DOWN BAD | JULIAN CASABLANCAS

I.

October 5th, 1999.

Sandalwood musk, sharp cigarette smoke, and the lingering scent of Aqua Net came from the bathroom of the west village apartment. House music shook the walls, socialite and surviving heir to her father's musical legacy, Stella Cobain perfected her winged liner in the bathroom. Hair perfectly blown out, chocolate lacquer falling all over her shoulders in a contrast to her parents' bright blonde. A breeze crept in through a crack in the window, humidity rolling down her slender back. Buzzing on the littered counter pulled her out of her trance, "Shit". Chipped nails navigated swiftly towards the muffled vibration, moving past countless of dirty makeup products, trashed wipes, and chocolate wrappers. Alas she unearthed from a sea of overpriced plastic her Nokia. The small screen adorned with the calling ID "CHLOË".

"Hey, you almost here?"

"Yeah, I had a shoe debacle, a pair of my Manolo's broke."

Gasp. "Oh, that's a girl's worst nightmare...what are you wearing?"

"Uhh...this stupid Diesel tank I found in my closet, it's like two years old and my McQueen skirt."

"The tiny one?"

"Of Course, Dolce heels."

"You're going to flash everyone the second your drink falls."

"Free show, I am my mother's daughter."

Chloë chuckles. Stella looks at her makeup in the mirror.

"You definitely got the Courtney genes."

"Oh I'm aware, I'm going to put on some perfume and then I'm out the door you better be downstairs, Sevigny."

"You brat."

"Love you too."

With a click, clattering heels made their way down an elongated hallway. Eggshell walls splattered with family memories of when there were four, now reduced to three. The apartment was a far cry from their Seattle home, nearly unrecognizable. That had been exactly the goal, to let time swallow up whole the tainted streak in their history. But it still lingered in the air, it still created large voids no matter where the family went. It followed and it was quite visible to any guests, even its inhabitants.

"Where are you going?" Courtney stood in the kitchen, eyes scanning her eldest's innovative outfit. The youngest, Frances, sat at the table kicking her legs, still unable to reach the wooden floors. "Out." She replied dryly, a defensive tenseness in her frame. A rift that'd been created five short years ago when budding adolescence mixed with tragedy. "You have school tomorrow." Her brows furrowed, arms crossed as she placed the spatula down, Frances would have to witness more bickering before she could bite into her dinner. Stella sighed, "I'll be home before twelve, I'm just going out with Chloë, we won't get into any trouble."

Her mother's eyes drooped, unamused by her daughter's behavior. As of recently, it had landed her on front page covers and tabloid discussions, fears for a second coming of her mother's notorious temper and tumultuous decisions. A part of her sympathized, she knew it must've been difficult at seventeen navigating peering eyes and camera flashes waiting to catch her like a hunter does a fox. Shooting their cameras and piercing through her youthful reputation like bullets through fur. She mirrored her teenage fears, her unforgiving adolescence and it terrified the motherly portion of her.

"Chloë's older, she should know better." Courtney sighed, Frances hummed to herself at the table, the mounting tension lost on her. Stella's eyes shifted to her younger sister, shifting back to her mother, crossing the arms and legs she had acquired from her. Her father's eyes pierced her mother's stern expression, the lips they shared let out a soft sigh, shoulders slumping. On her face he was still alive and breathing, they were still together. Her mother reluctantly agreeing, "Okay, no boys, home by ten."

Stella smiled, throwing her arms around Courtney, "I promise I'll behave." She sprinted past her, kissing Frances' cheek at the table before leaving. With a glimmering Rabbane bag under her arm, she flew down the flight of stairs to the steps of the brownstone where Chloë smoked a cigarette, dressed in Helmut Lang. "Took you long enough." She smirked, Cheshire cat eyes crinkling at her best friend. All their jewelry clanging as they hugged, "Hey, sorry, I had to convince the prison guard to let me out." She pants as she takes the cig, looking up at the window into her kitchen before letting the smoke rest in her lungs.

The blonde chuckled, "Oh yeah, miss Love not letting you out much?". She shook her head, handing back the cig. Chloë and Stella had met when Stella began working with Harmony Korine, mutual friend, and boyfriend of Chloë. She had assisted on a couple of shoots, modelling on some, one shoot in particular got her signed to a prestigious modelling agency. It came about in the spring of that same year when Korine had asked her to pose for his Greek Gods portraits. She had stood in for a missing model, dressed in nothing but her skin and hair, and a winged petasos. Wielding a Caduceus and a shield, she posed for the portrait which was both sold at auction and remained in Harmony's personal collection. It so happened that an agent from Elite Model Management had been hanging around and saw the potential.

Now as they walked a couple of blocks to a new club nearby, they held hands like schoolgirls, chattering away. An electric undercurrent ran through the pavement, the first chills of fall arriving soon, August heat still residing like a sunburn on skin. A scene had been newly born beneath their feet and they could feel it pulsing, breathing, pulling them into the current of youth. It was everywhere, in the way the leaves changed, in college radio stations, New York pavement, building up brick by brick. The new century was approaching and with it came a modern renaissance. One they would be at the center of, unbeknownst to them.

One that would continue her family's musical legacy, this time, crowning her as heir to the throne.