Chapter Text
Ava.
In the depths of Mr. Johnson's classroom, where the only thing brighter than the projector screen was his fervor for the history of photography, my ability to drift off had reached Olympic levels. I wasn't just mentally elsewhere; I was practically in another dimension, pondering life's big questions like whether my lunch would be PB&J or turkey on rye, and if I could angle my head just right to blend seamlessly into the beige walls.
But then, like a rogue flashbulb, Mr. Johnson's voice shattered my reverie, his excitement palpable as he waxed poetic about Diane Arbus. Now, don't get me wrong, I admired his passion—really, I did—but not when it manifested as a question aimed directly at me, threatening to burst my daydream bubble like a zealous pinprick.
"Ava, care to enlighten us on why Arbus' foray into the fringes of society was so groundbreaking?" he inquired, his eyebrow ascending to stratospheric heights in anticipation of my response.
Cue the mental scramble as I desperately attempted to cobble together a coherent answer from the scattered remnants of my attention span. "Um, Diane Arbus... revolutionary, right. She, uh, she snapped photos of people who were... different, you know? And somehow made it cool, proving that everyone's got a story, even if it's not making front-page news. It's like she uncovered the extraordinary in the ordinary, which is kind of poetic, if you think about it."
Mr. Johnson's expression morphed into a curious blend of amusement and resignation. "Poetic indeed, Ava. Perhaps we should discuss this further after class."
Fabulous. Because nothing screams 'model student' like a post-lecture tête-à-tête with the one teacher who still harbored hope for my potential, whether as a photographer or simply as a functioning member of society.
The bell's melodic chime was a welcome reprieve, liberating me from the monochrome monotony of the classroom and thrusting me headlong into the kaleidoscopic chaos of the hallway. As I trudged toward Mr. Johnson's desk, bracing myself for the inevitable lecture, a brilliant idea struck me like a bolt of lightning.
"Hey, how about I document the… hidden gems of Harbor Bay for my final project?" I blurted out, a spark of enthusiasm igniting within me. "You know, capture the essence of the mundane in a less mundane way?"
Mr. Johnson regarded me with a mix of intrigue and resignation, no doubt contemplating whether it was too late to pursue a career in dentistry. "Well, it's certainly... an idea. Let's work on refining it into something more concrete, shall we? 'A Day in the Life of Harbor Bay' from your unique perspective."
"Absolutely, got it! Unique. Refining. Concrete." I replied with a forced cheerfulness, my confidence wavering slightly at the prospect of actually pulling this off. I took pictures of everything. Literally everything. What made me different from the rest of the wannabe photographers out there? Well, perhaps the fact that I had an old camera full of dust that I got from a thrift shop years ago, and that was about it. "Thanks, Mr. Johnson. I won't let you down!"
With my assignment in hand and a sliver of dignity intact, I braced myself for the next obstacle in my path: the high school hierarchy in the form of Lilith and her minions.
"Look who it is, Ava 'Ansel Adams' Silva," Lilith sneered, her tone dripping with venom as she zeroed in on her favorite target. Of course she decided to pick on the most socially awkward person in all of Riverview High. "Any groundbreaking shots of cafeteria cuisine today?"
I scrambled for a witty retort, but my brain seemed to have taken an impromptu vacation, like it always seemed to do at the most inappropriate times. "Just working on my 'People Who Peaked in High School' series. You're the star attraction, by the way,"
Her friends oohed in mock horror, but Lilith just rolled her eyes. “Please, as if you could capture all this glory. Stick to your blurry landscapes, Silva.”
I wanted to unleash a verbal masterpiece, I really did, but alas, my brain had apparently clocked out for lunch once again. “Well, at least my camera doesn’t add ten pounds,” I muttered, the feeble retort slipping out before I could stop it, and I walked away, defeated. Before I could make more of a fool out of myself.
One day, I vowed silently, I was gonna get Lilith. I’d deliver a verbal knockout blow that would leave her reeling.
Or maybe not, considering she had this uncanny ability to strike fear into my very soul. Her gaze alone could make grown men quake in their boots, let alone a 5’2, very anxious little person like myself. And her friends? They were cut from the same spoiled, entitled cloth, each one more insufferable than the last.
Damn rich kids.
Maybe I was just jealous. They had everything handed to them on a silver platter, and I had to save every single extra penny that I had just in order to eat lunch and not starve to death.
Everything had become a struggle since I returned to Harbor. My parents were still back in Madrid, scraping by while I attempted to “chase my dreams” at Riverview. Sure, I had a scholarship, but that didn’t change the fact that I felt like an outsider, a perpetual interloper in a world where I didn’t belong.
Riverview boasted a stellar photography program, but beyond that, it was a breeding ground for elitism and snobbery. The students looked down their perfectly sculpted noses at anyone who didn’t fit their narrow definition of success.
Fucking sue me for not being born with a silver spoon in my mouth.
I’m not even sure if that was the right saying.
As I walked away from the people who tormented me every single day, my gaze landed on the same missing person poster plastered on the wall that I stumbled across on a daily basis. Emily Carter’s smiling visage stared back at me, a silent plea for attention amidst the chaos of the school hallway.
“Emily Carter,” I mused to myself. “Now there’s a story waiting to be told. Shame Lilith’s ego takes up all the narrative real estate around here.”
Ah, Emily. The enigma wrapped in a mystery, tied with a big, shiny bow of disappearance. I didn’t know much about her, aside from the glaringly obvious fact that she was missing. But here’s the kicker—everyone else seemed to know her. Every clique, every social status. It was like she was the ghost of social circles past, haunting the halls of Harbor Bay with her absence.
It was a shame, really. We probably would’ve hit it off, Em and I, if she wasn’t, you know, most likely six feet under by now. Call me a pessimist, but people didn’t just vanish into thin air and emerge unscathed after half a year. Especially not a young woman as drop-dead gorgeous as Emily. In the most respectful way, of course.
There was just something about her, you know? You could stare at her picture for hours on end, getting lost in those doe eyes and that enigmatic smile. Not that I did that, mind you. I had standards, after all. But hypothetically speaking, if it were socially acceptable and didn’t make me look like a total creep, I totally would’ve.
As my gaze lingered a beat too long on Emily’s missing person poster, my body decided to hit the emergency brakes on my creeping tendencies, jerking back as if to chastise itself with a mental slap on the wrist. “You fucking creeper weirdo,”my inner monologue chimed in, accompanied by an imaginary facepalm for good measure. With a self-conscious chuckle, I hastily averted my gaze and dove headfirst into one of my all-time favorite pastimes: people-watching.
There’s something about observing people that just tickles my fancy. The sheer multitude of thoughts swirling around in their heads, the struggles they’re battling throug. It’s like peering into a kaleidoscope of human existence. I mean, just think about it—billions of people on this big blue marble, each with their own unique story and quirks. It's like a never-ending game of Guess Who, but with less board game and more existential pondering. If I had a nickel for every fascinating character I've encountered, well, let's just say I'd be rolling in nickels. Sure, I’d only ever set foot in two countries and had made minimal effort in the friend-making department, but hey, it’s something, right?
Now, about this whole friendship thing...
Don't get me wrong, I love shooting the breeze and sharing a laugh as much as the next person, but when it comes to long-term commitments, well, let's just say my attention span is about as reliable as a squirrel on a caffeine bender. Commitment-phobia? Check. Wanderlust? You betcha. It's not that I don't care about people, it's just that my social calendar resembles a game of musical chairs gone horribly wrong. I pretty much ghosted everyone, including my parents.
Oh, my parents, right!
Nothing like the joys of familial responsibility.
With a pang of guilt and a dash of dread, I reluctantly reached for my trusty smartphone, fully expecting a tidal wave of missed calls and frantic texts from Mr. and Mrs. Silva. But instead of the expected parental panic, what greeted me was something altogether rather unexpected—a message from none other than Beatrice, my childhood partner-in-crime and unwitting victim of my disappearing act.
Now, let's rewind a bit. I ghosted Beatrice harder than a ghost in a horror movie marathon. I'm talking zero communication, zilch, nada. Not even a "Happy Birthday" or a "Sorry your parents are dead." Yeah, I know, I'm basically the worst human ever.
Cue the existential crisis. I mean, here I am, feeling like the human equivalent of a soggy sandwich, confronted with the consequences of my flaky behavior.
How does one even begin to make amends for years of radio silence? Beats me. But hey, Beatrice's waited this long, right? A few more hours won't hurt. Time to come up with the apology to end all apologies. Or, you know… procrastinate a little longer.
Ah, the sweet embrace of procrastination—a time-honored tradition among people everywhere. But alas, all good things must come to an end, and so it was with my aimless wanderings through the hallowed halls of academia.
With classes mercifully behind me and the prospect of impending freedom tantalizingly close, I found myself at a crossroads: continue my aimless meandering or face the daunting task of actually doing something productive with my time. Spoiler alert: I chose the latter. Well, sort of.
As I strolled through the corridors, I couldn't shake the feeling of being under scrutiny. I mean, were my classmates onto me? Did they suspect my covert operations to disrupt the status quo and instigate a revolution? Or were they just baffled by the spectacle of me, lost in my own little world, completely oblivious to the chaos unfolding around me?
I really needed to stop zoning out while staring at everyone I crossed paths with.
I started weaving my way through the throngs of students like a silent observer in a sea of chaos, my mind a swirling vortex of imaginary conversations and hypothetical scenarios still. Little did they know, I was conducting a covert operation of the highest order: Operation Mind Reader, codename: Ava Strikes Again.
The minutes ticked by and my inner monologue grew increasingly absurd, and I realized something: maybe, just maybe, it was time to trade in my imaginary detective hat for a dose of reality. After all, there's only so much alleged mind reading one girl can do before it's time to face the music—or, you know, the looming specter of homework. Which I wasn’t planning on doing, but I still worried about it, and that had to count for something.
Now, normally, I’d make a beeline for the nearest vending machine and drown my post-class sorrows in a sea of questionable snacks at my dorm. But that day was different. That specific day, I had a mission. A mission that involved traversing the labyrinthine streets of Harbor and making my way to the place I once called home.
As much as I love to overdramatize, reality was knocking on my door—or, more like gently tapping on my brain cells. The truth was, I needed to hightail it home. Sure, I'd been shacking up in the dorms for the past month, mainly to avoid the soul-crushing loneliness that comes with living solo. But let's face it: I had a freaking house. A suburban palace just waiting for me to grace it with my presence.
And yet, I was willingly subjecting myself to communal bathrooms and late-night gossip sessions with the dorm divas. Why, you ask? Because the thought of adulting—like, for real, with bills and responsibilities and all that—scared the living shit out of me.
Of course, in the grand tradition of avoiding adulting at all costs, I opted to prolong my stay in the land of communal living, where the only thing scarier than the moldy shower curtains was the prospect of facing adulthood head-on. But hey, at least I got to bond with my fellow bathroom dwellers over our shared fear of growing up. Silver linings, am I right?
So off I went, striding towards the warm, welcoming arms of my suburban hideaway like a hero on a quest for comfy couches and snack-filled pantries.
And let me tell you, it was a sight to behold. Picture this: me, navigating the urban jungle like a seasoned explorer, armed with nothing but Google Maps and a great playlist. Sure, I could have called an Uber or hitched a ride with a passing stranger like in a coming-of-age film, but where’s the adventure in that? Unless the possibility to get kidnapped or something. Besides, who needs four wheels when you’ve got two perfectly good feet?
And there I was, strolling down memory lane—or rather, Main Street—when suddenly, I spotted it. The house. My old stomping grounds. The place where I’d spent countless summers chasing fireflies and dreaming up grand adventures. It stood there, bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, beckoning me like an old friend. I could’ve cried right then and there, but I didn’t. Even though it would’ve been like my biggest main character moment.
But as I drew closer, something caught my eye. Or rather, someone. There, perched on the doorstep like a guardian angel in ripped jeans and combat boots, sat a figure so unexpected, I had to do a double-take to make sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me. Because, let’s be honest, my eyes and my mind weren’t exactly reliable sources most of the time.
“Bea?” I ventured cautiously, my voice barely above a whisper as I gazed upon the stranger before me. And let me tell you, it was like something straight out of a movie. There she was, Beatrice—my childhood compadre, my so called partner-in-crime—looking like she’d stepped straight out of a punk rock album cover.
Gone were the days of prim and proper attire and neatly tucked hair. In their place stood a vision of rebellion, complete with tattoos, piercings, and a devil-may-care attitude that screamed “I am not to be trifled with.”
As I stood there, dumbfounded and utterly flabbergasted, I couldn’t help but wonder: what in the name of all things holy had happened to my dear, sweet Beatrice? And more importantly, how the fuck was I supposed to react to this newfound punk rock princess sitting on my doorstep?
The girl who used to be Beatrice glanced up, a wry grin quirking her lips. “Last time I checked,” she replied, her tone dripping with sarcasm. One that I hadn’t heard from her before.
I blinked, trying to process the sight before me. “What are you doing here?” I blurted out, unable to mask my confusion.
Beatrice let out a humorless chuckle, shaking her head in disbelief. “I can’t fucking believe it,” she muttered, her words with bitterness. Woah, it was surprising to hear her curse, and it added to my sense of being overwhelmed.
My stomach churned uncomfortably as I was having a hard time finding the right words. “What happened to you?” I spoke up, and my awkwardness was getting the best of me.
Beatrice shot me a skeptical look, her piercing gaze pinning me in place. Even her eyes looked different. As if they had lost all signs of happiness. “What happened to me?” she echoed. “What happened to you, Ava?”
I winced at the unexpected turn of the conversation. I don’t know what I was expecting. Maybe a hug? Or a cheesy speech about how much she had missed me, but I definitely didn’t expect her to treat me like she didn’t know who I was anymore, but in all honesty, she had every right to do so. “What do you mean?”
She let out a humorless laugh, her eyes narrowing in disbelief. “I heard you’ve been back for a while now,” she said, her voice laced with thinly veiled accusation. “And I didn’t want to believe it.”
My cheeks flushed with embarrassment as I struggled to find an explanation. “I… I wanted to see you,” I stammered, searching for excuses that didn’t exist. It was completely my fault for not reaching out sooner. Or at all, if anything.
“Yeah, well, funny way of showing it,” she quipped, and I could tell her tone was still filled with the same sarcasm as before. “It’s been five years, Ava. Five years, and not so much as a text to let me know you were back in town.”
Shame washed over me once again as I fumbled for words like a baby who was just learning how to talk, and it was completely humiliating. “I fucked up… I know that,” I admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush. “But I’m here now, aren’t I?”
Beatrice regarded me with an indescribable look, her arms folded across her chest. “Yeah, you are,” she said, but her tone softened slightly for a second. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you left me hanging, Ava. And it sure as hell doesn’t change the fact that you didn’t even bother to tell me you were back in town.”
The sharpness of her words made me shift uncomfortably on my feet, feeling guilt forming in the pit of my stomach. “I’m sorry,” I said, the words feeling inadequate even if they were sincere. “I really am.”
Beatrice sighed, her expression softening once again. “Well, apology accepted,” she said, with the hint of a smile playing at the corners of her lips. “But you’ve got a lot of making up to do, Ava. A lot.”
I immediately nodded, feeling a sense of relief wash over me. Maybe it wasn’t going to be as hard as I thought to get her to forgive me. After all, Beatrice had always been kind and forgiving, and that wasn’t going to change because of her sudden change of style. “I know,” I said, my voice tinged with determination and I finally felt like I could breathe. “And I’ll do whatever it takes to make things right, Bea. I promise.”
Beatrice regarded me for a moment, she still looked like she was debating whether she should trust me or not, but as she spoke, I felt all the tension fade away. “I hope so, Ava,” she said, her tone gentler now. “I really do.”
So, that went well. And by that I mean that it could’ve been a whole lot worse. For all I know, new Beatrice was a certified fighter and just went to look for me to jump me or something like that.
”Now, you could make it up to me by smoking some weed with me. I really, really fucking need it right now.” I heard Beatrice’s voice but I just couldn’t believe her words, like, I really couldn’t believe such thing was coming out of her mouth. That was not my Bea.
”Wait… what?”