Chloe Van Harris was the most beautiful girl at the Melbourne Physiciatrics Institute for Young Women. With her shiny auburn locks and liquid blue eyes, there were not many girls who could even compete with her for that title. I could also say that she’s the most popular, but, there are a few people who would argue it. Generally, to be popular, you have to have friends. Chloe doesn’t really have any friends. By choice, of course, many people would love to walk from classroom to office with her, or be her buddy in group activities, but, she seems to flit from person to person, with fleeting smiles and no promises.
Chloe had been at the Institute longer than most girls, so nobody had gotten to hear her on her first day, introduce herself and tell her story. Hi, my name is Chloe Van Harris and I’m here because I ...?
And of course, nobody will ask Chloe about it. Only one girl claims to know why Chloe is here, because apparently she was Chloe’s partner in a secret-sharing activity.
If I had to describe Alysha Banks, I would describe the way she braids her long black hair into many tiny braids, from her hairline down to her shoulders, ending each braid with a thin black tie. She’s tough and practical, and in this institution after she assaulted the man who her mother was dating. In most of our opinions, that was a totally justifiable thing to do - I mean, we’ve all been there before – but, she still has to stay here for a year, and then return to court for a progress check. Alysha is the only one to claim to know why Chloe is here, but, no one could believe what she said. How would Chloe even ... how could she do a thing like THAT?
Believe me, it’s true. You won’t hear it from Chloe’s pink plush lips, but, mine are the next best thing. Why? Because I was there when Chloe did it.
It was the transition period between spring and summer, where you’re not exactly sure if you can pull out your shorts and string bikinis yet, and you don’t want to stash away your wind breakers and military jackets. It was almost exactly three years ago, that faithful day.
Chloe and I were in grade eleven, and she had scored an invitation to that party because her boyfriend was a year older, and his friends were going. I scored the invitation because the party was at my house, being thrown by my sister.
The party went the same as all parties in high school go. Kids poured in early, on time and late, and arrived in packs of friends. Soon, I just left the door open, and let kids walk in on their own, instead of having to run to the door whenever the bell rang. The lights got lower and the music got louder as the night passed on. Drinks were downed and kids got high. I lost track of friends and ran into others, the sequins on my dress swishing as I danced.
Chloe caught my attention amid the strobe lights and smoke, and I smiled at her. She somehow oozed confidence and drunken idiocy at the same time, and that was the type of person I spend my nights with. I linked my arm through hers and we strolled into the kitchen, where I fixed us vodka sevens in short glasses, no ice.
“Alcoholic, much?” She laughed, rubbed her throat as she sipped the drink. I laugh, too, and easily swallow half my glass.
“The burning goes away after awhile,” I say.
She nods, and soon, both glasses are empty, and we’re mixing something new.
“Okay, okay, I’ve got an idea,” She laughs, holding up a hand, a turquoise ring glinted on her middle finger, “We should spike some drinks. Like, let’s see how Virgin Mary goes when she’s wasted?”
Chloe tilts her chin towards a girl on the other side of the kitchen, who was nicknamed “Virgin Mary” because, well, her name was Mary, and she was the leader of the V Club. That night, she wore a silky blouse with a beaded collar and a pair of black jeans. Practically a nun compared to Chloe, me and all the other girls here. Chloe looks down at the pockets sewn into her neon pink mini skirt. She fingers a plastic baggie full of powder, and I laugh.
“Go distract her,” Chloe says, and I take her drink out of her hands to accompany me, and waltz across the kitchen.
“Mary!” I cry, “Mary, hi!”
Mary turns her head and her eyes widen.
“Oh, hey,” She says, a little nervous, “How are you?”
“Fabulous,” I say, rolling the word off my tongue, “Are you enjoying the party?”
“Yeah, it’s great,” She looks around, “Your house is nice.”
Chloe appears on the other side of Mary, and before I can greet her, she bursts into a coughing fit.
“Oh my God,” Chloe sputters between hacks, and she takes Mary’s plastic cup out of her hands. She edges away from us and takes a gulp, bending over as she continues to choke. I see a stream of powder fall from Chloe’s palm into the cup.
“Oh!” Mary says, and for a second, I think she noticed, “Oh, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Chloe swallows, looking a little disgusted, “I think I swallowed a bug or something. Ew.”
She swirls the drink around and hands it back to Mary, and links her arm through mine, “Would you mind showing me to the bathroom so I can gargle something?”
“Of course,” I gently pat her hand, “We’ll see you later, Mary.”
“I hope you feel better, Chloe!” Mary waves at us.
When we’ve distanced ourselves a little, Chloe snickers, “Yeah, I feel better already.”
We play our game all night long, Chloe sprinkling her magic powder into glasses, into bowls, into bags of chips. Later, we see Mary up on the table, trying to grind on the leader of the chess club. Chloe and I crack up.
It wasn’t so funny the next morning, when a newspaper landed on my doorstep, bearing a bold-lettered title: Eleven Kids OD at House Party! My hands shake so hard the spoon I’m mixing my coffee with knocks against the ceramic cup. I turn to page four, and I see Mary’s school picture staring back at me. White teeth and pearl earrings. I swallow hard.
“Hm,” Chloe responds, rubbing a bejeweled nail file against her pinkie nail, “That’s a shame.”
That’s all she says when I tell her. I prompt her more by shoving the newspaper in her face.
She calmly curls her fingers around it and pushes it down, “I may have overestimated how strong the powder was. It’s fine though, I didn’t like those people anyway.”
I didn’t like those people anyway.
And now, my ex-partner in crime was walking towards me in the cafeteria. She looks similar to the way she looked that night: bemused, curious and chill. Her tray lands across from mine.
And Chloe Van Harris smiles down at me, “My friend, you look like you could use a little of my special powder.”