball shorts. His knuckles were stark white like his bones would pop through.
…Shaking her head slowly, Valerie was so focused on not being implicated she wasn't sure if she was telling the truth or just giving the answer that Wes wanted.
"Yeah… I dunno," Wes shrugged, "It's weird; people said Pritchett just slipped ."
The way he said the word... his whole body tensed— you could tell he didn't believe it was that simple.
Even quieter now, the stool creaked as Weston angled himself towards her. His breath hit the ridges of her ear, "My theory…?"
"Dale Pritchett was pushed." He whispered.
The next obvious question was written plainly on the part-timer's face— 'by who?'
Returning to his side of the table, Weston didn't answer. Instead, he offered, "If you're still 'falling off your bike,' I just want you to know I can help."
Grey wasn't sure why, but it made her curious, "How?"
"I can freak the guy out." He said with a coy grin lighting up his face like a sparkler.
"Move stuff around his house. Make his clothes shrink to make him think he's getting bigger— add a few inches to his chair legs to make him think he's getting smaller. Sneak into his room and take a picture of him sleeping and like put it in a place he sees every day as, like, a way to say, 'hey, I know what you did to Val— not cool.' Y'know?" Wes laughed quite loudly— It could be more accurately described as a cackle, "I found this forum; it was super-uber informative. I can link it to you—"
Val dismissed him as politely as she could manage, "Uh, no thanks, I'm good! I'm good…"
She had genuinely no clue where that came from.
Val had stumbled upon a playground someone had been clearly living in. It was like seeing graffiti in what you thought was previously unexplored woods. Valerie Grey realized what this feeling was. She wasn't alone; it was that haunting feeling of unloneliness. It was that crack of the branches and those suspicious noises shrouded in the night. There was something she had never noticed, or rather— she'd been ignoring it.
Val eyed Wes—
Weston had chosen to forgo the measuring spoon this time as he reset the beakers. He dumped all the potassium chloride into the vials. The ex-jock had grown impatient. He tipped each container into the glasses— causing particles to spread all over the table. Wes didn't even warn her; he didn't flip his own goggles on. The white powder interacted with the water violently. It evaporated into irate bubbles, and steam rose off the concoction.
Eventually, the reaction settled. The remaining water in the glass stayed at the bottom or splashed the outsides of the beakers.
Wes diligently took notes, which he then silently put in between them. Without words, he was offering her to copy off of him.