1.) I do not condone what Mark Jefferson has done. I won't go into the specifics in the event that a reader may not be informed yet of the plot development in the recent episodes of Life Is Strange, but I only want to note that I will not make light of his actions.
2.) This is not a story where the oc falls helplessly in love with her object of desire and becomes his sex kitten, ready to please and serve at his demand. I'd like to deviate from that format.
3.) Life Is Strange is not my playground. I just frolic in it.
Song: Sweater Weather by The Neighbourhood
CHAPTER 1:
11 Days Before The Storm - 2:25 PM
If I were to write a complete biography of myself, I would sum it up into three parts: the first chapter would be about the seventeen long years I spent alive; the second one would be of death and how I became a car sandwich thanks to Mr. Tokyo Drift; and the final chapter, my personal favorite, would be about how I was reborn into a screeching infant named Lucy Eaton.
I know. It's a lot to swallow. Eighteen years have went by since then and grasping the facts has not been any easier for me. I was reincarnated—that much was certain. I had a new face, a new body, a new voice and a new life. How or why, I'm not sure. I've spent most of my childhood reading about reincarnation (behind my new parents' backs, of course, lest they send me to the loony bin) and I still have yet to find an answer. It doesn't feel as if it happened for a great purpose; I don't think Buddha or Jesus zapped me into a new meat-suit to stop Hitler Jr. No, it just feels like I'm an ordinary thirty-five-year-old in a teenager's body, going through high school and puberty all over again. Totally normal, except I still have memories of my past life.
Getting to live once more meant getting a second chance, and there were some perks that I took advantage of too much. For example, as I was walking down the hall, headed for my last class for the day, I was greeted with hi's and hello's from students I've barely spoken to. I was quite well-known. My parents—or Lucy's parents—had wonderful genes and had a bank account with several zeroes in it. When they popped me out of Philadelphia and shipped me off to Blackwell Academy, the story of my family spread like wildfire and the rest was history.
I've done a good job keeping the act of a rich millennial whose pastime is to leech mommy and daddy's money so far, considering that I wasn't rich or had a mommy in my previous life. However, it was no simple task. I had to limit myself from showing my true potential: I acted as though Algebra was the bane of my existence and buried my mathlete past to the ground; I talked the new hip-teen-speak and fought the unrelenting urge to cringe every time the word "hella" escaped my mouth; I pretended to be polite and friendly from a safe distance, memorized everyone's names and basic information, and filed them into categorical boxes in my brain to keep tabs of who's connected to who. All this so that I would not fall behind or excel. All this so that no one would notice I was...different.
There it was—Room 102. Art class. I stopped and took a deep breath before entering the room with a dazzling (practiced) smile people expected to see on me. It was mostly full already. There was Daniel the artist minding his own business, as usual, and Stella and Alyssa casually chatting near the window. Hayden was catching some Z's on his desk (unsurprising as the boy spent his every waking moment partying and toking). Taylor was too busy giggling at what Victoria was telling her, and Kate...Kate looked a little off today. While heading towards my seat at the back, I decided to greet her.
"Hey, Kate," I grinned at her. Out of the many girls in Blackwell, she was one of the very few that I genuinely liked. Kate Marsh was smart and sweet. More importantly, she had substance.
"Oh. Hey, Lucy," she smiled back, albeit her eyes were downcast.
"So, did you have trouble with the homework? I sure did. I couldn't find much about the photographer I chose on the internet. I had to go to the library and all. It was such a major drag cause the librarian doesn't really like me." A lie. The cranky librarian, Mrs. Courie, and I were in good terms and often swapped stories of the latest gossip in Arcadia Bay, but I wanted to break the ice with Kate by being relatable.
"Homework? What homework?" she asked, her eyebrows furrowed.
Huh. That was new. Kate was usually the first to finish her school-related assignments. "The essay about expressionist photography. You know, where we had to cite examples and stuff?"
"Oh. That. I forgot. Sorry, I haven't been feeling very well."
"You know what, don't sweat it. You can still submit tomorrow. Just hand it over to me. Plus, Mr. Jefferson grades our papers late anyway." Another lie. I have been our photography teacher's student assistant for nearly a month now and from what I've observed, he's admirably diligent with his work. He has never been late to appointments or deadlines and has always expected to be treated with the same seriousness, thus he's quick to notice if a student is falling behind. That didn't mean I couldn't sneak in Kate's paper, though.
"Thanks, Lucy," she smiled the same forced smile she gave to me a while ago. I muttered a quick "no problem" and moved away. Any bogus, self-proclaimed clairvoyant could tell that Kate's thoughts were busy.
As the bell rang, Max came rushing through the door just in the nick of time. Taylor whispered into Victoria's ear, and with the way the latter laughed and glanced at Max's rugged fashion, it was an obvious sign that they were making fun of her.
I realized that I could have defended Max. I could have said something witty to turn the tables around. The silent code of high school stated that given my status as a "cool kid", I had enough authority to go against the queen bee of Blackwell, aka Victoria Chase, and her minions, aka Taylor and Courtney. The problem was that Victoria was a firework; whenever, she did anything, she did it with a bang. If she got pissed, she'd post it all over her social medias. If she wanted to win, she'd step on anyone crossing her path. Going against her would instantly put me in the radar. It was too risky.
So I settled on vowing that I would make it up to Max somehow, some day.
Imagine an animal planet or national geographic show where a group of animals in heat zone in on the arrival of a prospective mate. Change 'animals' and 'mate' with 'girls' and 'Jefferson' respectively, and see what I have to deal with every photography class. Jefferson waltzed into the room same as he always did everyday—hair tousled, eyes sharp, collar unbuttoned and body relaxed—yet the minute my female peers saw his presence, they were hypnotized. I called this phenomenon the 'Schoolgirl effect': get a room filled with girls at the peak of adolescent development, add one mature male that perspires confidence and charisma, and boom watch the hormones fly.
"I know life has been exciting with your recent parties and all but I do hope you've at least done some reading," he said in that cocky tone we were familiar with. "Where did we stop yesterday?"
The proud lioness, Victoria, was quick to pounce. "The importance of emotion in photographs. Like, the blending of the individual feelings of the photographer and the subject."
"Yes, thank you, Victoria. The harmony or clash of the photographer and his subject is evident in a photo; it leaves an impression distinguishable for the common eye. Aside from that, what else do you think has an important role in the portrayal of emotion?" A pregnant pause followed. "Max?"
"Detail," said gingerly by the brunette. "Little details can affect the picture."
"Good," Jefferson gave her an approving nod. Point one for Mad Max. "In the butterfly effect, it explains that everything is interconnected—that the flapping of a butterfly's wings can cause the arrival of a storm. Likewise, in photography, the smallest details can give the biggest impact. Details are one of, if not the, most crucial factor that often many overlook. Sad face. It gives character and personality. Without the details, the whole image, no matter how dramatic, would be lacking. Empty."
"That concept served as an inspiration for Jorgino Bisognin, a reclusive Italian photographer, to create his masterpiece called La bellezza silenziosa which, in case none of you speak Italian, means the quiet beauty."
My phone vibrated in the pocket of my jacket. I discreetly brought out the device and checked my message inbox, only to see that the alert was from my brother. Yes, in my second life, I had a sibling—a good older sibling. My brother was my advantage; Christopher was the golden child of the Eaton family and I used that to steer clear from the unforgiving spotlight of our parents. However, he was also the biggest adversary I had to endure as I was the object of his clingy nature.
Chris: October baby, its ur bday month. Lez get high ;)
I had to stop myself from sighing in exasperation. It wasn't that I hated him. I admit that I sometimes enjoyed his antics and appreciated his efforts of finding common ground with me, although I do admit as well that it would be easier if he did not fuss over me so much. Begrudgingly, I typed out my reply.
Lucy: That's tomorrow and you know I don't like weed, stoner boner.
Chris: Boo, u suk.
Chris: You've been there in Oregon with all the artsy kids for months now. You doing alright?
It did not help either how his demeanor could do a complete one-eighty at an instant.
Lucy: Yes, no worries. I have not joined any fanatical cults or flashed anyone with my goodies, but I am happy here.
Lucy: Can't talk yet. I'm in the middle of class. Later, okay?
Chris: Fine, fine, busy bee. Me and the folks just miss you hahaha.
If he was trying to make me feel guilty, then it worked a little bit.
Lucy: Miss you too.
Chris: :"
"While the flair can turn heads, it's the subtlety that leaves a message. Remember that."
I looked back up again and saw Jefferson staring directly at my eyes as he finished his sentence. This was no surprise. It was the art slash photography teacher's way of connecting to his audience—of making sure his message reached the young minds of Blackwell. Yet it unnerved me. Though his intentions were of that of a benevolent instructor, paranoia made its grand appearance; it uncoiled in my stomach and stretched its long tendrils to my limbs. Under his scrutiny, I felt exposed. If the eyes could see into a person's soul, then what would he see in mine?
The previous me would have definitely lowered her gaze in annoyance had she been faced in this situation. But Lucy version 2.0 was self-assured and cool as a cucumber, and did her best to never let anything daunt her even in special cases where her thoughts were not as composed as her appearance would suggest. So I stared right back at him, my grays meeting his browns. For an instant, I forgot myself. The room went still and the air had changed. His eyes were devoid of emotion until I saw a shadow of bemusement pass by them. After that, he looked away and I could breathe again.
This all happened in the span of a moment. I checked my watch and inwardly groaned. It was going to be a long, grueling day.
