Chapter Text
Chloe,
If you’re reading this, then it means I’ve already gone. I know, I know—I promised we’d leave together. We were gonna escape this godforsaken place, start fresh, and do something wild in Los Angeles. But the truth is, I can’t hold on to this shit anymore. Blackwell? It’s suffocating me, babe. I’ve been here for almost a year, keeping my grades up, getting this whole “Blackwell’s golden child” vibe that they expect from me. It’s all so fake. But it’s like some curse I can’t shake off.
You know how much I love studying international law, how it excites me with all its bullshit rules and politics. And fashion modeling—yeah, it’s cool. But honestly, Chloe, it’s theater. That’s what really gets me. You’ve always been there with me, sharing that passion, and I’ll never forget that night. You as a crow, all shy and awkward, and we kissed like we couldn’t stop it. I know you joke about it, but damn, you’re my angel. You always will be.
I think about the junkyard, how we made our own little world there. The plans we made to leave, to just get out of here and be free. It was perfect. Hell, it was hella perfect. I still lie in bed sometimes, staring at the ceiling, remembering how I’d trace constellations like you trace hearts on my skin. It’s like your touch never really leaves me, even when you’re not there.
But, babe, this town is rotting me from the inside. It’s got its claws in me, and no matter how much I try to run from it—whether it’s through partying, getting high, or just pretending like I don’t give a shit—it’s always there, gnawing at me. I fucked up. I tried to escape it, but instead, I dragged you into my mess.
Yeah, I got involved with Frank. I know you’re probably flipping out right now. I never meant to betray you. I swear. I didn’t want to twist what we had—what we still have—into something dirty with him. Especially him. You know how I feel about Frank. But somewhere in all of it, I got caught up in the high of it all, the rush of his hands on mine. And I thought that was love. But it wasn’t. It was just me being desperate to feel something, anything. And when things went south with him, I realized it wasn’t worth it. I had to leave. I’m sorry. Please know that.
After that, things got out of control. You know how your stepdad and Nathan started accusing me of dealing? That little hypocrite. I tried to fight back, tried to tell the principal about David following me around, taking photos of me, and how Nathan was the real dealer. But Wells? He didn’t care. He just saw me and Frank, and that was enough for him. Then David caught me with something at school and reported it. The shit hit the fan at home. My family fell apart, Chloe. Yelling, plates breaking, the oven catching fire because nobody was watching it—it was like the world was falling apart around me, and I couldn’t breathe.
And then David kept watching me. Tracking me. I know you’re gonna think I’m paranoid, but he even followed my car. He wouldn’t leave me alone. I couldn’t breathe, Chloe. The whole situation was suffocating me. I can’t afford to get kicked out of Blackwell. I can’t afford to have a permanent stain on my record. I’m not gonna be stuck here forever.
I waited. I really did. I tried to hold on to you, tried to believe that maybe we could still get out of this place together. But, babe, I could see it in your eyes. You don’t want to leave. You’re not ready. Maybe something’s holding you here. Maybe someone. I don’t know. You’ve got this connection to this town, and I can’t figure it out. You always joke about wanting to leave, but I know the truth.
Chloe, I love you. I really do. But you love this town more. You love your family, even the broken pieces. You love your friends, even the ones who don’t see you for who you really are. You still care about Max, even if you swear you don’t. I see it. I know you better than anyone. You may try to hide it, but I see it. I see it in the way you talk about pirates, in the way you look at photography, in the way you still talk about her like she’s not really gone. Hell, just hearing her name—Max—it gets under your skin, doesn’t it? You’ll never admit it, but I can see it.
I’m not jealous. I could never be jealous of you loving something. But… there’s something about it, Chloe. When I see you looking at the sky, or walking to the lighthouse, or sneaking bacon from my plate at Joyce’s diner… I know you love this town. And you’ll never leave it.
I’ve never felt that connection here. I can’t. I’ve always been the type to wander, to chase something bigger than me. I can’t stay stuck in one place. I don’t belong here, Chloe. I belong in the world—out there, somewhere. And I don’t know if you’ll ever get that. I don’t know if you’ll ever want to come with me.
I’ve asked myself, if you left with me, would you really be happy? Or would you miss everything here? Would you miss your mom, even if she’s not perfect? Would you miss the junkyard, the only place you can truly be yourself? Would you miss the people who don’t judge you, who see the real you behind that tough exterior?
I’m not saying I don’t love you, Chloe. I do. I do more than you’ll ever understand. But sometimes, love means letting go. Sometimes, love means walking away, even if it hurts. And this—this is gonna hurt like hell.
If you leave this town, Chloe, you’ll never come back. And I don’t know if you’re ready for that. You’d lose everything here. Everything that keeps you grounded. And I don’t think you could survive that.
I just had to figure out which loss would hurt less.
Yours,
RA
…What the fuck. What the actual fuck. Rachel…
Chloe couldn’t comprehend the clean printer paper in front of her—the dried ink sat there mocking and taunting the rebel, reflecting the words of her lover. Her ex lover? The blue haired girl was horribly confused, letting her tense fingers bend the paper into a crumble. Wind brushed her messy side bangs up and out of her face, showing her puffy red eyes and hardened eyebrows to the air.
Throughout the hurricane of confusion, one thought rang out in a deafening screech; Rachel left. Rachel left without her.
Chloe couldn’t stop the waterfall of tears that escaped her, cascading off her cheeks as if they were rocky cliffs, falling onto the goodbye letter and creating a pond of sorrow. Why does every good thing leave? Her dad, her best friend, her mothers soft gaze, and now… her everything.
Rachel was fucking wrong. Chloe hated his town, she hated her parents. There was nothing holding her back—she wasn’t fucking weak.
And Frank—That bastard stole her girlfriend. He destroyed Rachel from the inside, feeding her drugs and false ideas until he eventually, obviously, abused her. It made Chloe fume, her teeth riding against tongue like knife against skin. It was an unspeakable sort of anger, one that couldn’t be made beautiful in proses or scattering sentences. Red hot, blurring, disgusting rage.
Chloe should move; rip the paper, bring it to her chest and lay it coldly against her heart, maybe throw it on the floor where other false promises lay, perhaps even pretend she never saw it. But the troublemaker just stood there—her breaths felt foreign as they slid down her throat, nestling in her lungs.
She was so mad… she was so mad at Rachel. The girl abandoned her for a stupid—a fucking daydream about being a superstar in Los Angeles. It was like a flip switched, adoration turned to betrayal, unstoppable love bent and bruised to an abusive pain. An episode of being constantly pushed into hell, then out again.
How do you know what way is up when your whole life has been turned upside down? Chloe couldn’t answer.
The punk girl wrapped up Rachel’s note into a ugly ball, slamming it into her right denim pocket while she twisted away from the scene. She was going to find that motherfucker, Frank. She was going to beat his ass till he told her why Rachel really left. Chloe must’ve done something wrong.
She understood how much Rachel couldn’t bear to stay in that town, but Chloe could never begin to comprehend why she would leave it without her. Wasn’t their love devastating? Burning hot and comforting like a cold towel in the summer sun? How could—
“Chloe, dinner!” Her mom yelled above the static that fogged the troublemaker's head.
The girl sharply moved her body to look over her shoulder, slamming her heavy black boots into the ground and creating an echoing roar against the worn wooden floor. Her mom always had the worst fucking timing.
Chloe sharply turned every corner, barreling through the hallways and jumping down the stairs—in a haste to get out, to fight, to do something—but she was stopped by her moms vicious glare.
From the kitchen, Joyce looked up past the pot she was stirring. The soup let out a delicious aroma, blanketing the dining room in a scent of rosemary and chicken. Spices danced as if they were floating down a cliffside, waterfalling into Chloe's pierced nostrils. Her mother peered around the column separating the doorway and living room, eyes softening with concern—and exhaustion from the familiarity of her actions, her visual rage—and spoke; “Chloe… what's with the attitude? You’ve barely said a word all day, and now you’re storming in here like you’re ready to tear the place apart!”
Chloe’s fingers inched at the side of her well worn crust jacket—a staple of the punk scene—while her teeth gritted in poorly-disguised exasperation. “I don’t have to talk to you every single second of the day. Maybe I just don’t feel like pretending to be a part of your little family.” The words come out like venom.
The older woman turned off the stove—returning Chloe’s glare with a troubled look of her own—and sat down on the simple dining room table, picking at the uneven tablecloth as if that was the elephant in the room.
Her voice became firm. “You know damn well that you are a part of this family, Chloe. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on. You’ve been in a mood for days now! Look, David is here, and he’s here to stay. Why can’t you two get along? Why can’t you two do this for me?”
Chloe whipped forward like a cobra, all her frustration contorting into a weird grimace. “This isn’t about David. Not everything is about your new boy toy!” She unwillingly felt her voice crack in shame. “Maybe I don’t want your help! Did you ever think of that? Just—just stop trying to fix me!”
The feeling of complete exposure felt wrong in her chest—like something raw and painful. She couldn’t deal with it right now. Especially with the depth of her mothers eyes and the weariness behind them.
“I’m not trying to fix you, Chloe. I’m trying to understand. But you’re shutting me out, and it’s breaking my heart!”
Chloe felt a rush of irritation flame up behind her eyelids. It would be so much easier if her mother shouted at her, broke a few pots and pans—hell, even if she caused a couple of bruises. Maybe then, it could be more black and white, and Chloe wouldn’t have to feel her pure, unadulterated, red anger. “Why does everything have to be about you? It’s always about you and how I’m screwing up! Maybe I don’t need your understanding, or your pity, or whatever this is!”
“Just fucking leave me alone.” Her voice trembled on the edge of breaking. The blue-haired teenager never liked fighting with her mother, but the woman always seemed so disappointed; she could never accept Chloe for what she was now—always looking for her ‘best self.’ But what if this was Chloe’s best self?
Everyone always thought they knew what was best for her. First her mother, then her therapist when her dad died, and finally, fucking Rachel. The girl she loved and treated as an equal… she saw Chloe as nothing but a troubled teen. Fuck all of them.
“Just… what's going on? What’s this about—Is it about William? David? I don’t understand why you are pushing me away like I’m not your mother!”
“Why does everyone keep asking about dad?” Chloe whined. “Just leave it alone, okay? He’s gone. I don’t want to talk about him!”
“I’m trying to help you, Chloe! You’re pushing everyone away, and I can’t just stand here and watch you self-destruct”
Before she could even think of a response, the sound of military boots hitting the floor in strict pounds—almost reminiscent of her descent from the stairs before this argument—interrupted them. David stepped in the room, his posture stiff and face unreadable as he confronted his step-daughter, sitting down at the table next to his wife. The security guard took in the scene—Joyce’s worried expression, Chloe’s arched lips and dangerous brows—and instantly tightened his jaw. “What’s going on here?” He demanded sternly.
It was like gasoline poured on a fire.
“Oh, great! Here comes the asshole cavalry! What, you think you’re gonna save the day, David? News flash! This isn’t the battlefield.” The headstrong girl snarled, petting the flames of tension like it was her superpower.
David inhaled, a murderous wave of emotion causing him to grip his chair tightly. But after a second, he calmed himself, trying to act sophisticated and unaffected—sipping a warm gulp of coffee made from Joyce’s kitchen. “Watch your mouth, Chloe. I’m not here to take your crap just because you’re having a bad day.” His voice was low and firm.
The defiant spirit in Chloe refused to back down. “Oh, you’re so right. Because you’re totally qualified to give advice on how to handle emotions, right? You think you’re just gonna waltz in here and be the hero? We don’t need another replacement for my dad!”
“I never wanted to be a replacement for your father, but you need one. You are horrible to your mother and horrible to me. Remember your position here!”
“Both of you, that’s enough!” Joyce raised her voice—her previous complaints lost under the shouts of anger and distrust—and yelled a finishing blow, hoping to shock them both into submission.
It didn’t work.
Chloe turned to face her mother head on—her forehead tensed with wrinkles as if they were visible lines of smoke that shrouded her forehead. “No! It’s not enough! You don’t get it, Mom! You don’t get anything! I’ve lost everything and you’re just—standing there, pretending like everything’s fine! Well, it’s not! And it never will be!”
The punk’s chest heaved, boney white fingers trembling by the weight of her words. There was no taking it back, not even if Chloe wanted to—and she didn’t. They fucking deserved it… though the satisfaction was quickly draining, a sense of morbid quietness corrupted the room.
She had to get out. So she did.
Without another word, Chloe stormed past both of her guardians—jewelry rustling together in the motion, making a cacophony of dings—and she ripped open the front door, slamming it behind her with a deafening bang.
The outdoors were hot—filled up with a later-April atmosphere and beckoning the warmth of summer. Oregon was a particularly cold state, but once one stays long enough, any place could become burning to the touch. The beaches—though miles past her house—sat glistening in the sunny skies while waves of seawater, freckled with foam, drifted across its sand. The residents loved this place; the trees were strong Douglas-fir pines and they sung in the salty forests.
Regardless, Chloe’s skin ached in the heat as she barreled into her trusty vehicle—On the outside, the truck had a beige paint job and several stains of dirt. The cab doors were a darker shade of brown, with traces of a white and blue decal. A number of small stickers could be seen near the door handles and on the back of the truck. It was a reflection of Chloe, in all ways but mental.
Sliding into the front seat, Chloe stubbornly refused to look at Rachel’s graffiti—written in strokes of black sharpie; ‘This is much bigger than you!’ on the dashboard.
The car was filled with various bits and bobs; a Wacky Wobbler Special bobblehead figure of Elvis Presley—holding a microphone, several used tissues and soda cans, sunglasses, a pen, a bruised pencil, several sheets of brownish paper, and two old wrenches. Looking back with tight eyes, Chloe even saw a talisman dangling in the rear view mirror. It was a display of romance hung hauntingly; a light and dark brown feather. Rachel.
She hated her family. What did Rachel know?
David—her stupid stepfather—fucking stalked Rachel and falsely accused her of drug dealing—because of what? Because she went to some parties and drank some alcoholic drinks, maybe popping a few pills. Every teenager in Arcadia Bay has done that once. He was such a controlling ex-military pig; siding with the rich Prescotts and their long history of supporting terrible things in return for money.
Rachel and Chloe searched the family up once, making a day out of securing old files from the town library—as if they were uncovering a mystery. Unexpectedly, there were a lot of rumors and allegations of false play concerning the Prescotts deals throughout Arcadia Bay. An article in The Great Northwest questioned their hella profitable businesses compared to the rest of the town, and their housing development called Pan Estates—which was to be built deep in the forest, destroying native land. Basically, the man is an all-around douchebag. David was a dick, but Chloe didn’t expect him to side with that.
And the mega-bitch Nathan himself, fueled by generational wealth and a frightening addiction to weed—also provided by Frank, that bastard—to simply hate anyone that partied like a fiend on their own; it was like he needed to be seen as an exclusive force, some power behind the elusive Vortex Club. He desperately yearned for attention, it made Chloe almost pity him. Almost.
Screw all of this shit.
Turning on the engine, Chloe pushed back her tears and launched the car into drive. She pressed dangerously on the acceleration foot-pedal, whipping away from her house as if it were nothing more than a slide of hand magic trick. The trees blurred by, creating an illusion of green fire that danced up and down as the motion-picture jumped between frames. Memories of Rachel flickered by, Chloe saw her in the sidewalks and the trickling shops that passed through this cloud of movement.
The insides of her truck felt stuffy—cold biting dangerously at her forearms where they clung to the steering wheel—but Chloe knew that was just her anger, her rage about never seeing Rachel again.
Chloe’s goal felt flimsy in her mind, but one thing was certain—her mission. Frank was going to get fucking hurt. She was going to roll his boney ass on the gravel floor, punching him so hard that he would flip over. He would fucking fly. The man usually set up his camper in the beachside carpark, letting his dog bark at unexpecting tourists while his campfire flames burn out of control.
Arriving at the thin slit of concrete between forest and sand, Chloe hazardly slammed the ford’s brake—laying her vehicle over two separate lanes—and pushed open the door. She walked out briskly. Her anger let her heel slam painfully against the ground, which caused shocks of electricity to run through her. It helped Chloe feel strong.
The punk knocked at the campervan’s side entrance, letting her emotions fade under the cover of Frank’s awning. All the fire that drove her seemingly left in a heavy sigh… but she hopelessly tried to hold on to the passionate feelings—begging that they would send her strength.
No one replied.
Frank was out.
At least she could trash his place though.
With an arguably amateur attempt at hitting the doorknob so hard it would break, Chloe gave up and decided to go through a window. She had enough irritation left to last her a decade—and to suffer through the taxing efforts to take off wooden paneling from glass—so it would have to work out.
She looked around, picking up stray pieces of trash and particularly sharp shells—scavenging the sand like a pirate in the search for treasure.
And finally; Bam! A piece of hard sea rock she noticed when it scratched her combat boots as she scanned for items. She could throw this baby straight at Frank's window and watch the glass shatter to the ground.
First, the blue-haired girl used the piece of earth as a crowbar, getting its smaller side to slip under the wood paneling—lodging it near steel nails that hung uneven. It was a patchwork job, and Chloe felt glad for her father; he taught her actual woodwork and mechanics. Though the thought brought on nothing but guilt and mourning.
Fortunately, she didn’t have to work hard to pry the rotted cover off. It fell in a disappointing heap of broken log, sticking up in all directions. A sharp grin latched onto the delinquents eyes—she was going to absolutely destroy Frank's place.
A loud barking escaped the van, causing Chloe to pause—shit! Frank's personal drooling bodyguard was here to chew her socks off. She paused, shushing the dog instantly as the weight of the situation fell on her. If Frank found Chloe here, he would shoot the shit out of her. Though, If Frank was here, he would be screaming at her already, letting his attack dog go wild to nip or bite Chloe. So he was probably out. Probably out doing his deals. The man was the local dealer… maybe he was out talking to Nathan. Nathan was Blackwell’s dealer. It would make sense.
Chloe felt determination rush through her, echoing in her arms and her soft breaths.
Taking the rock, the punk threw it dangerously at the flimsy camper windows—breaking them in a snap, glass flying everywhere. A piece hit Chloe, viciously swiping a pass at her cheek. It didn’t seem deep, so the girl ignored it, choosing to rip away the remaining sharp, scattered objects, without a care for her delicate hands. She was too angry to care.
Eventually, the portal was big enough to step through without jabbing her side into a dagger-like edge. Chloe dragged over a trash can—balancing as well as she could while using it as a stepping stone to jump into the house on wheels.
The inside smelt like crap. Marijuana filled the vehicle with its signature skunky-earthy scent—it felt heavy in the air, thickening the moisture in Chloe’s eyes. “Gross.” She whispered, she never let it get this bad in her room. A bunch of other aromas flaunted themselves in the air, but they were unnoticeable behind the weed. The blue-haired rebel understood—people in this town were not ready for the harder stuff and Frank was never one to want his addicts to become seriously reliant. At least, that’s what she thinks, because he never laced any of his products, even though he would benefit from the higher cash flow.
Chloe caught her bearings and looked around sharply for Frank's canine. The hound always reminded her of Cujo, from the same-titled Stephan King novel—snarling and covered in dirt. Max made her watch it before she left the Bay. Apparently, she had a thing for horror—and despite the silent treatment, and distance that was not just geographical—the punk still hoped the photographer wouldn’t end up dating a barely-hid snuff fan.
And speaking of the dog-devil, Chloe saw Pompidou’s ears pointed out behind the campers central hallway.
“Uh… hey little guy. Heh, uh—good boy?”
The dog watched Chloe stutter, almost embarrassed at her actions, and slowly shuffled forward. He looked sick—eyes watering with yellowish-green globs, locked in the corner of his canthus—but his tail wagged excitingly.
Alright, Chloe mused, maybe the dog wasn’t that bad.
She hesitantly extended her hand, letting Pompidou press his wet nose against her warm flesh. He took a couple sniffs, then bounded over to her adorably. Chloe let herself pet the dog a couple of times, then opened the camper door to tie him to a fence outside—he shouldn’t be in his home when she starts to swing.
Stalking back into the house, the defiant spirit felt her anger slamming back. This place was going to fall. Chloe kicked at the walls when she walked, not letting anything stop her as she gripped the same rock she used to break Frank’s window, ready to use it to break a lot more. But suddenly, she heard something falling—it landed with a muffled bang, steel slamming against carpet—she flinched, drawing her shoulders back as her eyes squinted. It was a vent? She must’ve accidentally knocked it off its position when she ran back in. Regardless, the punk picked up the metal—intending to use it as another weapon for destruction—but stopped in her tracks.
There was something inside the wall, in a small crevice where the vent used to hang over. They were letters? Photos? Chloe unwrapped the polaroid pictures from their coverings, and cringed back in horror. Rachel… what she wrote was true… she actually had a relationship with Frank. An intimate one.
The first shot was Rachel laying on a comfortable bed, Pompidou spread out lavishly in her embrace, the brown haired girl's bright smile when she was with Frank sent spikes of pain into Chloe’s heart. She looked so happy.
Chloe shuffled the photos, putting that one behind the others as she continued to look through the items. The next thing, though, wasn’t Rachel modeling. It was a letter signed with her name, directed to Frank.
Frankie B.
Hope you read this first thing in the morning. Sorry about last night, I was being a monstrous bitch and took it out on you and poor Pompidou. There’s a lot of weird shit going on in my life and sometimes I feel like I’m never going to get out of Arcadia Bay.
Thank god for you. You’re one of the best things I have here and I smile when I think of us together. Let’s just drive out of here forever.
Love you always,
RA.
She wrote a heart. Scribbled in like it was last minute, right beside her sloppy initials and the end of the paper. This wasn’t right. She wanted to get out of Arcadia Bay with Chloe. Not with this entitled asshole who loves his drugs more than her. Why did Frank get a heart? Why did he get a silly nickname and a casual note, instead of that fucking letter sent to Chloe—impersonal with its formality. Heartbreaking with its lack of… Rachel.
The blue-haired girl blinked away tears, moving on to the next bit of remains left out for her.
There were more photos, some of Rachel driving Frank’s camper, some of the green-eyed girl and the shabby man himself—how dare he put his hands around her—and one that surprised Chloe the most. A picture of Rachel wearing nothing but a pink bra and thin black panties. She was dancing—hands thrown up in a whirlwind of hair as her signature feather earring found itself lost in the commotion. The quality of the picture was bad, probably the result of heavy movement—though Chloe pushed away the thought of Frank and Rachel dancing together… or doing other things.
The last object in the punk's hands was a thin piece of paper, handwriting shaky, and addressed to a date more recent.
Frank.
That was not cool what you did. And don’t blame the drugs. You actually scared me, and I thought you’d never chill out. I’ve never seen you act that way and the next time will be the last.
I’m a leo and we don’t look back. I care about you; us, so maybe we need to break our routine.
RA.
Oh. Chloe felt a wave of irritation brush forward. So this is when the two ‘went south’—in Rachel’s words. He was always fucking up everything. Despite her vexation for Rachel, Chloe found herself hating Frank impossibly more.
She couldn’t be here any longer, screw her plans of revenge. The tattooed girl wiped away a few stray tears, leaving most of the pictures where she found them, but still stealing a few headshots of Rachel—without Frank and his mocking smile. It’s been a while since the two girls had any physical evidence of each other—only saving clothes, or taking pictures on their phone—and this might be the only chance Chloe has left to touch Rachel’s face.
Pompidou woofed softly, rolling on Chloe’s leather-covered shoes while sticking out his tongue and panting.
“How did you get—y'know what. Whatever. Just get out of here. I don’t want to look at you.”
The hazel dog tilted his head to the side as if he were confused, then nosed at the girl's hand till it flopped onto his back. He had amber eyes. Chloe couldn’t resist a short pet, launching her hand across his pelt and regretting it immediately when shame clouded her. This mutt belonged to Frank. The fucking man who hurt her girlfriend, and continues to hurt Chloe.
Though, it would be pretty hilarious if the dog liked her more than Frank.
Alright… fine.
Her dog now, bitch!
She softly drew Pompidou around the room by his collar, picking up any dollar bills or objects that could get her cash—drugs, weed, a couple shiny bits of jewelry—because she had a new plan. It was stupid, almost impossible, and completely made by vivid emotions of aggression and mourning, but it was the last thread in Chloe’s mind that wasn’t wrecked. It was her new mission.
She had to find Rachel; to make her explain her letter, to actually describe how she could leave her lover, and to finally tell Rachel that she couldn’t leave without Chloe. They were more than girlfriends, they were companions—partners in everything but the steady increase of time. Desperation couldn’t describe the unbearable yearning for her—the touch of her hands, Rachel’s silky auburn hair, her amber eyes. She was beautiful. There were no words in the English language to translate that.
But how could someone find a person who ran away?
It’s easy to find a person who ran away when you used to consider it every day, Chloe laughed. She knew where to look, the hints of a direction slipped into everyday conversation—fancy banter turned into wistful sounds. She knew where to find it, stickers slapped onto notebooks or water bottles—tourist traps and everyday memes of a dream location.
Rachel Ambers always wanted to go back to California. She was born there, in Long Beach. It was a coastal city and port in Southern California—maybe that’s why Rachel felt familiar with the sea-side aroma of Arcadia Bay. She could often be found daydreaming about the warm, golden sand of the beaches, and the nightlife she desperately wanted to enjoy when she was a tween.
When Chloe first met her, the blue-haired girl assumed Rachel’s need to get out of Arcadia bay wasn’t homesickness, though. Chloe thought that Rachel missed her old life—when her parents didn’t make out with other people, and the ground felt like childhood underneath her feet. Chloe supposes she was lucky to grow up in a place knowing—with no doubt in her mind—where her home was—it's a hard thing to be torn between two places. Rachel was strong.
Regardless, the only other place she expressed any interest in was Los Angeles. Rachel wanted to be a star—a model, actor, or fashion designer. Something that rocks with glamorous looks and fame. That city became her mindscape, carving out potential paths and suitors for her needs. She was obsessed with it.
So, Chloe had to go there. Somehow—with some vehicle. But she doubts that her mom or step-ass would allow it, nor have the money to land her a temporary car… she could walk? But there would be mountains in the northern bit of California, and she doesn’t necessarily want to walk across a highway or road, because she would be avoiding the cops—this trip would not be with permission and she guarantees that David would go crazy. Another option would be to buy a ride herself, but the money that the punk stole from Frank was not nearly enough to pay for gas. And that was all she had.
And then it hit Chloe, the trains! The trains in the junkyard where Rachel and herself used to hang out! Those tracks sprang from Oregon—through Idaho and Utah—to central California, coming off around High Sierra, which was adjacent to another country, which was touching—guess what—Los Angeles! Sure, the train cars would make a few unnecessary stops, but only in their own respective warehouses trickled around Oregon's sister states. And the cars were full of supplies, coal, wood, and packages. It was perfect to hide on.
Chloe grabbed Pompidou, rushed to her car, and promptly speeded to the junkyard. Bopping her head to a faint song that was screeching from her mp3 player. Finally, she had something to do—the start of her story, and the beginning of her rescue of Rachel. The theater-loving girl was just confused—traumatized by Frank and this town. That’s why she left Chloe, that’s what it had to be.
It felt like a truth in the defiant spirit's mind. Firm and consuming.
And when she jumped onto the moving train, pulling Pompidou up with her—trying miserably to keep her patchwork backpack to stay behind her where it belonged—she didn’t feel an ounce of regret.