Chapter Text
You are thirteen years old and Chloe’s mouth is hot and wet and tastes nothing like coffee or mint, it’s smoky like the cigarette she stole from her mom. Kisses taste like kisses, you suppose. A car backfires outside and you jerk away. You can hear William swearing and unlocking the front door. You adjust your top, but Chloe’s still pushing her face towards yours.
Wind tosses her hair. It’s too hot today and your hands feel sticky.
There’s a knock on the door, Chloe moves away.
“Come in!”
William pokes his head in, his finger’s bleeding and wrapped in a T-shirt.
“Chloe, can you come and put away the dishes? I’m gonna make burgers for dinner.”
She rolls her eyes, “Again?”
Burgers bought in bulk from the wholesale. Even cooked well, they’re like hockey pucks. You twist your hands in the blankets, butterflies prickling your throat. Hurt colours William’s eyes, Chloe ducks her head in embarrassment. She strides past her dad with shoulders up like an angry cat.
William rubs between his eyes.
“Is your finger okay?” You say.
“Yeah. Thanks Max.”
You are thirteen years old and sitting on top of a ramp at the skatepark taking pictures of Chloe in mid-air. Taking pictures of your girlfriend in mid-air.
The concrete beneath you is baked by the noon sun. It’s a rare hot day in Arcadia Bay. Thanks, Global Warming. You are a walking freckle.
Beside you sits two letters labelled Blackwell Academy. Scholarship letters. You applied for the photography program. Just submitting pictures made you feel like throwing up. In the end, Chloe was the one who meticulously put your photos in a portfolio and submitted them. The same way you breathed down her neck while she wrote a college level physics essay.
You’re going to open your letters together. God, you really hope that at least she gets in. She’s so fucking smart and her parents could really use the break.
“Mad Max, do you have enough glamour shots?” She says.
You tip back with your camera, careful to place it on your lap.
“Yeah, come on, let’s read these.”
She gets off her board close enough to make you flinch. She scratches the back of her neck, then uses the same hand to shield her eyes from the sun.
“Shit, it’s hot. Wanna go to Dairy Queen first?”
You look at the sizzle field full of clouds of flies and think about the five dollars you have in your wallet. Getting a summer job in Arcadia is nearly impossible for teenagers, but your dad has been paying you to wash the car and tidy his office.
“Yeah, sure.”
She’s nervous to find out and you are too. This whole thing is standing on the precipice of your future. You tangle your fingers together, but your palms are sweaty and slide together unpleasantly.
You keep your mouth closed and teeth clenched so that bugs don’t fly in. The Dairy Queen is an oasis in this too-hot city. The line for the counter stretches to the door. Your hands fall apart. Chloe looks at the empty air between you and and rolls her lower lip.
It’s not that you don’t want anyone to know. Your hand is sweaty, that’s all.
Yet for the next twenty minutes of line you talk but keep your hands to yourselves. The older man ahead of you keeps turning around and looking at you with concern. You’re sure that you both sound high or insane because you’re talking in your Golem voice about Shakira taking the ring to Mordor and Chloe is pissing herself laughing.
“Yeeesss, her hips don’t lie to us, Precious.”
“Max, stop, I’m gonna pee my pants!” She says too loud and covers her mouth to hide the blush and sound.
“Then use the bathroom, Goof.” You say, shoving her gently.
She pouts, but does. You’re nearly at the front of the line when she gets back and you still haven’t decided what you want.
You sit down with two dipped cones, Chloe stands and takes a furtive look around before sliding into the booth beside you and resting her arm on the seat behind you. Her hand shakes as she takes the cone from you. The letters have ice cream on them. Your mom’s going to be upset.
With a deep breath, you tear the edge of your letter open. Chloe shoves her ice cream into her mouth and does the same.
You are twenty days away from being fourteen years old and attending Blackwall Academy. Unlike the girls in the dorms, you and Chloe take the bus home every day, having the advantage of living in town. And, the disadvantage of not having rich parents.
You also have the disadvantage of having no idea how to interact with people. Sometimes they say things that make no sense and then laugh, sometimes you laugh at what they say and they get all offended. It’s all Greek to you.
Thank God, you have photography on your first day. Chloe’s taking all academic courses to keep her scholarship (plus PE because that’s a requirement and sooo important).
Science (with Chloe) went relatively smoothly. This kid saw the Tardis pin on your bag and wouldn’t stop whispering to you about Doctor Who. Asking who your favourite Doctor is, asking if you’ve watched any of the original series, typical nerd guy test questions. Chloe gave him her best bitchface to shut him up.
Photography though. You know photography. There was a rumour that Mark Jefferson would be teaching here this year, but he got a contract with Vogue instead. You’re a little disappointed, he’s a great photographer and a real West Coast Icon.
Your plan of attack for this class is focus on the work and avoid putting your foot in your mouth. The latter is easier said than done.
You arrive twenty minutes early and sit as far from the teacher’s desk as possible. Already nervous, your knee jitters against the table leg. Looking down, you see a stain on the leg already. Great first impression.
Apparently, there’s another keener in this class. Second to enter is a tall girl with short, dark hair. Her wardrobe matches the rest of her appearance, dark, but expensive. All name brands. Nothing bought from Target or Goodwill. She sees you in the back seat and sighs, taking the desk to your left.
Go talk to her. Be friendly.
You stay in your seat.
Max, I swear to god.
She’s hunched over her phone, posture reading ‘don’t talk to me’. You respect that. You’ll give her space.
Instead you pull out your camera and portfolio. The pictures Chloe chose were really nice. She has a good objective eye. You’re too critical of all of your mistakes.
The other girl has her portfolio out, now she’s reading as confident. You think. Her chest is puffed out. The silence goes on and on.
You’re going to be brave. The chair scrapes out from under you. It’s deafening enough to make you wince. The girl’s head snaps to look at you. Your posture should read as submissive. Shoulders down, hands empty, back bowed.
“Is that your portfolio?” You say.
“Yeah.” She says.
You can’t tell her attitude from her tone of voice. It’s frustrating. You wish Chloe were here.
“C-can I see?” You say.
She pushes her hair behind her ear.
“Yeah, that’s why I have it out.”
Rude maybe?
You flip through her portfolio. There’s really professional looking polish to her photos. She knows all about contrast and composition. The leather bound book itself is expensive. Yours was a ‘graduation’ gift from your parents and you know it wasn’t cheap either.
Her photos are often stark portraits, a lot of herself, but a few still lifes and landscapes.
“Wow, you have a great eye. Can I say, Richard Avedon-esque?” You say.
The girl colours and seems to shiver with pleasure. It feels nice. Making people feel good is nice.
And she looks a lot nicer now. But she still pushes past you to look at your portfolio. Her perfume isn’t overpowering like the girls who used too much in Middle School. It’s subtle.
Her fingers touch the pages of your portfolio almost reverently. She bites her thumb absently and you can see a crease forming between her eyebrows. You feel nervous about the scrutiny and curl your fists inside the pockets of your jeans.
Her thick lips are pulled into a taught line.
“These are… really good.” She sighs.
“W-wow, thanks.”
“Did you do that just to show off?” She turns on you.
You hold up your hands again.
“No, I don’t think my stuff is nearly as good as yours.”
She studies you with the same scrutiny as your photos and then slams her index finger next to one.
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?” You follow her finger.
A picture you took of the beach at sunset. They were taking down the volleyball net and the tide had come in and ruined all of the sandcastles.
“It should be an ugly and boring shot, but I feel this nostalgia. Like I was there. This picture is like the feeling of sand stuck between your toes and a bit of a sunburn. How the fuck did you do that?”
God, she’s pretty when she’s emoting. Bad thoughts.
You blink, then shrug, “I think it’s the sandcastles getting washed away. It’s like a loss of innocence, but also a fresh beginning. Kind of like the ending of summer and beginning of fall. Like Robert Frost’s ‘Nothing Gold Can Stay’.”
She nods a little and purses her lips. She’s considering your words and you feel like such a fucking nerd.
“I’m Victoria Chase.” She holds out a hand.
“M-Max Caulfield.”
“You’re going to be my partner.” She says, holding your hand hard.
Looking up into those dark eyes you nod.
Maybe this friend making thing isn’t so hard after all?