Chapter Text
What’s Max’s deal?
Actually, he’s still trying to figure that out. He’s pretty certain he’s not gay, or anything— at least, not exactly. For a while, back in middle school, he figured he might be bi. He tried on crushes with boys with a detached curiosity. It never felt quite right, though. He’d imagine kissing them and it’d feel as lifeless and weird as kissing a cousin.
Equally, though, he was pretty shit at being straight. He didn’t have the kind of natural bravado most boys seemed to. The few times he tried to emulate it, it’d been awkward and strained. He just… didn’t work like that. It was fine. Some girls were into that sort of thing.
Because he does like girls. That’s the thing. A lot. Like, who wouldn’t? They are warm and soft and strong and utterly beautiful. Max figures they’re just better, more or less. Just being in their company is enough.
It’s been harder lately. He’s not sure why. There’s a certain malaise to everything. Sometimes it’s soft, like a dozen weighted blankets stacked on his chest. Sometimes it’s sharp, like a butterknife being scraped back and forth over his nerves. Sometimes when he’s out he’ll see something innocuous— a nice skirt, a doe amidst the trees— and feel something awful and indescribable. It’s like grief, but located deeper down in his body, something that gnaws and drags at the soft parts of him. Sometimes he’ll sit long hours in silence and wish he could cry.
He hasn’t told this to Chloe. He doesn’t want to bother her, and even if he did he wouldn’t really know where to begin. They’ve only just managed to get back on good terms since he’s returned— no point in muddying it up with more of his weird insecure bullshit.
The dress was—
First off, the dress was a mistake. He barely even remembers why he wore it. On the surface it was a joke. Like, it’s pretty funny to crossdress on Halloween, right? It’s a good excuse to wear something weird and out there. And, sure, he put a lot of effort into it, but you want to make an impression your first year back. And letting Alyssa do his makeup was pretty fun, too. It was nice to be… preened over for a bit. To maybe be seen as something pretty.
More pointedly, though, the dress was almost a challenge. There was some part of him that wanted someone to confront him on it. What’s the word in French? A frisson. He’s spent so much of his life being the good kid, being the dutiful student, the one who kept his nose to the grindstone and never complained. They called it diligence, but really, it was fear. God, but he’s so scared. More or less all the time. Scared of being seen. Scared of being alone. Scared of being touched. Scared of someone pressing their way through his skin and finding nothing but emptiness underneath.
And Victoria.
Those memories rattle around his skull whenever he so much as moves. Victoria Chase, Head Bitch In Charge of Blackwell, took notice of him. More than notice. It’s like an absurd, adolescent fantasy, the sort the boys he hung out with in Seattle would proudly voice right before he more or less gave up on boys altogether. They kissed, and he touched her, and she touched him, and—
And then there was something else. The visceral, base shame that ripped its way through his body. The clammy disgust that washed over him in waves. Underneath her, he felt as if there was some well of frigid and stagnant water overflowing in him, pouring into every inch of his body, reminding him that he was something grotesque. He couldn’t do it. Not to her. Not to anyone.
He doesn’t understand why. He doesn’t understand the gap that opens inside him, the infinitely wide space that splays out whenever he tries to touch or be touched. Maybe if he got drunk enough he could just do it. Just not have to be himself for a while. It makes him feel so deeply deficient. Victoria probably hates him. Victoria’s probably spreading rumors right now, about how he’s a psycho freak that seizes up whenever a girl tries to show him a good time.
But the days go by, and even if Victoria isn’t giving him a second glance in the hallways, he’s not getting any more than the usual dismissal from her coterie of hangers-on.
Chloe figures out something’s going on. She always does. Ever since they were kids, he’s never been able to hide anything from her for long. Once she’s teaching him to skate in a parking lot after dark and she just flat out ambushes him with the question. He denies everything. Apparently she must have gotten the wrong idea, because a few days later some kids say they saw Chloe threatening Victoria in the parking lot.
And the days go on, and fall turns to winter, and Max’s life progresses as usual. He’s listening to records in Chloe’s room and snapping cautious pics of deer creeping between dead trees. He’s shopping for Alice’s food with Kate and jotting down notes from Mr. Jefferson’s lectures. And if the rot is still there— if there are days that it wears at the edges of him— that’s okay. He can manage it. He can.
And then there’s—
“Caulfield and Chase! You two will be working together on this one.”
After the bell rings and Mr. Jefferson’s photography students begin to trickle out one by one, Victoria’s up on her feet and putting her hands on his desk. Max is close behind, hovering anxiously.
“Mr. Jefferson,” she says. A little trace of the old unctuousness in her voice. “Are you certain Max and I should work together? I mean— I have nothing against him, of course, but our presentational styles are so different, and I just—“
“I think two of photography’s brightest young minds should have a chance to learn from each other,” Mr. Jefferson says. “I don’t care about whatever personal differences you might be having. You’ll get it done— I believe in both of you.”
Victoria starts. “But—“
“No buts! Now Crewdson! Get to it!” Victoria’s about to object, but Jefferson is already packing up and heading for the door. When he’s gone, she slumps into her chair, rubbing her face. She shoots him a glance and he almost winces. Hard to read the expression on her face. Something like… shame?
She sighs. “Give me your phone.”
“What?”
“Give. Me. Your Phone.” When he hesitates she snaps her fingers. “Look, are we going to be weird about this, or are we going to get an A and then never speak to each other again?”
“Um.” He blinks. “The… latter?”
“Okay. So give me your phone and I’ll put my phone number in it, and we’ll settle stuff over text.”
He hands it over. Victoria types with the same brusque efficiency as she does everything else. She’s put herself in as Victoria Project.
“Any questions?”
“Ah. No,” he says, feeling distinctly lame.
“Okay. Good,” she says, and leaves.
It’s the most they’ve spoken to each other in two months.
***
Max @ 4:17PM: https://arthub.org/artists/phot…
Max: this maybe?
Victoria @ 5:01PM: Looks alright.
Victoria: I’ve written up the ‘Analysis’ section.
Victoria: You should look it over.
Max @ 5:19PM: maybe change ‘unusual use of surreal imagery’ to just ‘surreal imagery
Victoria @ 5:28PM: Fine.
Max @ 5:42PM: what do you think of him?
Victoria @ 5:47PM: ?
Max @ 5:51PM: the guy we’re studying
Max: As a photographer I mean
Victoria @ 5:56PM: You’ve read the ‘Analysis’ page.
Max @ 6:02PM: I mean yeah but like
Max: that’s just stuff we’re saying to get a grade
Max: What do you actually think?
Victoria @ 6:09PM: Why do you care?
Max @ 6:13PM: because you’re smart
Max: and you have a good eye.
Victoria @ 6:17PM: Whatever.
Victoria @ 1:07AM: I think his compositions are striking and the lighting use is effective at creating a feeling of uncanny disorientation. But I think the necessary scale of his shoots can often led to compositions that lack a certain spontaneity.
Victoria: You didn’t read this.
***
What’s Chloe’s deal?
Admittedly, Max has only just been reintroduced. A lot about Chloe has changed since they were kids. She’s gay, now— well, out, at least— and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Five years is a lot of time for someone to change, and there’s so much about her he doesn’t know.
But it’s still Chloe, and there are some things that still hold true. She’s never been particularly good at disguising her emotions. Her passions run hot, and she’s not afraid to act. It’s one of the things he admires most about her.
And there’s a certain… spring in her step, lately. A certain ease about her when she picks him up off campus to go skate or explore the beach or smoke pot in her bedroom. Whatever it is, Max is glad for it. It’s good to see her happy.
“Do you think Chloe is seeing someone?”
Max glances back from where he’s lying, lavishing attention upon Alice’s soft white fuzzy ears. Kate is lying in bed, needlepointing: some repeated pattern she found on a church ceiling online.
“Hm?”
“She seems like she’s been happier lately. And once, when she was showing me how to skate, I saw—“ Kate reddens, clams up. “I shouldn’t say…”
“Say what?”
Kate shakes her head. “It’s wrong to gossip…” Just as quickly, she blurts out: “She had marks on her back.”
“Marks?”
Kate nods. “L-like, from kissing.” Then: “Please don’t tell her I said that…”
“Huh.” Max lies back, resting Alice on his chest. So she found someone. That’s good. Selfishly, he kinda wishes he’d learned about it firsthand. I mean, they’re like, friends , right? Maybe not best friends, like they were back then, but he still wants to be part of her life. Not that she owes him anything, but…
And— it’s good! It’s nice to see the people you care about finding happiness. He hopes the other girl, whoever she is, is as kind and strong as Chloe herself. She deserves no less. And… okay, yeah, if he’s being really honest with himself there’s a jealousy for the phantom girl somewhere in there too. And it’s fine and alright for him to feel that but he has to understand that those feelings are absurd, because Chloe is very much a lesbian and he is very much a boy and a boy having feelings for a girl who is entirely 100% gay is kind of predatory and gross when you think about it and even if in some (absurd, hypothetical) alternate universe he was a girl there would be no guarantee that Chloe would even like him (her?) anyway, so the best thing he can do right now is to feel happy on her behalf.
He almost entirely succeeds.
***
Max @ 9:13PM: finished slides 5-8
Max: take a look?
Victoria @ 9:21PM: Looks fine.
Victoria: I’m going to take a pass at adjusting the layout.
Max @ 9:29PM: what’s wrong with the template?
Victoria @ 9:34 PM: It’s an aesthetics class. Mr. Jefferson is going to pay attention to this.
Victoria: This kind of thing *matters*, Max.
Max: @ 9:37PM: ur really serious about this huh?
Victoria: @ 9:42PM: And you’re *not?*
Max @ 9:46 PM: that’s not what i meant
Max: i care about photography a lot
Max: i just don’t always think it’s necessary to hyperfocus on work this way
Max: better not perfect than not done, you know?
Victoria @ 9:48PM: That’s an easy thing for you to say, Max.
Max @ 9:51PM: what does that mean???
Victoria @ 9:54PM: Sorry. Wasn’t supposed to come off like that.
Victoria: It’s different when you’re a Chase, okay?
Victoria: I mean, my name is on the fucking gallery.
Victoria: You know what anyone who sees my name on a piece is going to think? ‘Oh, she only got here because of her parents.’
Victoria: And the worst part is? They’re probably going to be right.
Victoria: I live in their shadow. And if I want to stand out I have to be *exceptional.* And if I’m not the best, then I’m stealing a place from someone better, who deserves it more.
Max @ 10:07PM: well, do you like photography, or do you do it because ur parents do it?
Victoria @ 10:12PM: Are you kidding me? Do you think I would be here if I didn’t care about photography?
Max @ 10:16PM: then i think if u constantly are room worrying about what others expect from you it’ll make your photography worse
Max: i don’t think you can make good art if ur not unafraid of the perceptions of others.
Victoria @ 10:23PM: Was the dress about ‘not fearing the perceptions of others?’
(Max has disconnected.)
***
Why the fuck did Victoria have to say that?
The memory washes over him again, dulled behind the hangover fog of whatever he was drinking that night. Waves of shame, hot and desperate, wash over him. He curls under the covers and pulls the blanket over his head. He was so close to forgetting it. Forgetting the awful guilt and self-disgust. Forgetting the sensation like a legion of ants crawling over his body. Forgetting most of all the way Victoria had looked at him, as if he were something precious, as if he were something vulnerable, as if he were something beautiful, and the bizarre feeling that triggered in his gut, sick and sad and joyful all at once.
He just… doesn’t want it. Whatever ‘ it ’ is. He doesn’t want to feel this way. He just wants to be a normal boy, and not have these stupid, awful, razor-edged thoughts. He doesn’t want to feel it as an ache sometimes, in his wrists and chest and stomach, as if there’s something in him that’s trying to pull its way out from under his skin. He doesn’t want her to have seen it. To have seen him. There must be some part of her convinced he’s disgusting. He certainly is.
He doesn’t undress. Instead, he just turns the lights off, curls his knees to his chest, and falls asleep on a tearstained pillow.
***
Victoria @ 10:41PM: I’m sorry.
Victoria: That was too far.
Victoria: You don’t owe me anything about that night.
Victoria: I shouldn’t have brought it up.
Max @ 11:23AM: can i ask you something?
Victoria @ 12:01PM: Yes?
Max @ 12:11PM: why didn’t you tell anyone
Max: ‘miss max,’ ‘caulfield the creep’
Max: im sure you could have thought of something
Victoria @ 12:42PM: You really think that lowly of me, huh?
Max @ 12:56PM: I’m not trying to make you mad or anything but the first few months i was here you were kind of awful
Victoria @ 1:37PM: i know
Victoria: i did bad shit, okay? i can be a fucking bitch to deal with. i know that
Victoria: but unlike my parents, I still have *some* fucking sense of decency
Victoria: and you don’t share shit like that with people.
Victoria: Also, more practically, I’d have to admit I went to bed with a boy wearing a dress. Which wouldn’t be incredible for *my* reputation, either.
Victoria @ 2:35PM: Can I ask a question?
Max @ 2:47PM: yes. but i can’t guarantee ill answer it.
Victoria @ 2:48PM: When what happened happened
Victoria: Was it my fault?
Max @ 2:54PM: no
Max: it was really nice up until that point. I just
Max: can’t
Max: It’s hard sometimes. Don’t know how to explain
Victoria @ 3:18PM: You don’t have to.
Victoria: @ 3:44PM: For what it’s worth.
Victoria: It was a nice dress. You looked good in it.
Max @ 4:12PM: eh, i just looked like a boy in a dress.
Max: Everything else was Alyssa’s work
Victoria @ 4:34PM: Oh, come on. Are you really that stupid?
Max @ 4:51PM: ????????
Victoria @ 4:57PM: Sorry. Didn’t mean that
Victoria: Max, even without a dress, you’re not exactly Adonis.
Victoria: But you are, actually, quite pretty. In a ‘slightly pathetic woodland creature’ kind of way.
Victoria: Honestly, I’m kind of surprised you and Price never got together.
Max @ 5:17PM: did you miss the big ‘I LOVE BUSH (THE PUSSY NOT THE PRESIDENT)’ sticker on the back of her truck?
Max: i’m not her type.
Victoria @ 5:25PM: You two so clearly have *something* going on
Victoria: It’s only obvious if you have eyes.
Victoria: You’d probably be close enough to a girl to count, anyway.
Max @ 5:32PM: ha ha
Max: very funny
***
There’s a dull, warm burn in his chest that night. In bed he mouths the words again and again and quietly entertains entirely ridiculous notions.
Pretty
.