Chapter Text
i.
The window sticks like it always does when she wrenches it open, screeching against the frame and likely alerting the whole neighbor that Melissa Mckendrick is smoking a cigarette. Still, she leans out, elbows on the sill, and exhales into the spring night. It’s been a long time since anyone cared what Melissa Mckendrick did outside the walls of Shadyside High.
At night, it’s difficult to tell that summer is on the way. The air is balmy, a chill that collects in the downy hair on her arms, fresh despite the acrid smoke curling from the ends of her cigarette butt. In her mind, Melissa can see the dates on the calendar unfolding, perfectly organized soldiers counting down to a variety of all important moments: prom, finals, graduation…vague assurances of life to follow. But here, gazing out across the pockmarked shadows, it could be any moment in any life, a cool spring evening belonging to anyone: the version of her who used to sit sentry here waiting first for her father to come home from his late shift, then the eager preteen desperate for a glimpse of her friend flouncing down the sidewalk toward her front door. Or even a version of her who never existed at all, some brilliant and bright Somebody who didn’t sit up at all hours of the night smoking cigarettes in order to avoid restless turns in bed.
Momentarily, Shadyside is quiet, the moment between inhale and exhale. The place has only felt more like a sleeping monster in the last ten years, though the memorial banners and whispered conversations have faded and slipped into the recesses of people’s minds, it’s hard not to wonder when the beast will stir, the next Shadyside Tragedy finding their way between the jaws of the beast. It’s almost hard to believe that it looks kinda nice in moments like this one, peaceful and slumbering, the air humming with the sounds of crickets and Mrs. O'Neill's radio from next door, murmuring through her always open window.
Melissa draws another breath, letting the smoke collect in her throat, her lungs, holding until it burns past the point of exhilarating, and she exhales slowly, watching the smoke collect in front of her before dissipating into the cool air. Most of the time it’s impossible to ever feel this much quiet. This much calm. Even when she isn’t trying to navigate the halls of Shadyside High, trailing at Tiffany’s heels, her thoughts are there to keep her company, desperate racing things that have their own teeth. Here, now, though, it’s almost possible to imagine herself as the last girl left on Earth, breathing smoke into the quiet night.
Despite her wishes, however, Melissa is hardly the only person stirring in the middle of a Shadyside spring evening. Several streets over, closer toward the center of town, Lori Granger wipes sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, huffing as she drags the final bag of trash out toward the dumpster behind the diner that might as well be home for all the time she spends there. The dumpster is practically full to bursting, the smell radiating out from confines of metal and plastic despite the coolness of the air, though she barely notices, numb to the ripe smells of half-finished food and rotting produce. Briefly, she debates trying to heft the bag and sling it overhead onto the pile of bulging plastic bags but all that effort hardly seems worth it for minimal reward. And so, Lori leaves the bag where it sits, leaning drunkenly against the side of the dumpster, and instead does her best to unstick her polyester uniform from where it clings to the sweat at the small of her back or beneath her bra. The smells of grease and sticky iced tea waft up, mingling with the smells of garbage, and Lori sighs, resigned to her fate. Reeking, sweaty, surrounded by trash in a back alley.
The author in her doesn’t miss a metaphor when its dangled out in front of her.
The final item on her tasklist completed, Lori heads back toward the door that will lead her into the diner’s kitchen, pushing aside the crumpled cardboard box that has diligently done its duty keeping the door propped open. Aside from Hank, the cook, the diner is quiet. Empty. Almost peaceful, if you can ignore the lingering smells of grease and the bone weary exhaustion that settles over her whenever she so much as even thinks about the place. Hank is giving the grill a final pass with a rag and when he sees Lori, he says, “Ten seconds. I’ll walk you out.”
“I’m okay,” Lori tells him, the way she always does when they do this routine every night that she closes.
Hank gives her a look, unimpressed and, Lori imagines, fatherly though she has no experience with such a thing. “I’ll walk you.” Firm, as always, no room for argument.
Shadyside is, Lori thinks, not necessarily dangerous by nature. No, it’s more than that, like the place is just born bad, rotten from some deep inner part. They have that in common, this inescapable genetic rot, though she knows better than think too fondly on the place. Having Hank walk her out isn’t exactly the worst idea in the world, though sometimes Lori thinks they should worry less about the idea of muggers and deviants on the street and more about something she can’t quite put her finger on. Her mother has never had any extra money for the same sorts of things the other kids have, including summer camp, but she knows more than a few of her classmates who were there that night, who always seem to be regarding the nighttime streets of Shadyside the same way Lori is now, like something might be waiting to spring out of the shadows.
And so, Lori waits by the door, bag hanging heavily over her shoulder, listening as Hank finishes up behind her. Work had been slow thankfully, given her the chance to sit around at the counter and finish her homework, so at least that isn’t hanging over her. She’s close to a few hours of sleep, to getting to wash the smell of sweat and grease from her hair and skin, to another morning that will signal the repetition of all of this. School, diner, sleep. Over and over.
Hank finally emerges from the back, shooing her outside and locking up behind them. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lighting one up and trailing her down the sidewalk in the direction of her street. “Don’t ever smoke,” he tells her, one variant of a nightly piece of advice that he doles out on their end-of-shift walks. “Shit’ll kill you.”
Lori nods, trying to hide her smirk. “I know, Hank.” She curls her hand around the strap of her bag but still it knocks against her, keeping time with her steps.
Hank nods, pleased. “Good. Good for you.”
He walks her only as far as to the place where their paths diverge, when he has to continue straight while she veers right, and Lori has never bothered to point out the irony of his abandoning her before her front door. As though the danger is now behind them and nothing more could happen to her on these final two streets. It’s late enough as it is and she doesn’t want Hank to feel obligated to go out of his way, to see her to her door like some awkward date, and then have to turn back around to retrace his steps.
So Lori just waves, chirping a “see you tomorrow” into the otherwise quiet evening, and then turns and heads toward home. The only sound comes from her footsteps and she keeps her gaze firmly ahead, determinedly counting down the houses until she gets to home. When the Falconer home comes into view, it’s always met with a confusing sense of relief, seeing as it means she’s very nearly there. The house towers above its neighbors, sticking out far more easily than Lori’s own, but still it belongs to Tiffany and the rest of the Falconer clan and that in and of itself is not typically something to bring with it a sensation of promise.
Lori ignores it, turning her back to the not so humble abode as she crosses her lawn and digs her key from her bag, letting herself into the dark quiet of her own home. Her mother is either asleep or on shift and either way everything is still and unwelcoming, not a single lamp left on to welcome her. So Lori doesn’t linger, dumping her backpack by the door and hurrying up the stairs and straight into the bathroom. She keeps the light out as she showers, washing her hair in the steamy darkness, letting the warmth and blackness wrap itself around her.
Despite her exhaustion, she still finds herself watching the pattern of shadows across her ceiling, imagining herself the only girl awake in Shadyside.
From above her head, Lori can hear banging on the front door and then footsteps, heavy in thick-heeled boots. “Hello!”
“Down here!” Lori calls over her shoulder and toward the floor over head before leaning forward to snag another of her mother’s uniform shirts out of the washer. She shakes it out, reaching for a hanger.
The galloping of footsteps proceeds Megan Rogers, who immediately leans against the washing machine, nearly sending the lid clattering down on Lori’s head. Thankfully Megan catches it as Lori emerges, offering her an apologetic smirk. “Whoops.”
Lori shakes her head, tossing a clump of wet laundry into the dryer. “Space case,” she says around her smile.
Megan just grins, the easy, crooked smile Lori recognizes to mean that her friend has been helping herself to her sacred stash on the way over. “Want to go see Beetlejuice tonight?”
“Again?” A final glance into the washer shows its finally empty and Lori shuts the lid, leaning against it to match Megan’s posture. “Haven’t you already seen it like three times?”
Megan shrugs, handing Lori a hanger for the final piece of laundry. “So? It’s the best.” She affixes a serious expression on her face, doing her best Winona. “I myself am strange and unusual.”
Lori smirks. “You got that right.” She starts the dryer, ignoring the heavy rattling like the thing is full of bricks rather than clothes. It won’t last much longer, its demise imminent enough that Lori feels guilty squirreling most of her tips away, but hopefully it’ll at least hold out for this load. Then she’ll worry about the next load later.
Megan follows her back up the stairs and toward Lori’s bedroom with the ease of someone who might’ve inhabited this space her whole life. And while that’s not entirely the case, Lori thinks Megan has spent just about as much time here as she has and could probably navigate the house in the dark. She looks fully at ease settling herself on Lori’s bed, propping herself up on her elbows. “So? Yes?”
Lori hesitates, twisting her lips. “What time is it? I’ve got a shift.”
Megan groans, flopping backward and staring up at the ceiling. “Boring, Lori.”
Lori laughs, reaching for a pillow and thumping Megan’s stomach with it. “Oh, whatever. You’re lucky you still get an allowance. Otherwise how would you keep up with your stash?” She teases, letting Megan take the pillow from her before she can launch another attack.
Megan props the pillow behind her head, shrugging. “Hey, that’s blood money. For putting up with my little brothers I should be a millionaire,” she grumbles.
Lori sits in her desk chair, pressing her heels gently into the carpet. “Yeah, maybe,” she mumbles and she isn’t entirely sure if she’s offering agreement to Megan’s assessment of her younger brothers or about the movie. “Hey…I’ve been…there’s something I’ve been thinking about.”
Megan sits up, her expression immediately sobering. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Nothing is wrong,” Lori assures her quickly. “It’s just…” She sighs, glancing around the room rather than at Megan. There’s a pile of paperbacks sitting on top of her bookshelf that she really needs to find a place for, surrounded by a few cat figurines that used to be yearly presents from her grandmother before the woman died a few years back. The place could use a good cleaning, something that seems preferable to talking to Megan now. “I was thinking about running for prom queen.”
When Megan doesn’t say anything, Lori forces herself to look at her, bracing herself for whatever reaction she might find there. But Megan doesn’t look confused or disgusted or like she’s about to burst into raucous laughter. Instead, she just nods, once, as though deciding something. “Oh, hell yes. You gotta win. Make Tiffany eat it.”
Lori lifts her eyebrows, surprised. “Really? I mean…you think…it’s a good idea?”
“Duh.” Megan throws the pillow back at her and Lori doesn’t quite catch it before it clatters against the surface of her desk, knocking over journals and knickknacks. “You could totally win, Lori. You’re gorgeous and you’re not a raging bitch like the rest of the Wolf Pack.”
For the first time since she’d let the idea slip into the back of her mind, Lori feels something like hope fluttering in the center of her chest. Excitement. “You think I could win?”
“Yes,” Megan says firmly and with so much conviction that Lori loves her a little more than normal, especially because they both know it’s a lie. “It’s gonna be beautiful.” She laughs, shaking her head at the idea. She stands up, folding her hands together with mock solemnity. “And the winner is…Lori Granger!” She pantomimes applause, cheers, the presentation of an invisible crown nestled gently on top of Lori’s head. “And then there’s Tiffany…” She falls to her knees, head tipped skyward. “Why God? How could you do this to me, Tiffany Falconer?!” Megan dissolves into laughter, slumping against the side of the bed. “Brilliant.”
Lori grins, chest warm, heart swelling. “You’re an idiot.”
“And you’re friends with me,” Megan retorts, pleased.
This, Lori cannot argue with.
Instead, she sighs, nodding. “Okay. I’ll sign up.”
Megan gives a little fist pump from her place on the floor. “I can’t wait to see Tiffany’s face.”
“Yeah…it’ll be great…” Lori figures she doesn’t do a great job of sounding all that convincing before Megan affixes her with a strange look, brow furrowing. “Maybe my mom will…think it’s a good idea too.”
Megan closes the distance between them, resting her chin on Lori’s knee. “Totally. She’s going to love it.”
It’s another lie, but Lori loves Megan for that one too.
Tiffany Falconer crinkles up her nose -just enough so that it looks cute but not enough to risk something unladylike or to bring on a bout of wrinkles- and waves a hand in front of her daintily upturned nose. “Ew. You smell like shit. I thought you gave that up.”
Melissa opens her mouth, only to find she’s at a loss for how to defend herself. Tiffany is hardly a fan of what she calls a dirty habit, though she does seem to be quite fond of reminding Melissa any chance she gets that only white trash skanks actually smoke cigarettes. Before Melissa can formulate the words to brush Tiffany’s comment off -if she’s laughing, then she’s in on the joke, and therefore, it’s actually a joke, see?- she finds herself with a near mouthful of Tiffany’s new perfume, which the girl has spritzed oh-so-helpfully in her direction. Melissa coughs, rearing backward, and Tiffany just smiles at her, giving a single shoulder shrug of innocence as she gives her wrist a smaller spray. “There we go.”
Clearing her throat, Melissa tries to ignore the taste coating her tongue. “Yeah, thanks. That’s better.”
Tiffany nods her agreement, storing her perfume bottle in her locker and then shutting the door. “My mom had to go all the way to Sunnyvale to actually find a decent perfume.” She rolls her eyes, taking the lead as they head down the hallway. “I can’t wait until they actually build the new mall. Maybe this place will actually not suck as bad.”
The mall, reportedly to be built on the site of the old Camp Nightwing, always gives Melissa a cold feeling when she thinks about it but it’s easy enough to brush that aside, to chime in with Tiffany’s assessment, prattling inanely about the shops she hopes they’ll have until Tiffany grows bored with this topic of conversation and abruptly says, “Have you thought about who you’re going to take to prom?”
Melissa blinks, finding that she much prefers thinking about shopping on the site of a massacre to this particular branch of conversation. “Oh. Well. Not exactly. It’s not even until next month…”
Tiffany shakes her head, curls springing perfectly against her back. “Next month! Mel! You need to be taking this seriously.” She rolls her eyes. “Tyler was telling me that Chad was looking for a date. And he’s cute, I guess.” She gives Melissa a sidelong glance, waiting for her response.
Melissa nods, twisting a lock of hair around her finger, ignoring the crunch of hairspray. “Yeah. Chad.”
Tiffany stops, grabbing Melissa’s shoulders and turning her so that they’re face-to-face. The few students that had been shuffling behind them offer grumbled complaints but seem all too happy to sidestep the Wolf Pack, lest they find themselves on the receiving end of the leader’s bite.
“Mel, you’re so gorgeous,” Tiffany says, saccharine sweetness infusing her words, her expression softening. “Any one of these idiots would be lucky to go to prom with you. They do not deserve you.”
Melissa finds herself smiling and in her chest, her heart seems equally out of her control, giving a lurch to Tiffany’s words. To the closeness between them and the minty smell of Tiffany’s breath. There’s a serious earnestness in Tiffany’s eyes that Melissa finds herself unable to look away from, drawn into the center of her gaze, letting the words wash over her.
“You just need to pick someone,” Tiffany says and it takes Melissa a moment to remember what it is they’re talking about here in the middle of the hallway. “Because you cannot show up without a date.”
The flickering bit of warmth that had caught in the center of her chest dims a bit, cooled perhaps by the lift in Tiffany’s chin, the judgement there in her gaze. Perhaps by something more, though the idea of ever putting such a thing into words is far less appealing than shopping for shoes at Massacre Mall.
“Geez, why don’t you guys get a room?”
In tandem, Melissa and Tiffany turn in the direction of the voice, which Melissa would’ve been able to place without even needing to look. Megan Rogers. She’s grinning, looking like a little unkempt gutter rat in her Metallica tee and holey jeans and dark eyeliner. Beside her is Lori Granger, seemingly content not to add anything to Megan’s comment but smiling nonetheless.
Tiffany groans, letting go of Melissa and taking a step backward. “You wish, Rogers.” There’s a syrupy sweetness in her tone, a batting of her mascaraed eyelashes. “Your psycho-killer girlfriend isn’t doing it for you anymore?”
Megan’s smile clouds, eyes narrowing, and Lori immediately drops her gaze, quickening her pace. Tiffany lets out a laugh, the sound no doubt following them as they disappear down the hallway.
“You don’t have to always bring up her mom like that,” Melissa finds herself saying before she can pull the words back, tucking them into the back of her mind along with so many of the things she wants to say throughout the day.
Tiffany blinks at her, clearly taken aback by the words -so much so that it almost makes Melissa glad she’d actually said something this time. But the confusion is quickly replaced by the same stormy expression that Lori and Megan had just been on the receiving end of and Melissa’s heart kicks in her chest, any lingering vestiges of warmth immediately seeping away. In their place come the cold fingers of dread tightening around her lungs, a hand on the middle of her back, ready to shove her off balance.
“Since when do you care?” Tiffany scoffs, tossing her hair and lifting her chin. “I didn’t realize you were sticking up for Lori Granger now.”
“I’m not,” Melissa assures her quickly, shaking her head. “I just…didn’t think it was worth your time.”
Tiffany narrows her eyes, the corner of her lips quirked into a smile that does little to alleviate the chill that Melissa has felt since opening her mouth. But then Tiffany’s features shift, her smile becoming benevolent, her eyes softening. “You’re such a good friend, Mel.”
Melissa swallows, forcing a smile of her own. “Not as good as you are, Tiffany,” she says quickly, reaching out to put her hand on Tiffany’s forearm.
Tiffany turns away, letting Melissa’s hand fall before it can even find its place in the crook of Tiffany’s elbow. “Come on. I don’t want to be late to homeroom.”
Melissa resumes her place beside her and as they walk down the hallway toward class, the hallway seems to clear just for them. Just the sight of Tiffany Falconer seems to be enough to part the tides.