Chapter Text
Prologue
There’s a well-known quote: "Heavy is the head that wears the crown". Lottie thinks that’s a load of shit.
She likes being popular. Actually, no, that’s not quite right. She fucking revels in it. She’s not one of those people who wishes high school would never end so she can live out her glory days on a loop, no, she has ambitions and plans for the future, thank you very much, but she’ll take what she has right now.
It’s easy to be what they want her to be. She has some advantages, she knows that, like her father being a C-suite executive for a company in the top 50 of the Fortune 500, which means that she lives in the biggest house in town and has never wanted for new clothes, the trendiest shoes, or a brand-new car on her 16th birthday.
She doesn’t say all this to be obnoxious, or spoiled, or otherwise insufferable, but rather to acknowledge that these things are true and that they have helped her, and yeah, of course she’s going to use what she has to improve herself.
But like, it’s fucking high school, so it won’t even matter in 5 years.
It’s just fun.
To see how high she can rise, how many people will look up to her. It makes her feel a little hollow – she doesn’t think she has any friends – except maybe Jackie – but feelings are for people who have room to falter. She decidedly does not.
Money is great, but social capital cannot solely be bought. She sometimes imagines herself as balancing on the top of a very complex pyramid, the kind with a razor-thin edge. If she leans too far one way or too far the other, or even just doesn’t stay hyper-vigilant about her surroundings, she will fall right off. She has the most to lose, the furthest to fall. Lottie Matthews is not the type of girl who loses.
So she befriends other similarly shiny-haired and silver-spoon-fed girls and laughs with them at the appropriate moments and pretends to drink at parties but never actually gets drunk because being drunk is sloppy.
She never has a grade below an A, she’s home before curfew except on Friday nights, when she attends aforementioned parties until everyone has seen enough barely-there-glimpses of her to want more, more, more – and to tell stories about her the next day like a she’s some mythical creature instead of a girl.
She wears skirts and sweaters and neatly polished Mary Janes to school every day. She laughs softly and smiles widely to everyone, even the people she secretly hates, so that if anyone dares to speak a word against her, the collective resounds, “ No, she’s so nice .” Lottie Matthews is perfect in every way, at least in the eyes of others.
And high school itself was also working out perfectly for her, exactly the way she had imagined, until she saw her.
Natalie Scatorccio. Wiskayok’s resident brooding bad girl, with enough angst and thick black eyeliner that she should be a character in some badly-written sitcom, not here in school with the rest of them. She has a reputation that precedes her – one that involves taking sketchy drugs behind the school and leaving a trail of broken boy hearts behind her.
She’s a burnout, and the hierarchy of high school doesn’t look too favorably upon them, but she’s also hot and scary enough that the student body is intrigued by her more than they hate her. It’s why all the preppy, country-club, polo-wearing boys want her so bad – because it would scandalize Mommy and Daddy. She entertains them for a bit – but Nat chews boys up and spits them out with that sinfully sweet mouth of hers.
Lottie loves it.
A little too much, which is proving to be a problem for her lately.
As the fire of senior year dwindles to embers and summer pulls closer, she’s found herself less interested in her school work and more with one bleach-blonde whose name might as well be “DANGER. STAY AWAY”, if you’re Lottie.
Some might say she’s… enraptured. Or infatuated. She doesn’t like those descriptors, though; they sound too romantic. It’s not like she’s in love with her, that would be absurd, but rather she wants to know why she chooses to go through life like it’s hiding in a back alley, waiting to beat her up, why she fights before she speaks, why when she does speak, it’s ladled with indignation and vitriol.
So, not infatuated. But maybe obsessed.
They’d voted for superlatives for the yearbook, and while it hasn’t been published yet, they announced the awards at prom. Lottie won ‘Most Likely to Succeed in Life’. Nat won ‘Most Likely to End Up in Prison’. Together, they won ‘Most Likely to Run Away Together’, as a joke, but Lottie, standing on stage in her prom queen crown, hadn’t felt embarrassed, no, she found it quite interesting indeed. But it’s her job to find things interesting, to keep up with what is expected of her.
So after that night, she keeps her eye on Natalie.
It’s not like she never noticed her before – they’ve been in the same school most of her life, always orbiting two very different planets within the same solar system. They just never had any reason to interact. Nat, who used to be softer around her edges, a little quieter, a little weirder – but then, so had Lottie – had been shaped by the pressures of middle, then high school, and while Lottie gladly gave in, Nat revolted against what they wanted from her.
The first day of 10th grade, Lottie had seen her across the hallway while she fake-laughed over Jackie’s story of something Jeff had said the night before. She was standing against a locker, her arms crossed tightly over her chest and her mouth arranged in the most intense scowl Lottie had ever seen. Nat had heard them laughing – everyone had, that was the point – and looked over and Lottie locked eyes with her and was filled with the most sudden dread and fear. She knew, in that instant, that Nat could see that her mouth and her eyes were unaligned, that she had practiced this very face, very laugh, in her mirror last night until her throat was raw and sore.
It terrified her. More than anything had before. Because if some random loser girl could see her, that meant she had a weak spot. She needed to fix that.
So she kept looking, only to see if Nat was looking back. To reinforce her armor, so to speak. Friends close and enemies closer, right?
But somewhere along the lines, things had gotten… confused. She found herself looking for Nat in the corners of every room, in streaks of black on the sidewalks as she drove past.
And she realized, one night, laying in bed, wondering what Nat was doing, that she was completely fucking bored of the life she had painstakingly crafted for herself. In class the following morning, instead of taking notes on the Krebs cycle, she scrawled a list onto a piece of lined paper torn from her labeled notebook of 10 things she wished she had done instead of polishing herself until her true self was buffed away.
There were 30 days left of high school. 3 days per item on her bucket list.
30 days to blow up her life. To smash the perfect persona she’d created for herself into smithereens.
Lottie read over the list she’d created. She smiled.
Bucket List Item #1: smoke weed
In hindsight, this maybe shouldn’t have been the first item on her list.
It’s not like she’s never been offered drugs before; she just always said no, afraid of what she might say if she was high. So now, here she is, behind the school, pleading with the one girl she’d been hoping to avoid for the next 30 days.
“Please, Nat,” she says.
“Lottie Matthews begging for weed?” Nat quirks an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you be, like, studying or feeding starving children right now?”
“That’s next on the evening's agenda, don’t worry,” Lottie says drily.
Nat blows smoke from her cigarette. Lottie resists the urge to cough.
“Don’t all rich people have dealers?”
They do. But Lottie doesn’t want to ask them. Word will inevitably get back to… well, everyone, and she’s in the market for slow destruction. It’s less satisfying if her image goes toppling down all at once.
“I just need a little bit.”
“You going to pay me?” Nat asks.
“Of course,” Lottie scoffs. “Just tell me how much.”
Instead of answering her question, Natalie just stares at her for a long moment. Long enough that Lottie twitches uncomfortably under her gaze. Long enough for her to be aware of the dichotomy of their images – Nat in her black jeans, black leather, her raspy voice. Lottie in a pink plaid skirt and cashmere sweater, voice too soft for the scene they’re locked in.
“Why?” Nat asks, finally.
A good question. Lottie’s not quite sure if she knows how to answer it truthfully, if she can even admit it to herself, but she gives Nat something close to honesty.
“It’s a bucket list item,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Smoking weed is on your bucket list?” Nat asks, tilting her head to one side like she can’t quite believe it.
“Yes,” Lottie says defensively.
Nat appears to think for a moment, dropping her cigarette and stamping it out with her boot-clad toe. A car drives past and Lottie whips her head to see who it is, praying it’s nobody she knows.
“Fine,” she says. “I can get you some–”
“Thank you!” Lottie exclaims. Nat holds up a hand and Lottie’s stomach drops.
“But,” she continues. “I want in.”
“You want in… on what?”
“Your list,” Nat says, like it should be obvious.
“Oh, I, uh,” Lottie stammers. “You’ve probably already done most of it.”
Natalie shrugs, leaning up against the brick wall of the school.
“Would be entertaining to watch you do it.”
“No,” Lottie says, scowling.
“Fine then,” Nat says, holding up her hands in surrender and turning to walk away.
Fuck.
“Wait!” Lottie calls out. Nat stops, her back still to Lottie.
She squeezes her eyes shut, digging her fingers into her temples. The way she sees it, she doesn’t have many options. She doesn’t know who else she could possibly ask. She knows that despite everything, Nat will be… discreet.
“Fine,” she says, forcing her mouth to shove each word out. “We can do the list… together.”
Nat turns back around, smiling like the cat that ate the canary. Lottie is suddenly very, very scared.
“Now we’re talking,” she says.
Lottie swallows heavily.
They meet at Lottie’s house after school the next day.
Her parents are in the city for a work conference, so she has the place to herself. And she conveniently sent the house staff home early with a few wads of cash pressed in their palms.
As Nat crosses the threshold into the foyer, it feels like the Earth itself shifts on its axis at the unnaturalness. Nat whistles, trailing her fingers over the heavy, white wooden hall tree. Lottie feels… unsettled. And maybe a little self-conscious. She’d always seen her house as an asset, something to evoke awe, a place that made other girls in her class beg to come over, beg to be her friends. But here, she can tell Nat isn’t impressed, is just assessing it the same way she might a camping tent in the woods. She’s suddenly embarrassed at its garishness, at the excessive waste of money and time when it seems like no one lives here.
Lottie breaks the silence, unable to bear it.
“So what now?” she asks.
“We get high,” Nat says, smirking.
“Where do we do it?” Lottie asks hesitantly.
“Depends on whether your parents will notice the smell or not.”
“They won’t,” Lottie says, too quickly, and Nat looks at her sideways. She attempts to cover her tracks. “They won’t be home for a few days. Business trip.”
Nat nods, but Lottie can tell she isn’t convinced.
“Well,” she says, drawing out the word. “Then we can smoke wherever you want. Outside, the living room, your bedroom–”
“No,” Lottie clears her throat, composing herself. “Maybe the basement? No one ever goes down there.”
“Lead the way,” Nat says.
Lottie slips off her Mary Janes and guides Natalie through the foyer, then the living room, to the door in the garage’s mudroom. She opens the door to the basement and it creaks as it swings on its hinges, which feels like an especially bad omen.
“You gonna murder me down there, Matthews?” Nat jokingly whispers.
Lottie scoffs.
It’s been a while since she was down here, but it’s as nice as the rest of the house, fully finished and branching off into several rooms. They have a “game room” with a pool table and darts, but also children’s board games, from when Lottie hosted sleepovers in elementary school. There are two plush couches as well, and one oversized, brown armchair that Lottie immediately sits in. She doesn’t know if she could bear it if Nat sat down next to her on the couch. She doesn’t know if she could bear it if she didn’t. And that’s a feeling she certainly can’t unpack right now.
Luckily, Nat takes the moment in stride, dropping herself heavily on the couch closest to Lottie. She roots around in her backpack, pulling out a small plastic baggie filled with two pre-rolled joints.
“How much do I owe you?” Lottie asks.
Nat waves her hand dismissively in the air. “It’s fine,” she says. “Seeing little-miss-perfect Charlotte Matthews get high is payment enough.”
It stings a little, mainly because it’s not untrue.
“I can pay,” Lottie says softly.
“Oh, I’m sure you can, princess.” Lottie flushes at the nickname. “But I stole these from Kevyn anyway, so,” she shrugs. “No big loss for me.”
Great. Not only is she doing drugs, she’s doing stolen drugs. Go big or go home, right?
Nat fishes the joints out of the bag, holding them between her black-nail-polished fingers. She offers one to Lottie, which she grabs hesitantly. She isn’t used to feeling so out of her depth; normally, she’s ahead of the curve, the one leading the charge. It’s disconcerting, unsteadying, to be the follower instead of the followee. A lighter materializes in Nat’s hand. Her thumb flicks against it with practiced ease, a small flame springing up. She lights her own joint first, letting it dangle between her lips dangerously as she leans over to light Lottie’s.
Lottie’s heart beats faster for some inexplicable reason. Nerves about her first time smoking, probably. Lottie holds the joint clumsily between her fingers. Nat laughs. She reaches over, movements gentler than she’s seen before, and adjusts Lottie’s grip so it’s more natural. Her skin is so soft on her own — too soft. Lottie yanks her hand away and Nat sits back, an unreadable expression on her face.
She lifts up the lighter to Lottie nonetheless, and she holds the twisted end into the flame until it catches. With a sort of halting, tentative movement, Lottie puts the other end between her lips, copying Natalie’s easy inhale. It’s not like she’s never smoked anything before – she’s had a cigarette or two – but the thought of getting high sends nervous anticipation down her spine, especially in the presence of someone she not only barely knows but who is also the antithesis to everything she has worked for. She’s taking a risk letting Nat in – she knows she could topple her from the top of her pyramid with one blow, and yet she loves the thrill of it too much to say no.
She sucks in deeper until the smoke billows out of her mouth and Nat laughs as she coughs viciously, tears springing to her eyes.
“Might want to take it easy at first,” Nat says, stretching her legs out in front of her.
Lottie’s cheeks color, but she nods in agreement.
“Like this,” Nat says.
She puts the joint in her mouth again, taking a slow, steady suck. Then, gesturing with her hands to illustrate, she “swallows”, inhaling the hit into her lungs. Lottie copies her actions, taking a smaller but stronger breath, pulling the smoke out carefully. She inhales it fully into her lungs, holding for a second. It works – the back of her throat still tickles and she fights to suppress a cough, but she brims with pride anyway.
It feels like almost immediately she starts to… soften. The edges of the room start to get fuzzy, and thoughts drift through her mind like clouds in the sky, unalarming and gentle. She takes a couple more hits, letting the feeling sink even further into her bones. When the tips of her fingers and toes start to tingle, she stubs the joint in the ashtray and sets it down, reclining back in her chair to stare up at the ceiling.
She and Natalie don’t say anything – just sit in easy silence. She wonders briefly if she should play some music, but then the next second can’t remember why. Time drips like honey off a spoon.
Maybe seconds, minutes, hours later – it’s impossible to tell – Lottie speaks, her voice slow and breathy.
“Nat?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you see the pictures on the ceiling too?”
“This is the best pizza I’ve ever had.”
Nat laughs, taking a bite of her own slice.
“So,” she asks. “First time being high, thoughts?”
Lottie considers carefully, chewing her bite slowly, savoring the hot cheese, the tangy tartness of the sauce, the garlic of the crust.
“I don’t… dislike it. I don’t know if I’d do it again.”
“Why not? I mean, no pressure, but how come?”
Another beat of silence.
“Makes me too self-aware.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“Yes.”
Nat’s lips press into a tight line. She opens her mouth like she might say something, then appears to think better of it, pursing her lips once again. Lottie absentmindedly wipes a bit of grease from her cheek. She starts to laugh.
“What?” Nat asks.
“I look like a flamingo!”
Nat appraises her position – one leg lifted, her polka-dot sock-clad foot pressed against her knee – she does kind of look like one, if you squint. Nat laughs as well, shaking her head. Lottie smiles, dropping her foot back down to the floor and leaning over the granite countertop, hair – which has somehow escaped its two pigtails – falling in loose waves like a curtain across her face.
She wasn’t lying when she told Nat that being high made her feel too aware of herself. She feels loose, and easy, but also like every nerve in her body is firing at the same time, like she’s processing everything around her and in her at rapid speed. It makes her want to be honest and that’s fucking terrifying, like the sensation of when she first saw Nat looking at her in 10th grade times a million. She’s suppressing what needs to be hidden for now, but she worries if she ever tried it again, the truth would spill right out of her. And she’d drown in it, too.
She isn’t aware she’s biting her lip until she tastes the iron of blood in her mouth. Nat notices too – her gaze dropping to the scarlet pearl beading around the white of her tooth. Lottie’s breath quickens,
“So,” Nat says, her words attempting to wipe clean the air between them that feels laced with something dangerous. “What’s next on the list?”
Right. That’s a sobering thought. Completing the rest of the list with Natalie Scatorccio. Wordlessly, Lottie pulls a slip of notebook paper out of her pocket. It’s a bit crumpled from her carrying it around the past few days, the creases deep and the edges ripped. She couldn’t bear to not have it on here, to not have the reminder of what she was working towards while she had mind-numbing conversations with people who knew nothing about her. She hands it over to Nat, who unfolds it and starts to read out loud.
“Get high, hitchhike, get blackout drunk, fail a test, skip school, break a couple up, get into a fight, crash a wedding, get arrested, and…” she trails off, squinting at the page. “This last one is scribbled out. I can’t read it.”
Lottie is suddenly very glad for her foresight in study hall today to amend that item from the list.
“Oh, right,” Lottie says, chuckling nervously. “It was dumb. I took it off. I was going to replace it with skinny-dipping.”
“Sure,” Nat says, too easily. She clears her throat. “I gotta say, Matthews, some of these are… intense. Are you sure about this?”
“Yes,” Lottie snaps. “And I’m happy to do them on my own if you have a problem with them.”
“Woah,” Nat says, holding her hands up. “If you’re down, I’m down. More fun for me anyway.”
“Great,” Lottie says, stuffing the rest of her pizza crust into her mouth to avoid talking.
Nat lays the list down flat on the counter, rummaging through the cabinet drawers until she finds what she’s looking for – a pen. She meets Lottie’s eyes, grinning, before checking off “getting high” from the list. A surge of exhilaration blooms in Lottie’s stomach. She’s one step closer to freeing herself from the mold she forced herself into.
“So,” Nat says hesitantly. “Hitchhiking next?”
A mixture of trepidation and excitement worms its way down Lottie’s spine as she nods. Yes. This is going to be good.