Chapter Text
Day 1
Things could probably be worse. But not by much. They crashed into the ocean, washed up on an island, one of them died, and the rest of them are now traumatized and terrified and facing the daunting task of somehow managing to stay alive until someone comes for them.
“Sooo….would it be crazy if I suggested a little…icebreaker game?”
Oh. That’s how things could be worse. If, after a real-life nightmare, some obnoxiously cheery Texan pageant queen tried to make them play party games.
Leah would say she doesn’t get what Shelby’s whole deal is, but that would, unfortunately, be a lie. Leah may have managed to fend off Shelby’s matchmaking attempts on the plane, opting instead to stay in her self-imposed cocoon of heartbreak, but she wasn’t able to escape overhearing Shelby tell Martha, “I do real. I do family. I do Jesus. I do pageants.”
So, yeah, Leah might actually have some idea what Shelby’s whole deal is. (Although everything she knows about the girl — about any of these girls — she learned entirely against her will. Except maybe one of them. But still.) And while it’s extremely weird for anyone to be this chipper right now, maybe it’s like, slightly less weird for Shelby specifically to be this chipper right now. And maybe it’s true that they could use a distraction, because the whole Jeanette thing was…unfathomably grim.
She died. Right in front of them. Right in front of Leah. While everyone else had been arguing over the fucking phone, Jeanette had stumbled away, spitting up blood and bile, and Leah had been the only one to follow her. Leah can’t stop thinking about the color of her stomach. She hadn’t realized, at first, that that was actually her skin. It was so purple that it looked like just more of her shirt. And the little gurgle she’d made —
Nope, not going there. Leah is suddenly grateful for Shelby’s insistence on doing something to boost morale. Still definitely not her first choice of activity, but it beats thinking about Jeanette at least.
Although Leah starts to rethink that position when Shelby reveals that the icebreaker she has in mind is fucking Never Have I Ever. That’s not a party game that Leah excels at, on account of having the most uneventful life imaginable. Well, except for one thing — or rather, one person…
…no, Leah really shouldn’t go there either. But she has to, because Shelby’s first prompt is:
“Never have I ever had vaginal penetrative intercourse.”
Leah drinks. (Thanks Jeff, she thinks sarcastically. At least now she gets to tick one “never-have-I-ever” off the list, starting the game off strong.) She sees their resident cargo pants wearer, Dot, drink. She barely catches that the feisty basketball player, Toni, also takes a drink.
She doesn’t need to look at Fatin to know her answer. Of course Fatin drinks.
What a bizarre plot twist, to be stuck on this island with Fatin, of all people. Leah can’t deny she’d been intrigued when Fatin had showed up on the plane. She’d breezed in, bedazzled and bejeweled, and hadn’t so much as spared Leah a second glance. But…there had been a first glance. And Leah was so caught off guard at Fatin’s presence that she’d given Fatin a first glance too, looking up from Jeff’s book for just long enough to meet Fatin’s eyes. Leah thought she’d caught something in Fatin’s face at that moment, but she couldn’t say what. Surprise? Fear? Relief? Disgust?
But Fatin’s eyes had only lingered on Leah’s for a split second before she had moved on, dropping into her seat with an exaggerated groan. So maybe it wasn’t any of those things. Maybe it was just indifference.
And now Leah can feel Fatin’s eyes on her again as she swallows, but Leah isn’t really sure if she wants to find out what kind of judgment Fatin is passing on her. Or if, maybe, Fatin is just laughing at Leah. Maybe she thinks Leah’s lying. Couldn’t blame her for that, given Leah’s reputation — or lack thereof.
Leah’s curiosity gets the better of her, though, and she glances over at Fatin, whose face is illuminated by the warm firelight. And Fatin looks almost impressed. Which, actually, might be worse than Fatin laughing at her. Ugh. She totally thought I was way too much of a pathetic dork to ever have sex.
“All right,” Dot says, the “More Issues than Vogue” hoodie looking comically out of place on someone as practical as her. “Never have I ever…” She grins. “Had a threesome.”
Fatin drinks, with gusto.
“With two guys, not two girls,” Dot says, testing the waters.
Fatin drinks again. Calculatedly nonchalant, like she wants everyone to know just how little of a big deal it is. Although Leah catches her wincing just a tiny bit at the taste of the alcohol, and it feels strangely satisfying to get just the hint of a crack in her cool-girl facade.
“On my period,” Dot says, sure she’s got Fatin now.
Fatin raises the bottle to her lips, and Leah can tell everyone’s holding their breath — then Fatin rolls her eyes and smirks. “I mean, I’m not a freak.”
Shit, Leah would’ve believed it, honestly. But she has to hand it to Fatin, that was pretty funny. Good comedic timing. She managed to make Leah laugh for the first time since they landed — or crashed and washed up, if she’s splitting hairs — so she gets some points for that.
“All right, I’ve got one,” says the intense girl named Rachel. “Never have I ever,” she makes a slight pause for dramatic effect, a knowing look in her eye as she looks at Toni, “thrown my own piss on someone.”
There’s an awkward silence, then Martha says, with a shy smile, “Drink up, Toni.”
So everyone else here already has inside jokes with each other? Leah is pretty sure Martha and Toni had arrived together (although she spent the plane ride too buried in Jeff’s book to say for sure), but Rachel doesn’t seem like the in-joke kind of girl. Leah’s almost glad they’re not actually going to some fluffy little retreat where they’ll all have to act like gal pals, since clearly everyone else either was already friends or has gotten a head start on making friends. And Leah’s barely ever spoken a sentence to the one girl from her hometown.
“With pride, motherfuckers,” Toni says, raising her bottle in a toast before she drinks.
And with that, it’s like the dam breaks, and the girls are all finally ready to let down some of their walls and just be silly with each other.
Except Leah. The game continues, but her heart isn’t in it. She stays just present enough to drink when she’s supposed to — she doubts anyone would notice if she didn’t, although she could swear she’s been feeling Fatin’s eyes on her more often than not, and she isn’t really sure what to make of it — but she doesn’t laugh along as raucously as the others or volunteer any prompts. What would she say, anyway? “Never have I ever done anything, literally, EVER.” She doesn’t want to expose herself as a loser in front of anyone who doesn’t already know, and she doesn’t want to confirm herself as a loser to the one person who already suspects as much. Leah’s never done anything interesting. Except have sex, and watch a girl die.
Leah slinks away as soon as she can, once the others seem either buzzed or distracted enough to not notice. She plops down on a large, convenient looking piece of driftwood, and doesn’t realize at first that she brought Jeff’s book with her. Shit, has she been hanging onto that thing all evening? Well, some people have stuffed animals. I have this fucking book. Leah couldn’t say which is more embarrassing.
She’s just about to embark on a good old-fashioned nostalgia-fueled Jeff spiral when someone sits down next to her on the driftwood. She looks over and makes eye contact with Fatin Jadmani for the third time that day, which is, incidentally, three more times than they’ve made eye contact in the past year. Not that Leah was keeping track of how many times they made eye contact in a year. But, in her defense, it’s easy to keep track when the number is zero.
“So,” Fatin says, and if Leah didn’t know better, she might say Fatin seems nervous. But that’s ridiculous, because Fatin Jadmani doesn’t get nervous. A slam-dunk Julliard prospect who throws the biggest parties in town and walks through the hallways like she owns their school — and, given the amount of money her parents donate, she might actually be able to make a case for that — no, what does Fatin have to be nervous about? Especially compared to Leah. Leah Rilke: dairy milk drinker and, up until recently at least, virgin.
Fatin’s next words are so blunt that they nearly knock Leah off of the driftwood.
“Who’d you fuck?” Fatin asks. Then she keeps talking, which conveniently gives Leah a moment to get her feet back under her. “I mean, I always thought you were some weird art prude — ” Leah resists the urge to correct her. Weird writing prude. “But…I saw you drink.”
Fatin looks at her expectantly. And jeez, it’s kind of presumptuous of Fatin to think that Leah would tell her. Like, sure they’re stranded on an island, but that doesn’t mean they’re suddenly besties. Plus, Fatin’s never shown any kind of interest in getting to know — or even speaking to — or even acknowledging — Leah before, and Leah kind of resents that it takes an absolute worst-case scenario for Fatin to stoop so low as to grace Leah with her presence.
But, then again, something in Leah is relishing the idea that she managed to surprise Fatin. And she wants to ride that high as long as she can, because, really, what else does she have going for her out here?
So Leah shows Fatin the back of Jeff’s book, tapping his portrait with her finger. She can’t stop herself from smiling as she does so, partly from reliving fond (though now more bitter than sweet) memories of Jeff, but maybe even more so because of the look of genuine surprise — and, Leah thinks, perhaps a hint of respect — that appears on Fatin’s face.
“Damn,” Fatin says appreciatively, but she’s not looking at the photo of Jeff, she’s looking right at Leah, and Leah feels a strange urge to hide from Fatin’s gaze. “I had no idea you were such a bad bitch.”
Okay, Fatin’s laying it on a little thick now. But Leah finds that she doesn’t mind all that much. It’s nice to have a — well, not really a friend, but at least a familiar face out here.
“Well, in your defense,” Leah says, trying to match the quasi-friendly energy Fatin is bringing, “we’ve never really talked before, so…”
“True story,” Fatin grins. She pauses for a moment, then says, “So, was it hot?”
If Leah wasn’t so brokenhearted about Jeff, she’d find it funny that Fatin even asked that. What would Fatin care? She’s probably got enough hot sexcapades from her own life to write a book twice as thick as the one in Leah’s hands. But as it is, being asked about Jeff opens the floodgates, and Leah can’t find any humor in Fatin’s interest in her love life. Instead, to her embarrassment, she finds herself getting choked up thinking about him again.
“Yeah,” Leah says, trying not to let on that she’s on the verge of crying. She kind of half-laughs, because it’s the only thing that might keep her from actually crying. “But maybe in, like, a burning building kind of way. Like, it’s probably really good I got out.”
And it’s true, the part about it being good that she got out, but that horrible ache in her chest is still there, and she still fucking misses him, even though she knows she shouldn’t. Which just makes her feel even worse, and even more pathetic, and —
“Shit,” Fatin says, nodding thoughtfully, “That’s poetic.”
At first Leah thinks Fatin is making fun of her, and she glances at Fatin, fully expecting confirmation that Fatin’s being sarcastic. But the look Fatin’s giving her seems to be more of a “we’re-in-on-a-joke-together” look, and it occurs to her that — however implausible it seems — maybe Fatin is actually trying to, like, lighten the mood and make her feel better. Maybe Leah can even flatter herself and pretend that Fatin’s sucking up and calling her poetic because she knows Leah’s a writer. Although she did call me an art prude, not a writing prude, so maybe I’m giving her too much credit.
“Well,” Fatin says after a moment, and Leah realizes belatedly that she was probably supposed to fill that silence, “at least your first-time guy’s face is on the back of a book.” When she continues, it’s with a self-deprecating tone that Leah wasn’t expecting. “My first time was with a fucking grocery bagger at Smart & Final.”
Leah cracks a smile then. Fatin? With a grocery bagger? It’s hard to imagine. Not that Leah’s imagining it, per se. Just…conceptually. Hard to conceptualize.
Fatin keeps going. “God, I loved him,” she says, squeezing her eyes shut and laughing at herself. “I loved him.”
Leah isn’t stupid. There’s no way Fatin actually loved the guy that much. Fatin’s putting on a show so Leah doesn’t feel so insecure about having caught humongous feelings for someone she can’t have. It’s kind of annoying. Like, it’s just a little patronizing, in Leah’s opinion, to have someone like Fatin Jadmani try to relate to her in matters of the heart. Fatin could literally have anyone she wants. And Leah knows for a fact that Fatin does. Even when Leah doesn’t see Fatin going off with various guys (and the occasional girl) at various parties, she hears about it after the fact courtesy of the high school gossip industrial complex. Fatin gets who she wants, and she leaves a trail of broken hearts in her wake.
Fatin herself, of course, has never once shown any signs of heartbreak. That would probably be bad for her brand.
So it’s annoying to have Fatin try to pretend she understands what Leah’s gone through.
But on a certain level, it’s also kind of sweet that she’s trying.
“I was down so bad for him,” Fatin continues, smiling wistfully. “I used to, like, offer to go grocery shopping for my mom just so that I’d get to see him.”
“Yeah?” Leah asks, suddenly getting a kick out of the mental image of Fatin, timid and lovestruck, making up excuses to go to the grocery store.
“Yeah,” Fatin says, “and I’d buy the dumbest shit too. I’d make a whole trip to the grocery store just to buy one box of cereal.”
“One box of cereal?”
“Yup,” Fatin says, shaking her head. “Or, worse, sometimes just a pack of gum. All just so I could say, like, three words to him.”
“Wow,” Leah says. “So…what, was that how you reeled him in? Strategically buying alluring food items?”
“Oh, no, I wish,” Fatin says. “I reeled him in by dropping a gallon of milk on the floor because I got lost in his eyes and wasn’t paying attention to where my cart was.”
“You’re kidding,” Leah says, giggling a little.
“Again, I wish. But I guess he found it…endearing, or some shit. Asked me for my number, and then…well, the rest is history.” Fatin winks at Leah.
“That’s kinda cute, actually,” Leah says. “Makes for a nice story, at least. Mine is just…I don’t know. It’s a story, but not a very nice one.” The smile that had somehow made it onto Leah’s face over the last few minutes slides away as she starts thinking about Jeff again, and maybe Fatin can sense it, because she doesn’t give Leah a chance to get in her head about it.
“Well,” Fatin says, “you wanna hear another story?”
Leah still doesn’t quite understand Fatin’s angle here. Why does it seem almost like Fatin knows Leah’s about to start a Jeff spiral, and wants to prevent it? Why is she even talking to Leah? Why did she follow Leah away from the fire in the first place? The Fatin Jadmanis of the world do not mingle with the Leah Rilkes of the world.
At least, under normal circumstances that’s true. But these aren’t normal circumstances, are they? Maybe Fatin’s just as glad as Leah is to have someone she sort-of knows here with her. That’s one plus, Leah supposes. Everyone here has a familiar face with them. Except for Jeanette, Leah realizes. She was the only one of them to come alone. Poor Jeanette. Got on the plane alone, and died alone. Leah remembers suddenly how Jeanette had hugged her earlier that day and told her she was sorry. It was strange. Leah can’t explain why, but it’s strange. It sets off some little alarm bell in the backrooms of her mind. It’s almost like Jeanette —
“Leah?” Fatin looks at her with mild concern on her face.
“Yeah?” Leah says, coming back to earth. “Um, right, another story. Sure, hit me.”
“Okay, so you know Mrs. Wolfe? Of course you do, because for some unfathomable reason you decided to take her Pretentious White Guy Lit class — ” Leah snorts. “Sorry, I mean Contemporary Lit. Anyway, did you know she hates my guts?”
Leah raises an eyebrow at Fatin. “Didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, wanna know why?” Fatin is smirking with barely-restrained glee.
Leah may not be totally sold on Fatin Jadmani, but it turns out she’s decent company. At least given the current options. So, what the hell. She’ll hear what Fatin has to say.
“Sure.”
“Okay, well part of it is because I called her out on her problematic white lady dreads.”
“That's fair,” Leah chuckles, “she really should lose the dreads.”
“But part of it,” Fatin says, then pauses and wiggles her eyebrows at Leah, clearly relishing the lead-up to the reveal, “is because I accidentally stole her cat one time.”
Leah bursts out in laughter. “Sorry, what?”
“Okay, picture this,” Fatin says, holding her hands out in front of her as if she’s setting a stage for Leah’s imagination. “It’s a normal ass Wednesday. I get to school late because I had to pick up Starbucks on the way. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Leah agrees.
“I have English class first period on Wednesdays, so I get to see Mrs. Wolfe bright and early. But that day, don’t ask me why because I don’t know, she had brought her cat to school.”
“Maybe she was trying to, like, enhance her quirky image or something,” Leah muses.
“Sounds like her. Anyway, I was like, okay, Mrs. Wolfe is a loon but what else is new. Didn’t think much of it, kept my distance from the thing, just went about my day. I had to get to a cello lesson after school, so I left last period in a rush. I noticed Mrs. Wolfe was running around the hallways like a maniac, but I figured that was par for the course with her.”
Fatin stops for a moment and crosses her legs, leaning forward, towards Leah.
“So I got into my car, started driving, and I was halfway to my lesson when this, like, ball of fur comes flying at my head and nearly rips my earring out.”
Leah claps a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. “Oh my god,” she says, her voice muffled.
“Yup,” Fatin says, grinning. “Little fucker had snuck into my car. I must’ve left the windows down. Why her cat picked my car, I’ll never know. Maybe it was just trying to cause even more problems with me and Mrs. Wolfe.”
“Maybe it just has expensive taste,” Leah jokes, remembering that Fatin always showed up to school in some sports car that Leah assumes is very fancy and pricey.
“That would be valid,” Fatin says, seemingly approving of Leah’s comment.
“So, what did you do?”
“I floored it back to school, tried not to get mauled, locked the cat in my car and tracked down Mrs. Wolfe. Wasn’t that hard, she was screaming her head off. Told her that her dumbass cat had somehow gotten into my car and nearly killed me. She wasn’t very sympathetic.”
It’s a dumb story. Leah isn’t totally sure she even believes it. But Fatin must have some kind of inherent gift for storytelling, because Leah can’t stop laughing. She honestly doesn’t even care if it’s true or not. They’re laughing so loud that they start getting dirty looks from the other girls who are trying to sleep, so they wipe the tears of laughter out of their eyes and head back to the campfire.
Leah only realizes as she’s laying her head down on one of Fatin’s wadded-up hoodies that she might have just set a new personal record for time spent not thinking about Jeff.