Chapter Text
Hayden Jones
Within three days of the discovery of Hayden Jones’ body in the thicket beyond the football field, the grounds of Blackwell Academy became a full-scale memorial.
In the entrance of the school’s main building, there are tables pushed together and draped in a flowing, off-white cloth. Hayden’s football portrait has been printed and framed, propped up on an easel to showcase his bright grin. It is—was full of life and ambition, assured. He was set to receive a scholarship. Upon the table are various bouquets, potted plants, gifts, and other offerings—pieces of memories from childhood until death. Two blank books lie face-open for students to write their final goodbyes in.
Max Caulfield regards the photo with a keen, yet wary eye. Hayden Jones was never a remarkable figure in her life, but this is the third time someone who she knew has died, and she still doesn’t know what the most appropriate reaction is... or if an appropriate reaction exists at all. She observes the verdant blades of grass depicted in the image, the sun high in the sky that tells her that the photo was taken early in the morning, and she wonders, vaguely, what it feels like to die so young.
“Are you going to write anything?” Max asks Chloe Price, whose arm has been slung around her shoulder since Principal Wells requested the students to gather in the gymnasium for a “terribly important announcement.” Chloe’s fingers twitch against her bicep, then catch on her hoodie’s string, toying with it idly. Her nail polish glints dull blue under the fluorescents.
“What would I say?” Chloe asks, “‘Thanks for teaching me how to rip a bong?’”
Max’s lips turn up slightly, though her expression is still sad. A boy has just been found ripped to shreds, after all.
“He was kind to you, wasn’t he?”
“Only when he was baked,” says Chloe. She neglects to mention that those were the only real times they interacted. House parties, pool parties, Vortex parties at the Prescott's estate. If he was there, he was smoking, and Chloe was asking.
“Birds of a feather,” Max shrugs, which earns her a playful glower and a finger poking at her ribs. She reflexively jerks away, nearly bumping into the girl beside her.
On Max’s other side, Rachel Amber stands with her arms folded across her chest, upper lip twisted like she’s mildly disgusted with the sight in front of her. Yet, at the same time, she seems to regard the whole setup with a striking display of apathy.
“If you’re not going to write anything decent, then I will,” Rachel declares, taking a step toward the table. From her thrifted designer handbag, she produces her own hot pink marker, which she uncaps with her teeth. She leans over the page and the marker squeals noisily as she pens her message. Max’s arm snakes around Chloe’s waist, thumb hooking itself in her belt loop. They exchange a wary glance.
Truth be told, Rachel’s been acting… weird lately. Uncouth comments, revealing clothing, back-talking their professors, the like. It’s out of character for her—she usually saves that sort of behaviour for when they’re in private, locked away in Max’s dormitory or Chloe’s upstairs bedroom. Until now, they’ve left it unspoken, because their classmate was found vivisected by something akin to a mountain lion, but now it might be time for a discussion.
Rachel throws the marker back in her bag, then pivots on her heel to face Chloe and Max.
“There. See? It’s not so hard. Meet you on the roof for lunch, ‘kay? Buh-bye, now.”
With that, Rachel struts her way down the hallway, hips swaying in her low-rise jeans.
One pierced eyebrow disappears into Chloe’s blue fringe, “I don’t know what kind of fuck-shit she thinks she’s pulling, but I’m getting sick of it.”
“Seriously,” Max agrees around a sigh, then guides Chloe to the book. A cloud of Rachel’s perfume lingers in her wake, a sweet vanilla and lavender, but there’s an unfamiliar sharpness to it, like iron, or garbage that’s been marinating in summer’s heat. Chloe wrinkles her nose and unwinds herself from her girlfriend long enough for them to read Rachel’s parting message to Hayden. In glittery pink cursive, the message reads:
Have a great summer! ♡
—Rachel Dawn Amber, Max, and Chloe
Max thinks that anywhere in the world can be her favourite place, as long as Chloe is by her side. Therefore, right here and right now, in Chloe’s bedroom in the late evening, is the only place she wants to be. Chloe’s head is in her lap as Max absentmindedly cards her fingers through her hair, bony fingertips massaging her scalp. She periodically groans in pleasure, causing Max to giggle. A light pink to dust across her cheeks, but that's to be expected. Chloe's never been shy.
“Do you think something happened between Rachel and her parents? Or when she went to Portland, that’s when it really started,” Max asks, shaking some of Chloe’s loose hair from her hand. She’s lucky she doesn’t take after Chloe’s habit of sliding a silver ring on every finger, including her thumb.
“I ‘unno,” Chloe says, “I was thinking more… Frank stuff,” her hands raise above her head, one forming a loose fist and two fingers on her other hand filling in the hole. Max swats at Chloe's fingers, earning a snicker and insincere apology.
“I’m serious! When it’s Frank stuff, she gets mad,” Max explains, recalling winter vacation when Rachel nearly committed arson on Frank’s RV. She would’ve done it too, if Max weren’t there with Chloe to talk her down from building a homemade molotov cocktail. “Right now, she’s just…”
“Yeah,” Chloe says, arms settling back down by her sides, “She’s being a total fucking psycho.”
“Well,” Max says, “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Then what do you call that stunt she pulled today with Hayden’s memorial book?”
“I… I don’t even know. That was so unlike her! Chloe, I’m scared that something is seriously wrong…”
“Maybe she's snapping.”
It’s not that Rachel isn’t known for sudden and violent mood swings—quite the opposite, actually. But they don’t last long. She’s quick to anger and even quicker on the comedown, but this isn’t even anger. This is inexplicable. It’s as if Rachel’s losing her grip on reality, or she suddenly thinks she’s above it all. Like there won’t be consequences for her actions.
“I think we should keep a close eye on her. And if anything seriously bad happens…”
“We can’t tell anybody. You know Wells only gives a damn about booze and cash. And it would end up getting to her parents, anyway.”
“Maybe not. Rachel’s not a minor.”
“No, but she is a student. I’m sorry, Max, but I’m not going to go tattling about problems that we can fix. Rachel is our problem.”
Something inside Max wilts at the thought of Rachel not receiving the help she needs. What if this is actually, really actually bad? What if they can’t help her?
“I don’t like this,” Max murmurs.
“Hey. Don't worry. What you did… that was smart. You're good at this," Chloe continues. Max imagines the folded paper burning a hole in the pocket of her hoodie. Was it really a good idea? What if someone saw, what would they think of her? What kind of person tears a page out of a dead kid’s memorial book? "Next thing you know, we’ll be in juvie together."
“Will you be my prison wife?” Max asks, looking down at her. She brushes a stray lock of Chloe’s hair off her cheek, tucking it behind her ear, careful not to knock her helix piercings. God. She’s been head-over-heels for this girl since they were in pre-school.
“Uh-huh,” Chloe nods, “And when we get out, I’m gonna be your real-life wife, too.”
"You big ol' softie."
Chloe only replies to by giving her an exaggerated scowl. She looks like an angry little chihuahua, Max thinks, but it's charming, because everything Chloe does is charming.
“I’m still nervous that I’m gonna get in shit from Mr. Madsen,” Max confesses. David’s due to arrive home any second, and Chloe’s not allowed to have a lock on her door.
“I’ll take the heat for you,” says Chloe, “he’s all bark and no bite.”
Max sighs. It's not just David she's anxious about.
Seriously, what are they going to do about Rachel? What can they do? Her father isn't exactly present, and her mother isn't exactly kind. It all seems very hopeless, unless Blackwell were to fire their current roster of staff and hire some adults who actually care about their students.
“Not helpful," Max says, though it lacks any bite, "Still worrying.”
Then Chloe sits up, shifting around on her pile of many blankets to face Max directly, “If he tries anything, I’ll kick his ass into next week.”
It's true. She's done it before, and she's sure to do it again. Max feels her insides melt a little, and she says, “I know you will.”
After a brief pause, Chloe says, “I can hear your brain frying from here, Cauliflower. You know what I think?”
“What do you think?”
“I think,” Chloe says slowly, tilting her head and allowing a sly grin to pull at her lips, “You’re doing a whole lot of talking for someone who should be doing a whole lot of kissing.”
Max’s face twists up in an expression of mock-confusion, “Is that so?”
“Uh-huh,” Chloe nods. Max draws her shoulders inward coyly, the way Rachel had taught her to do in her dorm room’s mirror. This is how to seduce a pretty girl, Rachel instructed. She leans closer.
“Am I gonna get in trouble?”
“Come here,” hums Chloe, taking her by the cheek, “and find out.”
Kissing Chloe is, well, in Chloe's words, amazeballs. She's careful with Max, always asking what's alright and what she likes, never urging her to continue, never overstepping Max's carefully set boundaries. Her lips are soft and pale, and she tastes like the remnants of the hard candies they binged earlier. It's just that... Max sort of... wants to do more than kissing with Chloe. But every time she attempts to slot herself between Chloe's thighs or taste the long column of her neck, Chloe pushes her back with a gentle, yet firm hand, and says something like, "Woah there. Slow down, Long Max Silver. Y'wanna watch a movie?"
She's starting to suspect it's Chloe who doesn't want to go further. Why? Is she nervous? Scared? Not ready? Or does she simply… not want Max? That's a dangerous thought. One she'd better not entertain unless she wants to fall down the rabbit hole of self-depreciation and doubt. So she thinks about the present.
It doesn’t take long before she loses her train of thought, derailed by the small sounds that Chloe makes. Her soft exhales. The quiet music that plays from her stereo, more bass than anything else. How Chloe’s thumb caresses her cheek, but she’d rather that hand were dragging somewhere else— Max, cut it out! Unwittingly, Max’s palms enclose around Chloe’s waist, and her fingers toy with the hem of her flannel. Max retreats slightly.
“Can I?” Max whispers, and she feels Chloe nod once, nose brushing against hers. Max grins, and her fingers slip under Chloe’s shirt, then under her tank top to meet her warm skin. At the contact, Chloe flinches.
“Jesus, Max,” Chloe shivers, “When did you turn into the god-damn Yeti?”
Max giggles, “Sorry. Can you…” and there’s that flash of awkwardness she’s accustomed to, “warm… me up?”
Something strikes in Chloe’s gaze. Colour seems to drain from her face, then it comes back twice as quickly and twice as strong, painting her cheeks a dusty pink.
“Yeah,” she says, voice catching in her throat on its way out, “Yeah, I can.”
She recaptures Max’s lips with a great ferocity, and beneath her fingertips, Max feels her skin trembling. It’s when Chloe’s licking at her bottom lip that they hear it.
Plink-plink-plink.
"Ngh,” Max grunts. Maybe if she ignores it, the sound will go away, and Chloe will keep kissing her, keep slipping her tongue, maybe even let her touch her—
Thump-thump-thump.
Chloe bolts upright, disconnecting their kiss. Max nearly whines at the loss.
“The hell was that?” Chloe looks up at the ceiling. Her upper lip is wet with Max’s spit, and the embers of anger alight within Max. Why now did they have to get interrupted?
“Hey,” comes a muffled voice from across the room, “over here.”
Chloe and Max turn to the source of the sound, matching sets of gooseflesh decorating their skin.
Hunched in the dimensions of Chloe’s window is Rachel Amber, both palms pressed against the glass. The whites of her eyes seem to glow in the darkness, almost perfectly round, and her lips split into a wide, red grin.
“Oh my dog,” breathes Max, “What the actual fuck?”
“Hello?” Rachel draws out the vowels, “Are you two scissor sisters going to let me in, or what?”
“Rachel,” Chloe hisses, jumping up from her bed and pulling the hem of her shirt back over her waistband. Then she unlatches the handle, scowling. Rachel’s foot kicks its way in, wearing a stiletto boot that Max doesn’t recognize. She knocks a stack of papers off Chloe’s desk, and Chloe asks, “What are you doing here?”
“Interrupting some serious lezzing out, apparently,” Rachel says, sliding through the small hole that is Chloe’s window, limbs appearing long and weightless, “Lucky I didn’t show up later. I’d have to bleach my eyes if I saw you girls munching on each others’ carpets.”
“Ew, Rachel,” says Chloe, wrinkling her nose, “I hate it when you talk like that.”
“Just stating the truth,” Rachel huffs, then drops herself onto the bed beside Max. The mattress compresses under her weight, but strangely, not as much as it usually does. Max shrinks into her hoodie.
“Hey, Maxi-pad,” she trills, “You’re looking a little put-out. You all good?”
No, thinks Max, I want you to leave, so I can make out with my girlfriend some more.
“Yeah,” says Max, “Fine.”
“You don’t sound fine. What’s wrong? Come on, baby, talk to Mama Rachel.”
Chloe interjects, on the edge of seething, “Don’t call her that.”
Rachel tenses, slowly craning her neck to face Chloe, “Can you take a chill pill, Priceless? I just want to make sure our girl knows that she can tell us anything. Right, Max? You know that you can tell us anything?”
Max doesn’t reply. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. The blanket is very interesting. It’s purple and black and red and it has Rei Ayanami from one of Chloe's favourite anime, Neon Genesis Evangelion, on it.
“She is not our girl. She is my girl.”
“Not for long, if you don’t let her speak for herself!” Rachel says, then throws her head back and cackles like she’s recounted a hilarious anecdote. She sounds like a motherfucking hyena, or a pack of those African painted dogs. Max can’t take it anymore. Who is this girl, and what has she done with their best friend?
“Shut up, Rachel. My mom’s trying to sleep across the hall,” bitterness colours Chloe’s voice.
“Oh, Chlo-bear,” Rachel simpers, “When has that ever stopped you?”
Max’s phone buzzes against her thigh. As Rachel and Chloe continue their bickering, she slides it out of her pocket, and reads the notification. It’s not a new message or a like on CrossTalk, but rather a recently published article from the Arcadia Bay Gazette. She taps her screen, pulling up the full title.
It reads: Pride of Arcadia Bay– Blackwell Professor Mark Jefferson Set To Exhibit Permanent Gallery.