Chapter Text
My dorm at Blackwell is silent save for the sound of my quiet breathing. I kick my feet, bouncing them off my twin-sized mattress and untangling my legs from the fuzzy blanket wrapped around them.
I glare up at the dreamcatcher that sways above my bed, completely useless. It hasn’t done a damn thing to help the nightmares that have been plaguing me since March and if it didn’t totally fit my aesthetic, I’d throw it out the window.
I really, really wish it worked. My dreams all started turning into nightmares and it feels like all of them are prophetic. I dream of the world burning, and suddenly the entirety of Northern California is ablaze, the smoke drifting through the mountains east of Arcadia Bay, staining the sky a virulent orange and making my chest ache.
I dreamed of drowning, my lungs aching for air and my body rotting in the infinite dark. A week later, the West Coast saw the most rainfall in three days that it’s ever seen, breaking records for places that have literal monsoons.
Like I said, my dreams are pretty fucked, but I wish that made living in this shithole more exciting. Somehow, it manages to make it more boring. Like, yeah, of course living in Arcadia Bay turns to hell on earth. I just didn’t expect it to manifest so… physically. But hey, it’s Oregon, of course it rains! Leave it to the locals to brush off a three-day long flood like it’s just another Tuesday.
The most exciting event was the fisherman strike last month, and that’s only because someone got decked in the face. I think it was Nathan’s dad, actually. Then the fisherman had been escorted away by the police and that was the end of it. Compared to Long Beach, this place is dying, if not already dead. Arcadia Bay is like a black hole, sucking everything in but never letting anything leave. There’s never a time where I don’t miss California.
Leaving California changed my life in the worst way imaginable. I had to leave all my friends and my life behind for this tiny little town, all because my dad had had the idea that he should quit being a successful lawyer in Long Beach and get elected for the District Attorney position in Arcadia Bay. All of that left me struggling to adapt to this tiny bay town in Tillamook County in the middle of fuck-all nowhere. I’m still not used to it and I have no intention on getting used to it. There’s nothing for me here. I thought that small towns were supposed to have heart, to take care of the people who lives there, but no. Nobody gives a shit about anyone else, skittering over each other in the rat race that has no end.
No one cares about what I need. It sounds hella selfish when I think of it like that, but it’s so frustrating that I just want to pull my hair out. I fit into this fucking mold known as Rachel Amber. Perfect, pretty, effortless. I am the Queen Bee and nobody thought to ask me whether or not I’m happy with that.
I’m just a mask that I can’t take off. I don’t even know what’s under it, anymore. All I know is that I want to rip it the fuck off but my fingers won’t fit under the edges.
Not even my friends—not that I’d really call them my friends—bother to find out what I am beneath the mask. They just… accept the idea of who I am. They like who I present myself as and honestly, I’m happy to keep it that way. It’s safer if I’m Rachel Amber, future model and international lawyer. Better that than the Rachel who struggles to breathe late at night when she’s alone in bed. Nobody wants to be friends with the girl struggling to stay afloat, but everyone loves the girl who has it all.
And on the outside, I can understand why they think that. My dad’s the DA, which means I’m essentially untouchable in the eyes of the law. I could do fucking anything I want to and it would all get brushed under the rug and any self-respecting teenager would kill for that. He gets paid hella cash and he loves the political scene more than he loves his own family.
No, that’s not just me being an angsty teenager. I mean that from the bottom of my heart, he loves his job more than he loves anyone except himself. He spends hours and hours in his office, barely coming out to eat, to talk to us or even to just be there.
Fuck, even when he does come out, it’s like talking to a robot. He asks about the weather, how school is going—all he gives a shit about is that I don’t sully the Amber name. He doesn’t even bother to say that in as many words, choosing instead to give this put-upon sigh if I get so much as an A-.
He's hiding something. Whatever it is, I don’t know and honestly, I try not to think about it. All the thoughts that swirl through my head end up at the same end: we’re all fucked.
That’s why I applied for a dorm at Blackwell this semester—to escape the tension that smothers me whenever I’m in my house. My dad had sprung at the idea to get me out of the house. He said it was “A good way to become independent.” I could see through the sugar-coated words; he wanted me away from whatever he was hiding.
Light shifts across my room, and I wince as it flashes into my eyes, yanking me from my thoughts roughly. It’s only like—I check my clock—5:30, why is the sun so low already? It’s May. I slam my pillow against my face, frustrated breaths heating the cloth. I throw it across the room and take a deep breath. It’s so easy to get mad whenever I remember how fucked everything is.
I do anything I can to forget it. I’ve tried drinking, I’ve tried smoking, but nothing takes the edge off the unending anxiety that fills my body at the thought of school, my family and the fact that I’m stuck here. It only replaces the emptiness with something worse: the crushing feeling of running out of time.
Acting is the only thing that keeps me from running away from my parents without a trace. It’s my respite from the world, the place where I get to pretend that I’m not Rachel Amber and her many faces. There, on stage, at least I get to choose who I’m pretending to be. I’m Juliet, or Antigone, or any number of people who have escaped or died trying. It feels better to pretend than accept the fact that I never stop pretending.
I throw my arms out with a frustrated groan, only to yelp as my hand smacks against my nightstand. The impact sends a pile of my belongings tumbling to the cheaply-carpeted floor.
“Of course.” I growl quietly, clutching my aching hand to my chest. Picking all this stuff up is going to be a pain. I slide off my bed and kneel on the floor, my knees aching at the concrete beneath. I start give the mess some semblance of order, but my fingers brush against the waxy seal of a letter and I pause. As I let the rest of my stuff slide onto the floor again, my eyes widen. Fuck.
I remember now; Wells gave this envelope to me personally, imploring me of its importance to my future at Blackwell—or something like that. I hate to say it, but I wasn’t paying attention. So naturally, it’s been sitting under my alarm clock for about a month. My report card this semester has been nothing but A’s, so it can’t be as important as he said it was. I’m really tempted just to throw it out—but maybe I should read it before I do that.
“Let’s see what we have here,” I murmur to the empty room, slipping my finger beneath the lip of the letter. The wax seal is slightly crushed from its neglect, but it pops off easily, dangling from the paper as I pull out the letter. The insignia of Blackwell is the first thing I see: a massive B, surrounded by fancy detailing. It looks nice, I’ll give Wells that.
I hum as I unfold the letter; a single piece of paper that’s still crisply folded and white as snow. The date in the corner says April 2nd, 2010.
“Rachel Dawn Amber, Prescott Dormitory, Room 224,” I begin, before I let my voice trail off, reading the words in silence. The robotic script makes me roll my eyes. How hard can your job be when your paperwork is just fill in the blanks? ‘We must inform you of an important change in your future housing situation here at Blackwell.’
A cold jolt of alarm crawls up my spine. The ominous tone of Wells’ letter isn’t really what I wanted to hear today. I tuck my hair back, fingers latching onto the feather earring that hangs from my left ear. The feather is soft between my fingers as I rub its velvet edge.
You will be participating in a new chaperone program with an advanced student that suffers from severe social anxiety. Due to your exceptional grades and performance as administrative assistant, it’s been decided that you are the best choice for this task. You will be tasked with ensuring that your ward is able to integrate themselves into life at Blackwell as well as perform to satisfactory levels in their classes.
As you have not responded to previous letters, several Blackwell letters thrown in the trash flicker in my mind and I bare my teeth in a wince, it is assumed that you are willing to participate. Due to your position as chaperone, your services are no longer required as administrative assistant.
We hope you continue to thrive during your time here at Blackwell.
If you have any questions or concerns, call us at 555-372-1193.
Following May 1st this arrangement is permanent due to scheduling constraints.
I calmly set the letter down, a hot, suffocating warmth building in my chest. I exhale quietly, crossing my legs before me. This is fine, Rachel. I can handle this. I’ll just call Wells and tell him that I don’t want to have a roommate. I’ll slip out of this arrangement easily.
I look between the final sentence on the letter and the date on my phone. If I look at them hard enough, maybe I’ll just go back in time. Unfortunately, the world doesn’t rewind and it is still May 4th. Of course, it is. Why wouldn’t it be?
So, due to some faults of my own, I’m going to be stuck in a cramped, single bed dorm room with a complete and utter stranger. And not just a stranger, but a freshman with anxiety bad enough to require a special designation?
Stay optimistic, Rachel; don’t lose your cool. Maybe my roommate will be so awesome that you won’t even notice that we’re cooped up together in this tiny excuse for a bedroom.
Right…
What a joke. What the hell is Wells thinking? “Oh, Rachel Amber must be lonely, she’s only the most popular girl in the entire school!” I hate this. I’m used to my life being thrown around without my consent—that’s something you learn when your dad’s career is more important than his family. And hey, speaking of, why didn’t my parents tell me about this? They pay for me to be in this dorm, so wouldn’t they be notified of a roommate to split the cost or something? Wells tries to act like he’s responsible, but he’s obviously lying to himself. I also think my dad’s getting too used to keeping secrets and fucking me over in the process. That’s what he did when he sprung this shithole town on us, too.
I sigh tiredly, carding my fingers through my hair. Hella pissed or not, I need to find out more about my new roommate. I have no clue when she’s showing up, and I’m going to try to prepare myself as best I can. Hell, she could be here tonight! That thought alone fills me with dread and the fire I need to get moving.
I push myself to my feet, ignoring the pile of papers and trinkets that still lay at the foot of my nightstand even as I nearly slip on an old math worksheet. There aren’t many well-connected gossip hounds at Blackwell that I can squeeze for information. It’s a toss-up between Juliet and Victoria. I’d go to Dana, but she’s too damn nice to spread some stranger’s gossip. Bless her innocent heart.
I weigh the pros and cons in my head. On one hand, Victoria has connections to high places through Nathan Prescott—poor kid, has to deal with Victoria and his asshole dad—but Juliet is the nosiest girl in the entire school, an investigative journalist and a writer. Although she’s closer to a fully-fledged detective at this point.
It’s a no-brainer: Juliet, obviously. And honestly, any time I see Victoria I get the strangest urge to beat the shit out of her.
Weird, right?
I throw open my door, trotting to the room beside mine. If I know Juliet as well as I think I do, she’ll be inside her dorm working on the latest edition of the Blackwell Totem. I can’t wait to read the latest and greatest from the teenaged paparazzi. I wonder whose social life is going to burn for this article?
I knock on the door and take the time to admire Juliet’s artwork on the little whiteboard attached to her door. She’s pretty good, but it’s a shame that it’s just a totem pole with the Blackwell insignia on it. Such a waste of talent.
I can hear footsteps behind the door and I perk up, straightening my back and pulling my lips into a smile. Juliet’s just a bit taller than I am, so I have to tilt my head to see her pretty, expectant face. She’s wearing a simple ensemble of a red cardigan and skinny jeans with her feet left bare. There’s a chewed-on pencil behind her ear, even though I know for a fact she writes on her computer.
She looks good, as always. Maybe she’s more of the art than the artist? She definitely has the height to be a model, and no, that doesn’t make me feel inferior at all.
“Oh, hey, Rachel!” She greets brightly, bouncing on the balls of her feet. I subtly take a step back. Ruined nap or not, I’m still waking up. “What’s up? Need something? It’s not Tempest-related, right? I’m still memorizing the lines—don’t tell Mr. Keaton please!”
“No, no,” I reassure her with a warm smile, “I was just wondering if you knew anything about a new student coming soon.”
“Oh, her?” Juliet chirps happily. Satisfaction warms me like a blanket. I knew I picked the right person. I barely have to say anything and she knows exactly what I need. Unfortunately, her information always comes with a price, and not one you always get told about beforehand, “I know all about her. What do you need to know? Why do you need to know?”
“Well, here’s what I want to know,” She leans in closer and I can smell the wood from her pencil on her breath. My voice is level and firm as I say, “Where’s she from, how old is she, what’s her name, and why am I her keeper, or whatever the fuck? Tell me the important stuff.”
I need to know everything about this girl. From the top of her head to the tips of her toes, I need to know who’s going to be in my personal space for who knows how long. But for now, we’ll start with the basics.
“So pushy, Rachel,” Juliet observes, and I scowl for a split second. Almost immediately, my face is schooled back into a gentle, charming smile that exposes just the slightest hint of teeth. It’s second nature at this point. Mask on. “I’ll give you a discount—just this once, but you owe me double next time. Something really juicy for my article.”
She holds out a hand, her nails bitten haphazardly. I bet it’s from all the stress not knowing her lines is causing her.
“Deal. I can get you a story by next month.” I clasp her hand in mine, mirroring her grin, “Now spill, Watson.”
Juliet’s face falls into thought for a moment before she begins, “Well, I know her name is Maxine Caulfield, and that’s she’s an Arcadia Bay native but she’s coming back from Seattle.”
None of this is hella important, but at the very least it’s giving me the barest of bones to work with when it comes to Maxine. Everything else, I’ll have to learn firsthand, it seems. “She’s a freshman but, like, she’s crazy good with a camera so you’d better snap her up before another model does,” Juliet clicks her tongue, “and I don’t really know why you’re the one selected—except for the fact you’re a straight-A student, 4.0 Honor Roll, prominent drama queen, administrative assistant and all-around perfect student?”
I grit my teeth at the answer. It’s both accurate and insulting at the same time. As for Max’s prodigious photography skills, it would explain why she was allowed into Blackwell at such a weird time. Here, amazing students are practically hunted down. Wells loves having Alumni to bolster the image of Blackwell. No surprise they got to Maxine. Maxine Caulfield—I’m going to have to get used to that name. If she’s as good with a camera as Juliet says, that’s just one more step towards getting out of this place.
“I’m not surprised you’re their guinea pig, especially for a year-round sleepover with a cute girl,” my eyes shoot up at the sound of her voice, the teasing tone met with a narrowing of my eyes. I’m confident in my sexuality, thank you very much.
“Are you sure that’s all you know?” I really want to know more about Maxine. Juliet merely laughs at my prying, snorting as she leans against her doorway.
“That’s all you asked for, Amber.” Juliet’s voice is infuriatingly teasing, but I know how to keep a level head, and I definitely know how to squeeze someone like Juliet for information. If she’s got more, I need more.
“Oh, come on, Juliet. We’re friends. I can’t have my co-star backing out on me now… who else is going to help you practice lines? Imagine what Keaton would say.” I coo playfully, leaning against the opposite side of the doorway. Juliet looks down at me, scowling. The poor girl looks nervous, for some reason. It most certainly isn’t the fact that the lead actress is blatantly blackmailing her. And hey, this is practically harmless considering the shit I know she gets up to. For a gossip hound, she’s awfully stupid about her own public image.
It takes a frustratingly long time for Juliet to break, but she does. With a sigh, she just shakes her head at me, “Fucking cold-blooded today, aren’t we?”
I just give her a smile, full of sharpness and promise. Tell me what you know, Watson. I promise, I’ll make it painless.
“Fine. Fine, whatever. It’s not even that big a deal, unless you’re fucking nosy, I guess.” Juliet snaps like a cable under tension, gesticulating agitatedly, “The girl’s like, apparently Price’s long-lost bestie. Or, something like that. Apparently, they were close.”
“How close?” I interrupt. Juliet glares at me, eyes steely. Kinda forgot how big Juliet’s temper was—and boy is it.
“Like this close,” She crosses her fingers together, muscles straining to keep them pressed tight. “But after Max had to move away—during Chloe’s dad’s funeral mind you—, Chloe shut down and they had a huge fight. Steph could tell you more, which shames me as a reporter to admit… although, since she and Chloe have been close recently, she might be a little bit more difficult to pry info from.” Juliet muses, snatching the pencil from behind her ear for something to chew on.
“Thanks, Juliet.” I smile widely, waving at her as I take off out of the dorms. I turn back just before I leave, my smile falling, “Practice your lines. Hayden’s already holding us back. Don’t make it worse.”
My Converse slap against the pavement as I walk up the inclined path to Blackwell. As soon as the courtyard’s in sight I can see it’s dotted with dozens of students relaxing after a long day of classes.
I usually enjoy talking to people, especially people who aren’t quite accustomed to me. Maybe it’s mean of me to love having the upper hand, but it’s so satisfying. Now, Steph in particular is going to be an easy person to persuade, and I’m not ashamed of exploiting her crush on me. It’s painfully obvious. She’s cute and all, but she’s hella not my type. The beanie just doesn’t do her any favors, man.
Her crush should make her more talkative, even if she is Chloe’s brand-new confidante. That’s a new development, too. Chloe’s hardly a bastion of openness and feelings. I don’t think I’ve ever spoken a word to her since I arrived in Arcadia Bay—her mom even brought us a pie when we moved.
Speaking of Chloe, I can see her from my vantage point at the edge of the lot. The way she walks is careless, yet there’s a clear undertone of anger. Her shoulders are tense and she looks around, just in case somebody’s watching, like she wants people to know she doesn’t care that they’re watching her. Poser. She can’t even not care without caring and honestly, it’s kinda funny, but also kinda sad.
Even though it’s after school, groups still lay about the courtyard, all with varying energies. The skaters laugh as Justin eats pavement while the rich kids—Dana and I not included—laze about the fountain. I guess the image of Jerimiah Blackwell makes them feel important and privileged—back to their colonist roots, I suppose. They seem like the witch-burning type, anyway.
But right now, I can’t be bothered with the affluent asswipes. My target is in sight and I’m won’t hesitate to pull the trigger.
“Hey, Steph!” The beanie-wearing girl almost falls from her seat when my voice reaches her. Her eyes go wide and her cheeks turn as red as her t-shirt, the color creeping over the rest of her face. Her dungeon master guidebook is knocked from the tabletop as she waves frantically. It bounces off her thigh and plops to the grass. Her eyes crinkle as she subtly rubs her palm against the thigh of her jeans. It’s a thick, hardcover guidebook. Ouch.
“Hi, Rachel!” She freezes in place as I sit down on the edge of the table, her eyes flickering to my hand sitting mere inches from hers. Mikey scowls at me suspiciously, his cheeks pressing against the rims of his glasses. I simply smile back, giving away nothing.
“We’re in the middle of a quest, Rachel,” Mikey chides me, shooing me away from the edge of the board. I look down at the hand he used to shoo me away and raise a brow as if to ask Really? Steph chuckles tightly, trying to defuse the situation.
“It’s fine, Mikey. We’ve been at it for a while.” Steph turns to me, ignoring Mikey’s protest of ‘it’s only been five minutes!’. “Our dungeons will always be here. Now, what’s up Rachel? Come to hang out?” The hopeful tone in Steph’s voice is just what I need.
“Sure! But… not to play.” I slide onto the table, ignoring the way Mikey snatches the board away as if I’m infectious. I don’t have cooties, but whatever. “I was actually looking to ask you something. Something kinda important.”
Maybe it’s mean to phrase it that way, but Steph is just too easy to mess with sometimes. A girl’s gotta find enjoyment out of the little things, too… like dangling a girl’s crush in front of her face for the promise of information. That makes me sound like a bitch, doesn’t it? I’ll give a shit about that later, or… not.
She nearly loses her beanie with how fast her head shoots up; her smile is wide and her teeth are pearly white. Her enthusiasm is adorable, but kind of depressing. Grow a little backbone, Gingrich. I’m literally just a girl. “Of course! What’s up?”
“I need to know about Max Caulfield.” A tick of silence passes as Mikey inhales sharply. I look away for a moment, allowing my mask to slip just long enough to roll my eyes in exasperation. Did she think I was going to ask her out? “She’s gonna be my new project, as it were. I was just hoping you knew something about her?”
“Yeah, totally!” Steph chirps, her smile strained. Translation: please, get this over with. At least that means she’ll spill the beans faster, “I don’t know too much about him, but from I’ve learned from Chloe, he completely went off the grid when Chloe’s dad passed. He texted Chloe last night, I think. Told her that he’d be back in Arcadia Bay.”
He? I can’t help but feel a bit annoyed at the conflicting information. I don’t think Maxine is a guy’s name, so there’s obviously something going on here that I don’t think I’m on board with. If I’m right about this… well, someone’s gonna wish they’d never come to Blackwell.
If this girl’s trans, then sticking her with me is unintentionally the most genius move that Wells has ever pulled. Nobody, and I mean nobody is going to fuck with a roommate of mine unless they want to incur the wrath of Rachel Amber and my status around school will serve to give her a lot of sway in school politics just by sheer virtue of sharing a space with me.
Goddamn genius.
“Thanks, Steph.” I say distractedly. I hope to whatever powers that be that Steph is just stupid and misinformed, especially with how much she misgendered Maxine.
Better to be stupid rather than a fucking bigot.
It takes me about five minutes of wandering the courtyard and engaging in idle banter that I realize I haven’t really learned anything about Max as a person. She and Chloe fought, and she went totally MIA, and she’s an advanced photography student with severe social anxiety who is also transgender, but who is she? What makes Maxine tick, what makes her live?
It’s stupid and naïve, but I’m hoping that Max is someone who I can connect to. Maybe I don’t want to bare my soul to her, but it would be so much nicer to have a friendly face when I finish up classes rather than a cold, empty bed and the suffocating silence of my dorm.
I hop over the little brick wall in the front of Blackwell’s property, pressing my back against the brick and sliding down into the dry grass. The concrete cap barely goes over my head, but it’s hidden me from Blackwell and that’s enough for me.
I shake my head and breathe out, watching the clouds roll by, abstracting into shape after shape, my mind taking it all in and letting it all go with ease. The light of the golden hour pulls my eyes to the lighthouse, a stone monument standing stalwart against the waves.
“Why do I even stay here?” I wonder aloud, my thoughts swinging away from the scenery to the sky, as if the stars have the answers to my problems. I believe that they do, even though other people say that it’s bullshit. I wish I could see them, but the sky is too bright. It’s nowhere near dark enough for them to shine. I could use some celestial advice for this—for everything, really. Although, my horoscope did say a life-changing event was coming. Maybe Max will have something to do with it. Maybe we’ll go off on an amazing adventure. I’m not holding my breath, but the thought of being happy—genuinely happy—is intoxicating.
It would be so easy to just buy a bus ticket and try to live off my cunning mind and charming smile in LA. My mom would be heartbroken, though. She and my dad would look for me for so long. Guilt gnaws at my heart as I gnaw at my lip. How many people would try to get me to come back? Would I be able to hide forever?
My horoscopes lately have been especially unhelpful, speaking of new things to learn and new strengths to find. My future love life has been labeled as ‘intense, mystifying, and long-lasting’. It’s the first time in a long time I’ve doubted the stars. But they’ve never led me astray before, so maybe I just need to trust them. Having a guide right now sounds pretty nice—even if they’re millions of miles away.
I shift, dry grass poking through my jeans, making me wince. I tear at it vengefully, as if killing the already dead grass will stop the rest of it from prodding me. A little propeller plane putters overhead, waving its wings before it flies into a golden cloud bank, disappearing into the mist that swirls around it, as if it’s welcoming it inside.
I hate sitting around like this; it just makes me feel restless and uncomfortable. It’s a rare sight when Rachel Amber has time to just exist, rather than running ragged on everything I do to stay distracted.
Living the dream, Rachel. Living the dream—God, I wish I was back in Long Beach, surfing and laughing with my friends again. But they don’t text me and I don’t text them. The separation hurts, but fuck, what am I supposed to do?
It’s hard to explain how I feel about Arcadia Bay. There’s a feeling in my chest that’s been there since we pulled the car to a stop in front of our new house. It’s cold and heavy, pulling at my stomach every time I give it any attention. It’s beyond fear. Terror, maybe? I’m scared of this place—I’m actually scared of Arcadia Bay.
I’m terrified that I’ll become just another person in the crowd if I stay here too long. I don’t want to see my face in the mirror and hate myself for being where I am in life. I don’t want my face to sag and my shoulders to slump, resigning myself to a monotonous life and a quiet death. I don’t want to work at some dead-end job that barely pays rent, stuck in limbo and never moving forward in life. Stagnation, being forgotten, being uncared for; that’s what I see in this town in the eyes of every person I pass. They know that they can’t escape. They know it’s already too late for them. I don’t want to be like that.
The sun’s just now dipping below the horizon, painting the sky crimson and violet. The ocean is practically alive with the light shimmering from every wave, pulling at the coast as it tries to climb ashore, wildfire beneath a pink sky. A sigh escapes my lips, letting loose a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. The trees rustle in the wind, waving gently. Nature is so beautiful. It’s more gorgeous than any artwork mankind could ever make, with its own flawed perfection that makes it feel original and real.
A gust of wind whistles down the dip between the little hills in front of me and the wall behind me, stealing every last bit of heat I’d been holding onto so greedily. My teeth clack together, my body struggling to warm me up again. I compliment you and you do this to me? Fucked up, Nature. The wind stops, as if it hears my thoughts. A dead zone surrounds me, giving me a clarity that I’ve never experienced before. The trees are still waving in the wind, creaking quietly and leaves scrape over the asphalt, bouncing and skipping—everything feels so alive. Suddenly it disappears, the cold air returning and the sounds of nature fading away. My tremors aren’t from the cold anymore.
Alright, this weather is getting hella ridiculous. Arcadia Bay, a tiny town on the edge of the Pacific Ocean and surrounded by temperate rainforests hasn’t had rain in over a month. Trees are drying out faster than anyone can explain and lawns are already dead and dry. It seems so wrong. It’s always rained here at least once a week, but now I can practically smell smoke in the wind from the looming fire threat.
I walk back to the girl’s dorms, imagining the feel of my fuzzy blanket and soft sheets around me. The cold wind won’t leave me alone now, piercing my blue plaid flannel. I let out a groan of frustration, picking up my pace to a jog and yanking open the door to the dorms. I take the time to savor the warmth pouring from the vents on the ceiling, sighing in relief. I don’t want to go back to my dorm. I’m dreading Max’s arrival, as stupid as that is. I don’t even know when she’ll be here, but something tells me it’ll be now.
I’m totally stalling, looking at everyone’s slates before I get to my room. There are some pretty good artists like Juliet, a few burgeoning poets, and—ah, Victoria’s enlightening quote of the day: Hate the sin, love the sinner- Gandhi. I shake my head in disappointment at both the misquote and the vile feeling it brings me. Superior little bitch.
My slate—usually decorated with a little drawing of a lion beside the Zodiac sign for Leo—is instead replaced with a simple smiley face with a tiny body complete with five-fingered hands and sneaker-clad feet, and the words:
“Max was here.” I say the words aloud, rolling my eyes. There’s still a smile pulling at my lips, though. It’s cute, in a totally dorky way.
The lady of the hour has arrived. Maxine Caulfield, meet Rachel Amber.
I hope you’re ready for me, Max, because I’m so not ready for you.