#project partner

You pulled a few small envelopes and one thick envelope embossed with the lettering you’d been waiting months for. 

You raced into the house, frantically tearing at the edge of the packet. They wouldn’t have sent a letter this thick if they were rejecting you. This had to be an acceptance and welcome packet. It had to be!

You were going to Chicago! Far away from Hawkins and everyone in it! New friends! New city! New foods to try! A whole new life of get togethers, parties with new classmates who had the same interest as you. Maybe even dating. 

Heart pounding against your chest, you quickly unsheathed the top paper and skimmed the first paragraph breathlessly. 

Thank you for applying to the University... The admissions committee has completed a very careful review of your application…The committee has placed your application on the waitlist…

Your heart briefly stuttered. Waitlist? What the hell did that mean?

We must ensure that the number of new freshmen is reasonably in line with the resources and services designed to support student success...If space becomes available in the freshman class, we will automatically re-review your application and consider you for admission...If space becomes available we will admit the overall strongest applicants who remain on the waitlist…Students who are selected for admission will receive an update on the status of their applications...

You reread the last paragraph over and over. If space becomes available…consider for admission…? Did you not get in? The more your eyes darted across the words the less sense it made. They included a course catalog. A guide outlining what classes you needed to enroll in Pre-Law. Pricing information on room, board, and dining. Why would they send all that if you weren’t…going? 

You collapsed onto the couch and sighed heavily. You were almost good enough to get in the first round. The school would wait for the other applicants to confirm their spots and if in the end they had space for you, maybe you would be picked. 

Though you tried to tell yourself it wasn’t the end of the world—that you were accepted to Indiana State—a strangled sob erupted from your throat. 

Why did everything in your life follow the same pattern? You were never anyone’s first choice. Not your parents’ who picked work over you. Nancy who preferred Barb and Johnathan’s company to yours. Patrick who booked you as a last resort girlfriend for the month. It seemed like in every aspect you were always average. Always third or fourth best. Subpar. Why would your dream school see you any differently? You never won first place at anything—why would now be the time to start?

So you cried. Buried your face into the cushion of the couch and wept through your woes, wondering if you would ever be anyone’s first choice for anything. What would it take to be good enough the first time? Would there ever be a time where you didn’t have to prove yourself? 

The remaining days to the weekend were overshadowed by misery as you let yourself wallow. Ms. Kelly said being waitlisted wasn’t a bad thing. She suggested you could go to Indiana State or Hawkins Community College to get your prerequisites out of the way in the meantime to show you were serious about your studies. 

Then came the question if you even wanted to do this anymore. You’d worked so hard the last three years to be in the top five percent of your class and what did you have to show for it? Waitlisted by your dream school. It wasn’t Harvard or some fancy Ivy League school. It was achievable and as usual you weren’t up to snuff. What was the point of working hard when you didn’t get the already mediocre reward?

You were so disheartened that you didn’t show up to school Thursday, and when Friday came around, you couldn’t be bothered to care about anything. Sulking took too much of your focus to do much else. Something that Munson made sure to comment on. 

“Get a grip,” he muttered through the side of his mouth. “We both can’t slack off.”

He hadn’t spoken to you in days. Not that you tried to say anything to the butthead since he told you to leave him alone, but still. Now he wanted to be funny? After he made you think you may have found common ground and then told you to piss off?

“Bite me,” you spat. 

Munson balked at the venom on your tone. You expected him to say ‘what’s your damage’ like a normal person, but in classic Munson fashion he had to be different. So when he said “What’s up your ass?” instead, the very poorly timed reply of “You!” sounded downright vulgar. 

“I absolutely am not!” Munson declared. 

You scowled and shifted as far away from his side of the aisle as your tiny desk would allow. “Just shut up and stop talking to me!”

“Knock it off back there!” Albrecht shouted from the front of the class. “You don’t get extra credit for bickering so zip it!”

You both sneered at each other, and neither attempted to do anything except fume silently for the rest of the lesson. 

In hindsight, you should’ve made a plan to meet sometime after school or on Saturday again to go over buying a car. You really wanted to go to the dealership or used car lot to get the full experience, but you were almost certain Munson was going to offer some back alley, under the table, barely legal method instead and after snapping at him, the last thing you wanted to do was speak to him within the same 60 minutes. 

But then Saturday came and the consequences for slacking off the last full days hit you full force. Calculus homework, a 500-700 word essay on the true theme of The Great Gatsby, physics worksheet, and other tedious busywork demanded your immediate attention. Dread filled your bones as you tried to focus on the material before you, but no amount of self bullying could keep your mind on track because Munson’s statement the day before haunted you more than the courseload on your desk. You felt restless and would remain so until you figured out exactly what you had missed. 

Nancy was out—probably with Johnathan—and no one answered the Byer’s phone when you rang to see if either of them could clue you in. So you rang the irritant himself. 

“Munson’s. What do you want?” he answered. 

You swallowed thickly. “Hey, it’s me. Can you meet today?”

“Wha—? Can—he—ar —ou. —peak—.”

Was he in fucking elementary school? Clearly he had no problems answering the first time and you could hear him choking on his words to make them sound broken. 

“I know you can hear me,” you replied gruffly. 

“H--llo? Hel—lo?” 

“Would you stop!” you snapped. “We need to go over yes—“

The line went dead. 

When you called back, he let it ring for a full minute and made no attempt to answer.you tried a third time, you were met with the rapid beeping of the busy tone. The bastard probably left the phone off the hook on purpose. 

“Son of an asshole!” you shouted into the beeping receiver.

Teeth grinding, muttering to yourself, and stomping into warmer clothes, you were gonna show Munson he can’t weasel his way out that easily. How dare he! Did he think you were stupid! That you would really fall for the oldest trick since the phone was invented?! 

Anger propelled you the seven miles towards Forrest Hills a lot faster than you would’ve gotten there on a leisurely ride. With March beginning, the bite of winter wasn’t as harsh against your cheeks or your hands—something you were grateful for as you pedaled at max speed. 

Sure enough, that butt-ugly van was sitting right in front of his trailer. He was home and probably smugly thinking he’d be free of you until Monday. Well, he certainly would have a rude awakening! 

You propped your bike against the wooden porch and hopped up the concrete steps before hammering on the door like it owed you money. 

“I know you’re in there, you jerk!” you shouted through the flimsy door, still pounding your fist rapidly against it. 

It swung open without notice, almost sending you stumbling towards Eddie Munson’s naked chest. Was that a burn near his shoulder? No, it was a tattoo—a couple of tattoos actually splattered all over his torso and forearms. 

His eyes were wide and crazed like you’d never seen before, a cigarette pinched between his lips.

You stepped back and he stomped toward you, his hair wild and frizzier than ever as he looked frantically for something behind you. When he didn’t seem to find what he was looking for, he turned his demented gaze towards you. 

He pulled the cigarette from his lips and held it between fingers as he shouted at you. “Are you fucking INSANE?!”

You jumped at the volume of his voice. All anger and irritation evaporated the longer he stared you down. He looked downright frightful with his brows furrowed like this. There was no mirth behind those bulging brown eyes, no humor. Only frenzy. It only occurred to you then maybe Patrick had been right about Munson. Perhaps confronting him on his own turf wasn’t such a great idea.

You tried to hold on to some of your nerve and crossed your arms over your chest to keep your shoulders squared. “You hung up on me.”

Munson inched closer, making the height difference quite noticeable. You lowered your gaze out of fear for a split second. The tattoo you thought was a burn on the left side of his chest was just an ugly, skeletal demon that you quickly averted your eyes from. Both faces before you were unpleasant. 

Munson swelled. “So you rode all the way over here on your shitty bike?”

“So what—“

“That’s damn near seven miles!” he interrupted. “From your house to mine. Biking seven miles in Hawkins alone! By yourself! Through the goddamn woods! I ask again, are you INSANE? “Don’t do that!” he shouted, pointing his cigarette right in your face.

Understanding started to dawn on you. The manic and wide eyed expression on his face wasn’t one of aggression, but of worry. 

“Don’t ever do that! You call me next time—!”

“I did call you!” you shouted over him. 

Munson’s mouth snapped shut and his cheeks started to redden. 

You had to stop the smirk from creeping across your face. Rarely was Munson ever silenced by a challenger. “I called you, and you hung up on me.”

Munson frowned. “Well take the hint next time. Don’t just show up here. Or have someone drop you off, Jesus Christ.”

It was almost…touching that Munson worried about your safety to yell at you for biking alone. You could understand. Kind of. He probably would’ve felt bad had you gone missing on your way to berate him for being his usual annoying self. 

“Thank you for your concern, but I bike to and from school every day,” you told him flatly. You watched him inhale from his cigarette and let your eyes wander over his exposed skin. He was a little skinnier than you thought now that he was without his usual jacket and vest. A silver chain rested at his neck with a guitar pick as the centerpiece. He had a spider tattoo near his collar bone and some others that sprinkled down his forearms. He didn’t have abs like Patrick but he wasn’t thin enough to have his ribs sticking out. Eyes traveled lower to the red plaid boxers sticking out above the waistband of his black jeans, but you found yourself staring at the trail of hair below his belly button and quickly looked away with heated cheeks. 

“You don’t ride with Byers and Wheeler?” he questioned. 

“No. Can we go inside? It’s chilly.” It wasn’t totally a lie—the air was still nippy—but you really needed him to put on a shirt. 

“Yeah, fine, whatever,” he grumbled. 

He waved for you to follow behind him, stamping out his cigarette in the ashtray on the porch before swinging the door open and ushering you inside. 

The place looked the same as it did a couple weeks ago, save for some big wooden maze thing on top of the living room coffee table. With Munson’s permission you took off your coat and awkwardly sat on the edge of the couch, unsure of what to do next while he disappeared into the back of the trailer. When he returned, he was thankfully covered, even if it was with an ugly Metallica shirt. 

“So what exactly are you doing here?” Munson asked from the kitchenette as he dug around inside the fridge. 

That was the question, wasn’t it? You didn’t notice until you were taking off your coat that in your haste to reprimand Munson that you completely forgot your backpack at home. You doubted he even had the textbook or even a notebook since you’ve never actually seen him with one, so you weren’t really sure what to do besides ask for a ride back home. 

“I was going to ask about Albrecht’s class this week, but I didn’t bring my backpack,” you sighed. 

Munson hummed thoughtfully. “Finally got that stick out of your ass?”

Your jaw dropped. “Me?! You’re the one who started being a jerk to me first!”

Munson smirked, pouring a glass of water from a pitcher. “So you did come to fight!”

“I didn’t, but now that you bring it up, what’s your problem with me?!” you shouted from your spot on the couch “Every time I think you’re decent you end up being the total opposite!”

Munson snorted as he walked towards the living room, setting two glasses of water on the coffee table. The hospitality only vexed you further.

“See!” you exclaimed, pointing at the beverage you didn’t ask for. “Why do you do that! If you’re gonna be a dick to me, then just be that way all the time. Don’t be a shit for a whole week only to be nice like you didn’t do anything wrong! Or vise freakin’ versa! You make it seem like we’re friends and then turn around and ruin it!” 

Munson snorted, collapsing into the recliner next to you. “Is that what this is? You wanna be friends?”

The way he said it so condescending—like it was the dumbest idea in the world—made your stomach drop and a frown form upon your face. How was it that you weren’t even good enough to be friends with the freak Eddie Munson?

“I just don’t understand you,” you answered. “You get mad at me for riding here by myself like you would care if I disappeared, but then mock the idea of us even being friends.”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Just don’t see what you’d get out of being friends with—what did you call me—a trailer dwelling burnout  low-life.” 

“What the hell are you talking about? I never called you that!”

Munson blew a raspberry hard enough to fling spittle at you. “Sure. I just made that up, right?”

Your face grew hotter by the second. “Yeah, you did! Unless you’re talking about when I said I would never live in a trailer when I first came here—those weren’t my words!”

Munson rolled his eyes. “Sinclair told me he heard what you really thought about me from your boyfriend in the locker room.”

“Boyfriend? I don’t have a boy—“

Sinclair. Lock room. 

Patrick. 

Blood started to boil below the surface of your skin as rage swept in. Would he do that? Would he really stoop so low as to plant a nasty rumor through the grapevine like a gossipy mean girl? You were a little disappointed in Lucas, too. You baby sat him and his sister Erica for the first few years they moved here.

Jason Carver was the devil on Patrick’s shoulder, and could easily be inflicting the oldest Sinclair as well. It wasn’t too far-fetched of an idea, no matter how much it pained you to say so. 

You sighed heavily, wiping your hands on your jean clad thighs nervously in an attempt to calm your fury.

“If you’re talking about Patrick McKinney, he’s not my boyfriend. I don’t think he ever was. We had a fling or whatever last year,” you explained bitterly. “Ever since we started this project, he’s been trying to convince me that you're going to hurt me. I’ve told him each time that he should just piss off and leave me alone, but he seems insistent on interfering. He even left me a note inviting me to the game last night.”

“Did you go?” Munson questioned, staring at the popcorn ceiling above him. 

You scoffed. “As if. I’d rather face my calculus homework than go to a basketball game.” 

Munson chewed the inside of his cheek, keeping his eyes fixed at the ceiling as he reclined with his arms clasped behind his head. He stayed quiet, not offering any indication he believed you or didn’t. 

You contemplated asking if he would hurt you, but you decided against it. The way he yelled at you earlier for riding in the woods alone…Whether it be because he couldn’t take the idea of living through another missing person’s case in Hawkins or if it was because he actually did care if you lived or died, it didn’t really matter. If he wanted to physically hurt you, he would’ve by now. 

“I don’t think you would,” you informed him. “Hurt me, I mean.”

“Obviously,” he huffed. “You wouldn’t have raced here, banging on my door like the damn fuzz to berate me if you thought you were in danger. Not unless you were fucking stupid.”

You chuckled softly. He had you there. If you were truly scared of him, you wouldn’t even be sitting here alone in the lion’s den. At least he knew that.

“I don’t talk to Patrick, and I didn’t say anything of the sort to him,” you told him. “He’s just being an ass. As usual.” 

Munson continued to bask in the awkward silence, seemingly contemplating if he should really take your word for it. In an attempt to fill the space with some sot of noise, you made a small joke.

”I thought you were mad Albrecht said you liked me.” 

“Partly,” Munson admitted with a nod. “Sinclair told me at lunch what he heard and then when Abrecht said that shit—it may have set me off.”

You weren’t sure if you were hoping he would say something along the lines of ‘of course that wasn't it!, but his answer did not make you feel better. He must’ve noticed the way your posture slumped at his admission. 

”But uh, I guess it wouldn’t be so bad. Us being friends or whatever,” he said awkwardly. 

“Yeah?” you questioned doubtfully. 

“Yeah,” he answered with more certainty. “Matter of fact, wait here. I’ll be right back.”

He went to the back of the trailer where you assumed his bedroom was while you berated yourself for sounding so pathetic. Having to ask if you could be friends with him? Since when did you become such a loser to where you had to ask the village idiot to be nice to you? You hoped he wouldn’t tell his friends about this. That you wouldn’t hear him cracking jokes at your expense in the lunch room about how you showed up to his door like a crazy person and whined about how confusing it was to decipher if he was genuine in his belligerent insistence on keeping you safe. Where the hell did your dignity go?  

Munson returned to the living room and started to mess with the record player. You hoped to god that he wouldn’t put on his usual high speed cacophony, but you were pleasantly surprised to hear the melodic intro of a familiar tune start to play.

”Dark Side of the Moon?” you questioned. 

Munson cackled, turning over his shoulder to flash you a wicked smile. “Hoho! Look at you! Familiar with the jams!” 

The way it showed his dimples made your cheeks warm. “I don’t live under a rock, you know.”

“Still, color me surprised,” he grinned. He sat back in the recliner, scooting it over closer to where he was in arm’s reach of you at the end of the couch. He pulled a rolled cigarette from behind his ear and held it out to you to inspect.  

“Oh. No thanks,” you frowned, noting the hand twisted ends of what was clearly a joint. “I don’t do that.”

”Clearly,” Munson mused. He hunched his shoulders up to his ears with wide frazzled eyes, clearly mocking you. “You look tense enough to start shitting diamonds on my floor.” 

He sure had a way with colorful imagery that made your nose wrinkle. It was then that you noticed your shoulders were actually touching the tops of your ears. In an attempt to discredit him, you rolled your neck and shoulders to loosen up. 

“Better, but not by much,” he mused. He lit the end of the joint and put it to his mouth. You tried not to notice the way his lips pursed when he slowly blew smoke through them. Instinctively, you fanned the smoke away from your face. Johnathan recently got into the habit of smoking weed, much to you and Nancy’s disapproval. 

Munson held out the lit doobie to you again. “Try it. It’ll make that pressure in your chest go away. Unknot your gut.” 

”How did you—“

Munson raised his brows at you with a knowing look. “Why do you think I do it?”

You eyed the fragile paper between his fingers cautiously. You hated how Johnathan acted when he smoked. Like he lost all comprehension and sense. But Munson was right— you always felt the pressure of anxiety present in your chest—knots in your abdomen that made it impossible to breathe or relax past a certain point, feeling as if you did let go completely, something bad would happen or that constant nagging feeling that you were worthless and unproductive for being at ease rang loud over the buzzing thoughts in your head.  

“Trust me. I won’t tell Regan you didn’t ‘just say no’,” he joked. 

You could use a little relaxation. Being waitlisted, skipping school, dealing with the recurrent guilt of moving on while Barb stayed forever 16, navigating the confusing feelings around Patrick’s sudden reemergence…These were more than enough reasons to try something to take the edge of life off. 

“Fine,” you relented. You took the joint from his fingers and held it between your own in the same fashion you’d seen Johnathan do so many times. How different could it be than the time Carol Perkins dared you to smoke her cigarette in fifth grade? You hoped this didn’t make your throat itch like that did. With a quick sight you brought it up to your lips quickly but was suddenly stopped by Munson.

”Whoa—hey, it’s not like a cigarette,” he warned. “Slowly inhale but not a lot. You’ll choke to death. Slow.”

The tatse of bitter earth hit you first. You eyed him with uncertainty as you inhaled on his count of “one Mississippi, two Mississippi—okay stop! Hold it.” Smoke filled your lungs and stung your eyes, as you followed his instruction. When he told you to slowly release, you did the best you could before letting it all out in a harsh garage of coughs.

Munson plucked the joint from your fingers. “Hey, that’s not bad,” he cheered. 

Fighting for gasps of air between barking coughs, you gave him a look that clearly communicated how the hell was that not bad?!

”Gareth coughed so much he puked his first time,” he answered. “Have some water. It’ll help.”

You drank to quell the sharp burning in your chest. So much for getting rid of the tension there! Now it was on fire and felt as if it were full of ash and char. Your eyes watered continuously from the burn of the smoke. It took a few minutes to get your breathing back to normal, and when you did, you couldn’t stand the horrible taste lingering on your tongue. 

“Take breath, it gets easier,” he shrugged. He reached towards his shoulder and started whispering into the crook of his neck. Before you could ask what the hell he was doing, much to your shock and horror, he pulled a giant, black rat from the curtain of his hair.

Screaming, you jumped towards the middle of the couch. Munson looked at you with annoyance and held the fat rodent out towards you. You covered your eyes, refusing to look at it. 

“That’s so gross, what the hell!” You shouted in terror from beneath your hands. ”You never told me this place is infested with rats! Throw it outside!”

Munson was deeply offended judging by his tone “It's not infested. He’s a pet and he is not gross.”

You shook your head in disagreement, paralyzed with fear and disgust. You wanted to keep your mouth shut, you truly did, but Munson wouldn't stop demanding you look at the rodent he called Pippin. 

When you felt something touch your arm—which turned out to be Munson just making you think he threw the rat on you—you let all the qualms come flooding out in a screech.“Who the hell has a pet rat?! They’re RATS! They live in sewers! They have fleas! They smell! They have that ugly slimy tail that is unnaturally long! Those grabby little hands were weird! Get it away from me!”

Munson looked at you with disappointment and annoyance etched in his frown. He held out Pippin again, this time only inches from your nose. You cowered back as far as the couch would let you, and turned your head with a grimace and a prayer for escape. 

“Look at him.” Munson commanded for the umpteenth time. “Look at those little whiskers. And that cute little nose. He doesn’t bite. Just look.” 

Swallowing thickly, you were met face to face with Pippin the fat rat and his blank, black beady eyes. His fine white whiskers twitched when his pink nose did. His little feet were dangling over Munson’s knuckles as he dangled helplessly in his owner’s grasp. He looked quite content as he hung there—no barring of his teeth or squealing at being handled. You wouldn't call it cute, but it wasn’t as ugly as you thought.

”Okay, I looked. Can you take it out of my face now?!”

”Pippin. Not ‘it’,” Munson corrected.

”Whatever! Pippin! Can you get Pippin away from me, please!?” You whined. 

Munson, still looking betrayed, set the rat down in the wooden maze contraption on the coffee table and sealed the top with a giant clear plastic lid. “Rats are highly misunderstood. They’re not dirty, either. Pippin gets a bath every two weeks and I clean his cage every couple of days. No fleas. No stink.”

You weren’t going to contradict him in fear that he might throw the damn thing on you. Instead, you took the joint that was simmering in the ashtray and inhaled in an attempt to calm the nerves he just incited. He rambled on about how smart rats are and explained that he just put Pippin in a maze he built in shop class last year while you coughed a little less this time.

Munson took the joint from you and hit it himself. He pointed to Pippin rummaging through the maze. “I put little pieces of apple in there and he has to find it. Does a pretty damn good job at it too.”

”You couldn’t have gotten a cat or a dog?” you whined. “Something normal?”

Munson let out a pffft.  “It wasn’t my idea to get him. Well, actually it was my idea but I got him for Barry as a gift. See, Barry had Boromir and Ferimir, but they died right before Fourth of July. Had some sort of virus or something only rats can get, I don’t know. He was pretty torn up about it. So I went to the pet shop and Pippin was the only one left. I got him and showed Barry when he came over for fireworks, but, you know. He never came back to take Pippin home.”

You stared at the black rat nibbing on a small piece of fruit, watching the way it held the apple in its tiny hands so carefully. If it was a hamster it would’ve been a sweet sight to see, but for some reason the sight of a rat doing it wasn’t as cute. Still, the grimace melted away as you watched Pippin finish his treat. Munson, while a pain in your ass, cared a lot about his friends, it seemed. Would Nancy have done such a thing for you if you had a pet die? Probably not. Not the thought occurred to you to replace her long lost cat either. And now here was Munson taking care of it in lieu of his late friend. 

You sighed heavily. Munson was becoming more and more annoying. Or at least, finding out the good things about him was increasingly frustrating. Every time you were met with evidence that he really was a freak, he found a way to make it endearing—somehow always turning out to treat his friends better than anyone you’d ever known. Even you. 

“That was kind of you,” you admitted. “I’m sure he was very touched by that.”

”Oh yeah,” Munson grinned. “He cried like a baby. It was awesome.”

You and Munson watched his pet run through the maze, taking turns hitting the shrinking cigarette of marijuana and talking about how rats were wrongly framed for the bubonic plague. By the third hit, you were starting to feel your muscles loosen significantly, and by the time the record started playing Pink Floyd’s Brain Damage, you were melting into the couch. Eyes drooping as they stared at the taxidermied bass on the wall, muscles feeling somehow heavy as lead and light as a feather at the same time, and your mouth hanging agape—your calves tingled pleasantly instead of the usual soreness from biking everywhere. 

“Eddie?” you questioned hoarsely, your throat stinging from the unfamiliar smoke. You turned your head to see him with raised rows, his arms tucked comfortably behind his head as he reclined in the chair. “I think I’m high,” you whispered.

Eddie laughed loudly and boisterously, showing the sharp points of his canines and the dimples in his cheeks. He had laugh lines too. Deep ones, you noticed. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I think you are. How’s the pressure in your chest? Still feels like a fat kid sitting on you?”

Sweetheart. You quite liked the sound of that when he didn’t say it in the usual condescending way. You looked down at your boobs to see if the ever present squeeze around your heart was suddenly visible. Nothing was there--visibly or otherwise.

A sloppy grin slid across your lips. “Gone.”

“Mine too,” he smiled. 

The grin on your face grew more and more lopsided the longer you stared at him. He was really cute in an odd sort of way. Big, round eyes that shone a rich umber in the sunlight. You liked how kind he looked when he smiled instead of sneered. His hair could do with some deep conditioning—always looking dry and frizzy—but you imagined he could have pretty, coily curls if he took care of it properly. He was lithe and muscular too. Youu noticed when he had his shirt off, but for some reason the way the muscles of his forearms flexed made your chest warm and bubbly. 

Oh god. 

The longer your eyes roamed over his body as he hummed alone to Pink Floyd, the farther south that heat traveled until it nestled between your legs—a sensation you hadn’t felt in quite some time. 

No. Absolutely not. Not over Eddie Munson!! 

It was the weed. It had to be. There was no other reason you were turned on right now. At least not by him! He was loud, irritating, good to his friends, and cared if you rode your bike alone—

“No!” you blurted accidentally. 

Eddie looked at you with wide eyes. “Don’t like this song or something?”

Drooling slightly from having your mouth open, you shook your head and waved him off dismissively. You didn’t want to tell him what was on your mind. Instead you demanded in sleepy slurred speech he put on an ABBA album. 

“‘Fraid you won’t find anything akin to that in this house,” he scoffed. “Zeppelin will do just right though.” 

You ignored him and tried not to watch the way his jeans hugged his butt when he stood before you to change the albums. With eyes clenched shut to keep your brain from admiring the length of his legs, you fell asleep before the first song began. 

Dreams didn’t come—only whispers and noises from the room around you. You hadn’t realized you fell asleep until Eddie was shaking you awake by the shoulders. 

You opened your eyes, trying to blink yourself into consciousness. Your vision was cloudy and your head was throbbing. Not to mention your mouth was fuzzy and dry—as if you swallowed a mouthful of sand. 

“Time to get you home before the sun goes down,” he said, tossing a wash rag over your face. “Got a little something…everywhere.”

You mimicked him, touching your chin, and choked as horror and embarrassment flooded your veins. You quickly wiped away the river of drool sticking to the bottom half of your face. 

Eddie slid his leather jacket on and waited for you to stumble from your spot on the couch. Your legs—once tingling and floating—now felt foreign and unstable. Munson snickered as you tripped over your own feet toward him, but he graciously caught you by the elbow and held your coat out to you.

“Easy, Tiger. That’ll wear off in a bit,” he said. 

The cold air of the evening felt great on your warm cheeks, though you were still disoriented. Everything felt like it was lopsided and no matter how much you tried to straighten up and clear your head of the fog, nothing seemed to bring your senses back. 

That is, until Munson heard your stomach rumble on the way to your house. He laughed loudly and pulled into the town’s only McDonald’s. Food sounded disgusting, but when the smell of deep fried food hit your nostrils and Eddie ordered two apple pies, two large fries, and two Big Macs, you were having to actively stop yourself from drooling again. 

“And vanilla ice cream,” you hissed at him as he ordered through the speakerbox. “To put on top of the apple pies.”

Eddie looked at you in shock. “Shit yeah, that sounds good! And two vanilla cones, please.”

When the heat of the Apple pie met the cold of the vanilla ice cream within the confines of your mouth a few minutes later, you were moaning at the delectable treat. 

“Has McDonald’s always been this good?” you asked through a mouthful of food. 

“No,” Eddie chuckled. “You just the munchies. But I’ll admit—this apple pie ice cream is fucking amazing! Can’t believe I never thought of this.”

Both of you sat in silence for a while, too busy shoveling food into your mouths like starved goblins to talk. It was a first that you had no care that you were both making a giant mess of crumbs, dripping ice cream, and soiled napkins all over his van.

When Eddie had only a few fries left, he spoke. “Feeling better?”

You thought about that for a minute. Your head still hurt a little and you hated the way your throat tickled, but other than that you were fine. When you shared this with him, he only chuckled. 

“No I meant from whatever else was bothering you,” he said quietly. 

You eyed him curiously before answering. “A little,” you sighed. “I didn’t get into the University of Chicago. I mean, I did, but not really. I’m on the waitlist.”

“That shits,” he frowned. “Guess you’ll have to go to Hawkins Community or something in the meantime.”

“No,” you said sternly. “I’ll go to Terra Haute before I stay here a minute longer than I have to.” 

He grinned. “Love Hawkins that much, huh?”

You wiped your hands of filth and took a long drink before answering. “I’ve been thinking…do you know how many people in school have died in the past couple of years? Barbara Holland, Barry Berman, Billy Hargrove, Heather Halloway, and all the other people who died in the mall fire. Kyle Pendergast in that car crash. Will Byers going missing. That’s weird right? No other town has this much tragedy.”

Eddie nodded. “Yep, I uh-gree. But they do that on purpose, you know?”

Your brow furrowed. “Who?”

“The government,” he answered. “They put labs and dangerous weird shit out in places no one cares about so they can do what they want without repercussions. Who cares about lowly Midwesterns?”

Normally you’d chalk up this kind of talk to usual Munson conspiracy theories, but with Barb’s death, you knew he was at least closer than usual to the truth. 

“You’re killing my buzz,” you announced, and began turning dials to the radio. “Bring back the fun. I don’t wanna think about that.”

“You’re the one the brought it up!” he exclaimed. “Hey, don’t touch that! You’ll jack up my tape!”

It took a lot of convincing, but Eddie let you listen to one song on the Squawk. You were sad that it was Bowie instead of ABBA but it was better than whatever hell music Eddie put on for the rest of the ride.

“This is music. None of that disco crybaby stuff.”  

“ABBA is not disco crybaby,” you argued. “And neither is Bowie!”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say,” he smirked. 

Fun. You were having fun with Eddie Munson. If Barb could see you now she wouldn’t believe it. Hell, you could barely believe it! Smoking weed, eating trashy fast food, and laughing with The Freak—it was the least ‘you’ thing you’d ever done. 

And yet, for the first time in a very long time, you felt like yourself again. 

——

Part 7

Let me know if I missed your name in the tags.

“Mike? Lucas?” you questioned, slowly making your way down the steps. “What are you guys doing here?”

Mike, with hair much longer than you’d ever seen it, shrugged. He looked so grown now—much different than the wide mouth, chubby cheeked toddler you met all those years ago. He was nearing manhood now, with a strong, thin face and tall lanky legs.

“Eddie said we’re supposed to ride with you to school,” he answered, his voice cracking a little when he spoke. “Can you hurry up? We’re gonna be late.”

Your chest warmed, and so did your cheeks. Eddie Munson, disturbed by the fact that you rode to school alone every day, instructed your closest neighbors—who were also in the same weird club as the elder boy—to escort you along the haunted Hawkins roads. It was…sweet. If anyone knew the dangers of riding a bike alone, it was these two. They lost their friend Will Byers in the woods on his way home from a game night, but Will was found a few days later unharmed. 

Unlike Barb. Unlike Barry. 

“I wasn’t going to ride today,” you informed them. “But I wasn’t expecting you. I’ll be right back.” 

The boys rolled their eyes and sighed heavily. You tried not to take too much time to get your bike, hurrying to follow them along the edge of Nelson’s farm towards the high school. 

Lucas and Mike didn’t pay much attention to you at all. You rode behind them, catching bits and pieces of their never ending bickering. You were  really surprised by this—them being the younger sibling and friend of your best friend—but it still felt odd to be ushered to school by people who didn’t actively speak to you. It kind of made their mission all the sweeter despite it obviously not being their idea or their pleasure.  

Eddie didn’t mention this idea when you saw him yesterday. He picked you up and took you to meet his uncle at Harrington’s Half Price Auto Lot in order to simulate buying a car. It didn’t go as well as you had hoped. Wayne had never bought a car from a dealership before either—usually purchasing used vehicles from someone and doing a simple title transfer—so it was a learning experience for you all, and not exactly a pleasant one. Going over financing, loan percentages, and haggling etiquette left you all in a foul mood. While the Munson men weren’t shocked by the criminal art of tacking on hidden fees, taxes, and other asinine charges, you were particularly perturbed to find out that ‘sticker price’ for a car really meant the minimum payment of what was due by hundreds of dollars. You now understood why they were cursing ‘the man’, and joined in when you all went to The Standard for cheap beers and pull-tabs to recover from such an infuriating afternoon. Wayne won a couple dollars, while Eddie didn’t win a cent and even though you broke even, Wayne still gave you the nickname “Hot Hands”, which made your cheeks heat up quite a bit.

Being akin to friends with Eddie Munson was turning out to be not such a bad thing. When you got to school and made it to your locker, you were pleasantly surprised to find a handful of freshly sprung wildflowers taped to the front of your locker. 

Your stomach was doing that stupid thing again—flipping, fluttering, turning light as air as an ear to ear grin grew across your face. There was no note or name, but you were certain it was Eddie who left them there. Perhaps this was his way of apologizing for being a shitass for the last month. You were inclined to forgive him, even after the abhorrent display of attitude he had yesterday on the count of the shady used car salesman.

You were so ready to believe Eddie left them there that you hadn’t taken into account a less than savory culprit. One that folded his arms and leaned his back against the neighboring locker. 

“Do you like them?” Patrick questioned flatly. 

Your smile slid into a frown faster than water down a windowpane. “These are from you?”

Patrick’s brow furrowed. “Duh. Who else would get you flowers? I’ve been leaving stuff in your locker all last week!”

Suddenly that lighter than air feeling in your stomach turned into the weight of an anvil, sending your guts plummeting to the floor. The flowers in your hand felt like a Trojan horse. 

Patrick’s frown increased as he leaned in a little closer to you. “You didn’t come to the game Friday.”

You pointedly ignored looking at him, and started to twist the combination on the locker dial. “I never said I was going to.”

”Well we won. This Friday is the championship game. You should definitely come to this one,” he pressed. “Win or lose, we’re gonna have a party after.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’ve never been one for parties.”

He let out an indignant huff. “Can’t you see I’m trying here? Why can’t you cut me some slack and just go to my game?”

You did look at him then, with eyes full of fury and hurt. “Tryining what? To get on my nerves? Because you’re already succeeding!”

”No! I’m—“ he sighed deeply and peered around his shoulder before sighing heavily. “I’m trying to say I’m sorry.”

The hostility pent up in your shoulders slipped just an inch. The phrase you’d been hoping for a year now to hear from him. But it felt wrong. It wasn’t freeing or consoling, and you certainly didn’t feel he was genuine. Not even with the way his lips twisted to the side, or how his usual sparking brown eyes lost their shine as he gazed down at you. 

“No, you’re not,” you bit back, more as a reminder to yourself than to him. “This is the first time you’ve even said anything close to that to me.”

“Because I knew if I said it, you’d say I have to prove it!” he argued. “I’ve invited you to my games, I’ve asked you to come sit with me at lunch. I—“

”You’ve been starting rumors in the boy’s locker rooms about me and putting words in my mouth,” you interrupted. 

Patrcik’s mouth remained agape, the question about how you knew that written clear as day across his face, but he didn’t dare ask. You took great, almost insisted satisfaction in his stupor. 

“Yeah, I heard about that,” you said smugly. “I don’t think you’re sorry. I think you’re trying to control what I do and who I hang out with.”

”I’m not—!”

”You are!” you shouted back. 

“I’m not,” he reiterated. I’m just trying to prove to you that I want things to be different. Like before.”

You said nothing, unable to trust your voice to do you justice. You grabbed your text and notebooks for the first three periods while Patrick stood there, looking at you hopefully. His lingering presence pissed you off the longer he stood there. Why did he get to act like the one who was rejected? You hated to admit how much you wanted to forgive him before this. How you longed for the day he woke up and saw that what he did was wrong and beg for your forgiveness. But now, with so much time passed…how could you ever forgive him? For a year—an entire year—he ignored you like a fly on the wall. Every day for the last three hundred and sixty something days he actively, purposely ignore you. Looked in the opposite direction as you. Walked on the other side of the hall rather than accidentally bump into you. These were conscious choices, and he stood by them until now. And he thought a handful of flowers and some notes begging to go watch a boring basketball game was going to make up for that?! Didn’t he know how he made you feel? After sharing your body—part of your soul—with him? And he walked away like it was nothing? Repeatedly!

Furious, you slammed the locker shut and huffed at that stupid, dejected look on his face. “Just leave me alone. It shouldn’t be that hard. You’ve had plenty of practice.”

You couldn't help but ruminate on the bizarre behavior of your ex boyfriend as the day wore on, and unfortunately for you, Eddie Munson wasn’t going to let it go either.

When you entered Albrecht’s class, Eddie was already there with—for the first time in your living memory—his own school supplies atop his desk.

”Holy hell, Munson. Is that a notebook?” you teased, sliding into the adjacent desk. 

Eddie turned the spiral notebook towards you to show you that he was not taking notes, but drawing some sort of decaying warrior for his dumb board game. He then looked to you with his brow raised high beneath his bangs and pointed an accusatory finger towards you. “Fibber,” he said flatly.

That could’ve been in reference to a many number of things since you saw him yesterday, so you weren’t sure which belief he was challenging you on. Perhaps he saw you spit out the bite of gas station burrito he insisted you take. “Is that so?”

“This morning I went to see if Sinclair and Wheeler did what they were told, and lo and behold, I see a certain someone taping flowers to your locker,” he recounted with a questioning gaze. 

You rolled your eyes, annoyance already mounting at having gone through the situation once, but to now have a witness to recall it to you. “You’re starting to sound like the neighborhood nosy, Munson. Are you trying to gossip with me?”

He scowled. “No. I’m merely saying that you don’t have to lie on my behalf if there’s something there—“

”There’s not,” you interjected harshly. 

Munson raised a brow. “Does he know that?”

”Considering he’s the one that dumped me last year, yeah, I’d say he’s aware,” you snapped, folding your arms over your chest and sinking into your seat. “What do you care anyway? It’s none of your business.”

“I was trying to say that if he’s bothering you, let me know.”

You scoffed. “And what are you gonna do about it?”

The mirth behind Eddie’s eyes evaporated quickly, the dimples of his cheeks filling in as his teasing line of questioning ceased. “I will make him stop,” Eddie said fiercely.

The gesture did mean a lot to you, seeing the severity of his statement written across his face. You weren’t sure what a Munson intervention entailed. A verbal warning? A fight? Either way, those two idiots going after each other on your behalf sounded like a recipe for disaster. You didn’t want either of them to get into trouble or do something stupid. All the same, it felt almost exhilarating to have someone like Munson offer to protect you—someone with a bad reputation that could use it to ward off people you didn’t like. You didn’t believe he understood the power he was offering you. Or maybe he did.  

”I don’t think it will be a problem anymore,” you answered. 

Eddie didn’t seem convinced as he hummed with suspicion. He turned his attention back to the grotesque creature he was sketching and left you to take notes for the rest of class. When Albrecht finished going over optimal times to refinance a vehicle and home, you made sure to thank Eddie for sending his minions to escort you to school. 

He glared at Nancy and Johnathan as they walked out of the classroom. “No problem. I thought if anyone knew how dangerous it was to roam Hawkins alone, it would be them.”

You shrugged your shoulders into your heavy backpack, unsure what to say. You didn’t think the lab leak was a danger any more, but Eddie clearly did not agree. You didn’t blame him. He lost someone on what he believed to be on his watch. You weren’t going to turn down the company on the ride either. It was nice to have others there. They cared enough to do it, and you liked feeling a part of a group again, even if they did ignore you the entire time. 

After school, an unusual sight greeted you in the driveway of your home: your parents car. They weren’t often home before the sun set, so it made you instantly panic, thinking something was terribly wrong. However, when you burst through the door after carelessly throwing your bike down in the yard, they were sitting on the couch as if nothing were amiss. 

“Whoa there! Where’s the fire?” Dad asked casually. 

You stared at them blankly. “You’re home.” 

Dad chuckled. “Believe it or not, we do live here on occasion.” he nodded towards Mom. “Tell her, darling.”

“Well, I was looking for my turquoise sweater this morning and I couldn’t find it so I went into your room and look what I found!” She held up the Welcome packet from University of Chicago. “Honey! Why didn’t you tell us you got in?!”

You stared at the offending material in her hand, a large lump forming in your throat. Panic shot through veins with every thump of your heart, your guts wiggling like worms in wet dirt as you looked at their beaming faces. Mom with a smile so bright and wide it showed all her teeth, and Dad looking as smug and important as Mayor Klein on the Fourth of July parade float. They weren’t nearly as excited as this when you told them you were accepted into Indiana State. Well Dad kind of was, but only because Larry Bird is an alumni of the school. Other than that he didn’t have much else to say about it. 

The longer their attention remained on you—and only you—the harder it was to crush their spirit. So you did what anyone would do when faced with either eternally disappointing their parents or tell the truth: you lied. 

“I-I,” you stuttered, rubbing your hands on your jeans. “I was waiting for Friday night s-so we could…celebrate?”

Mom rushed over and pulled you into a hug. It had been a long time since she gave you a hug—the last time being when she broke the news to you that Barb’s disappearance was deemed an accidental death. Instinct took over and you wrapped your arms around her, burying your face into her shoulder and inhaling the scent that was so distinctly her that it quelled the jitters in your abdomen. 

“Well, that’s what we’re home for!” Dad announced from behind Mom. “Your mother and I want to take you out to dinner. How does that sound?”

Mom pulled away much too soon, the familiar warmth of her body retreating with it. “Uh, yeah,” you agreed. “That sounds good.”

“Only good?” Dad questioned. “I thought you’d be more excited to try Enzo’s.”

“Enzo’s?” you repeated in surprise. Dinner out usually meant Ol’e Cafe since Benny’s was gone. Never once did Dad offer something as delicious and expensive as Enzo’s even though you mustered up the courage to ask every once in a while. 

Mom nodded excitedly, ushering you out of the door. “They have a tiramisu that is to die for! We’ll split it for dessert.” 

“How do—hey, have you been there without me?” you frowned. 

“We’ve gone for work meetings,” Dad answered. “Nothing is more personable to a client than sharing a meal. It makes signing our contract a lot more comfortable.”

You tried not to feel betrayed, but the anger simmering beneath the surface of your skin was hard to ignore the more they talked about the dishes they offered there. They must have been more than a handful of times in order to sample the lobster bisque, tiramisu, chicken carbonara, seafood alfredo, kalamari, and whatever else they listed because you stopped listening, too pissed off to take anymore. It may have been a stupid thing to get upset over, but how many times had you been left to a mystery crock pot meal or to just fend for yourself while they were dining in the same fancy restaurant you’d been dying to try? They never even brought leftovers home for you! 

Reminding yourself that you ought to feel guilty for lying to them about your acceptance status, you tried your damndest to stomp out the resentment. It wasn’t often you got to go with them anywhere once you were old enough to be left home alone, and you didn’t want your long awaited dinner to be spoiled by your own sour mood. You used the time it took to drive there to wrestle your bitterness down and bring forth an appetite for unlimited bread dipped in olive oil. 

For a time, bingeing on the appetizer seemed to do the trick. relishing in the ambiance of the restaurant, enjoying the live music playing softly in the middle of the dimly lit restaurant. Mom and Dad were asking you questions about you for the first time in a long time, and it took a little while to realize they were giving you a lot more space to elaborate instead of barely allowing you enough space for one word answers. It was…nice to have their full attention for once.

“Chicago, huh?” Dad said with a small grin. “Don’t wanna go Indiana State? That’s where Larry Bird went, you know. Do you think you’re better than Larry bird?” 

”I’m not saying that,” you said bashfully, unaccustomed to this playful side of him. “I just don’t want to go to Terre Haute. I will see almost all the same people from Hawkins there. I want to see somewhere new. I’ve never been away from home before.”

Mom’s fork clinked loudly against her salad bowl. ”Well that’s just not true,” she frowned. “We drove from here to South Dakota when you were twelve to see Mount Rushmore.”

“Yeah, that was about three whole state’s worth of new scenery for you,” Dad chimed in. 

“Actually, I was nine,” you corrected her. Your smile faltered a little. You remembered that road trip and it was abysmal. Dad refused to drive through Chicago, saying it was too far out of the way and would add too much time to the trip. Driving through rural Illinois, Iowa, and South Dakota was just as depressing as what you already knew of Indiana—nothing but cornfields and flat land as far as the eye can see. The only thing news worthy about the car ride was stopping at the Corn Palace—which was as boring as it sounded—and vomiting out of the window upon arriving at the monument because Dad didn’t believe you were going to be sick. That was the last family trip you’d been on almost a decade ago. 

“Was it really that long ago?” Mom questioned. Dad shrugged his shoulders and returned to his pasta dish.

“Nancy is going to New York,” you informed them in an attempt to keep their attention. “Or at least trying to. She hasn’t heard from Emerson yet.”

”Poor Ted’s gonna have a hard time footing that bill,” Dad muttered to Mom. “Are you girls still struggling through Kowalski’s case?”

Your brow furrowed in confusion—the smile you once wore gone completely now. “Kowalksi? Dad, that was—that was freshman year.”

”No,” Dad chuckled. “I remember just the other day you mentioned struggling with the calculus homework.”

Your shoulders slumped. “Kowalski teaches chemistry. Natelson teaches Calculus.”

Dad just hummed, loading a mouthful of pasta into his mouth and shrugging again. You looked towards Mom, hoping she would offer some sort of rebuttals to ease the growing tension around the table, but she only chastised dad for taking such a huge bite in public. 

“I figured the homework out, though,” you offered quickly. “But I don’t think I’ll need much math for Pre-Law.”

Dad started to choke. He covered his face with the napkin as he coughed and sputtered, trying hard to be quiet while Mom beat on his back until he was sorted out again. 

“Law?” He wheezed. “What on earth do you want to do that for?”

“Barb,” you answered simply. “I want to do wrongful death and personal injury.”

Mom sighed heavily, looking at you with sad eyes. “That sounds sweet, honey, and is very admirable, but I don’t think that’s what you’re cut out for.”

That lump in your throat resurfaced. “What do you mean?

“Law school is very competitive,” Dad replied, his eyes still watering from his near death experience. “Don’t you think you should go for something a little more…well…easier?”

“Not that you couldn’t if you really set your mind to it!” Mom interjected quickly. “It’s just—I don’t imagine you in that kind of role.”

Dad eagerly nodded his head in agreement. “Lots of studying. Late nights doing research. Arguing with men a lot smarter than you? No, I don’t think that sounds like you.”

You gaped at them, your cheeks scathing at the shame and embarrassment of their words. They didn’t think you could do it, and what was worse was they were right. Because you knew that you didn’t get into the school. At least, not really. Waitlisted at best. It was one thing to be called subpar and mediocre by a college, but your own parents—the ones who were supposed to cheer you on and believe in you no matter what—even they had doubts about your capability and intelligence.

“Yeah,” you agreed, pushing around a noodle on your plate. “I’ll think of something easier.”

“What about teaching?” Mom offered with a smile. “You can get a degree, work somewhere locally. It’s steady income until you have a family of your own! There’s no such thing as too many teachers.”

You gave a solid nod and a shitty attempt at a smile, unable to trust your voice to not crack if you spoke. 

While Mom and Dad praised the Alfredo sauce and talked about how excited they were to have a ‘UChicago Parents’ bumper sticker on the Buick and wear matching UChicago sweaters to the office, you sat there with your heart fracturing into pieces inside your chest as their earlier words ran through your mind. “…Men smarter than you…teaching..a family of your own…”

By the time the waiter brought tiramisu for the table, you had realized that college for you was a status update for them. They could brag about their little girl—now a college student thanks to the teachings of Hawkins Independent School district—as a way to relate to  families looking to move into the area. 

They didn’t really know you at all, nor did they seem to care about remedying that fact. And while it shouldn’t have come as any surprise, it didn’t stop you from feeling like the loneliest person in the world when you crawled into bed that evening and sobbed into your pillow. 

—-

Mike and Lucas continued to ride with you to school for the remainder of the week. It was mostly the same, you just being a shadow upon their duo until Friday when Lucas became more talkative towards you. He made it his mission to try and convince you and Mike to go to the championship game. You were running out of excuses and eventually came up with “I just don’t want to,” but Mike was having more of a difficult time saying no. 

“Yeah, sure. I’ll just talk to Eddie,” Mike replied sarcastically. “It’s only the climax of his nearly year-long campaign.”

You weren’t entirely sure what they were talking about, but you knew for certain whatever it was did not justify the use of the word ‘climax’. 

“Will isn’t gonna be there either!” Lucas argued. “He’s coming to my game.”

“WHAT?!” Mike screeched. “Since when?!”

“Since last week when we won the tournament!” Lucas argued. “Thats how it works, idiot! We play a bunch of teams until we’re the last ones in the face-off.”

Mike shook his head furiously. “Will can’t miss it. He just can’t! You can miss basketball, though. You’ve been on the bench the entire time.”

Lucas swelled. “So!?”

“So! The basketball team doesn’t need you. The party does!” Mike argued. 

“This is our chance to be cool, Mike. And you’re wasting it on a stupid game!”

“Oh bite my ass to hell, Lucas! You never thought it was stupid until now!”

“Cause I’m tired of girls laughing at us! I’m tired of being a loser and a freak!” Lucas snapped. “Is it wrong to want to actually be liked?”

The betrayal on Mike’s face was clear as day even from the minimal view of his side profile. “It is when you’re trying to impress people who don’t even like you.”

They continued this vicious argument well after you locked your bike at the front of the school. It made your heart sink at the thought of those two life long friends actually being at odds. You could sympathize with both. You could understand Lucas’ desire to hangout with cooler people, but you hoped that he would soon realize that the ones he was grouping with on the basketball team weren’t what he was looking for. You wanted to butt in and give them some elderly sister-esque wisdom, but this seemed to be something they would have to work out on their own.

Escaping talk about the upcoming game was a futile attempt. Everyone was buzzing about it. The chatter through the halls and classes were about carpooling, the after party, and where on the bleachers to sit. A part of you was a little envious about how excited everyone seemed to be and you felt more like an outsider in your own home town, but that quickly changed after Jason Carver’s speech during the pep rally before lunch. 

“As we were down ten points to Christian academy…I looked at my team and said: Think of Jack. Think of Melissa. Think of Heather. Think of Billy. Think of our courageous chief of police Jim Hopper,” Carver listed with the charisma of a southern Baptist preacher. “Think of everyone we lost in that horrible fire and ask yourself, what did they die for?! For us to lose to some crap school?!”

Your stomach lurched, face tingling with rising fury. You couldn’t believe it! Did he really just say that? As if they sacrificed themselves for the Tiger basketball team! And the people around you were cheering and chanting “No!” with pride like—like—fucking idiots!

Silently raging, you took that fury with you to the cafeteria to let it out with someone who you thought would be just as pissed off as you were. 

“Did you hear him?!” you fumed, slamming your lunch try down so hard on the table top that boiled spinach splattered all over. You didn’t care. “How dare he bring them up like that!”

Nancy twisted her thin lips to the side in thought. “I don’t think he really meant it the way it sounded.”

You gaped at her. “What? You seriously can’t be sticking up for that sick display out there!”

“I’m not sticking up for it,” Nancy said calmly. “It was very poorly worded, I agree with you on that. I just think he meant to say he wanted to make the town proud after all the loss we suffered this year. Win for your friends who aren’t here to celebrate with us.”

Johnathan, thankfully and surprisingly, took your side on this matter. 

“No, Nance, I think he said exactly what he meant,” he replied sharply. “He used the names of people’s dead friends to invoke emotion over a stupid sports game.”

Nancy rolled her eyes and sighed heavily. “I’m not fighting with you two. If you want to take it that way, that’s up to you.”

You could’ve reached over the table and strangled her. Would it kill her just once to side with you? On anything! What's worse is that you agreed with Johnathan of all people—a double assault. Something had changed with Nancy in the last couple of years. You wanted to ask her flat out what happened to her, but something told you if she answered, the remaining tendrils of your friendship would be severed for good. 

So you stayed silent. Like always. Bit your tongue and reminded yourself that it was just a couple more months before you were out of this place.  

“—OR A GAME WHERE YOU TOSS BALLS AT LAUNDRY BASKETS—“

Everyone’s head turned toward the source of the booming voice. You were not surprised to see Eddie Munson standing on top of the lunch table with his tongue out antagonizing Jason. His cronies erupted in laughter while Jason muttered something and walked away from the scene. 

Everyone else returned back to their meals once Munson jumped back down to the floor. You’d have to ask him about that later. 

“Speaking of, do you still have that ticket Patrick gave you?” Nancy asked airily. 

If she was trying to steer you into a better mood, mentioning Patrick was the absolute wrong way to go. He’d switched his tactics up from taking flowers to your locker to simply speaking to you. Casually. Flirtatiously sometimes. He waved at you when he was down the hall, or if he was close enough he’d smile big enough to show off his dimple and tell you to have a good day. Once he even curled a piece of your hair around his finger and walked off like he hadn’t done something weird. It was infuriating. But it was also….damn it it was nice. It was a great feeling to have him smile at you again—finding your face through the crowded hall and acknowledging you no matter who was looking. You tried to tell yourself that this feeling of being desired was a ploy, but he must’ve sensed it was working because one day between classes, he bravely tapped you on the shoulder and held out the game entry ticket to you. 

“In case you change your mind,” he said hopefully. It was then he started to play with your hair. “I’ll be looking for you.”

You fought desperately to smother the butterflies causing havoc in your stomach. It wasn’t real. He didn’t mean it. He couldn’t mean it. Still, the fluttering remained every time he flashed that rare smile that only you seemed to bring out. 

“Yes, I have it,” you replied viciously. “I was hoping to sell it to someone after school.”

“Why don’t you just go?” Nancy offered. “We’re going to be there.”

“Because we’re press,” Johnathan added miserably. “Not because we want to.”

Again, you stared at her like she grew a second nose at the base of her throat. “Why the hell would I do that? I never go to games.”

Nancy pursed her lips and gave you a look that was so akin to Karen Wheeler it was frightful. “It would be good for you to get out of the house sometimes, you know? Do something with the rest of us every once in a while.”

“You’ll be on the floor with Johnathan and Fred Benson,” you argue. “It’s not like we’ll be hanging out the whole time.”

“So we do something after,” she shrugged. “Get something to eat. Maybe some shakes like the good ol days? We haven’t done that in a while.”

There was a reason for that. You were scared to get shakes with Nancy alone. You feared Barb’s absence would be felt all too heavily, even if you went to a different restaurant now that Benny’s was gone. That is what you wanted, though—a girls night with Nancy somewhere neutral. Maybe invite that girl Robin too to make up for the empty and awkward space inevitably left by your late friend. Not to replace her, of course, but to make the silence less pronounced. Less obvious. Less painful. 

The truth was you weren’t sure how to be Nancy’s friend anymore, and a part of you wasn’t sure you wanted to. You’d both had changed since three became two. Since she got a boyfriend to occupy most of her time. Now you found it increasingly difficult to navigate the friendship, only holding on because it had been a decade together already.

But you knew all too well that if Nancy was out and about, Johnathan would be her shadow. And if it was after the game, little Will Byers would be in company too. Inevitably, you would be pushed towards the side and ignored as usual. 

Nancy could probably tell you were beginning to resist the idea. “It’s not like you have anything better to do.”

“I can think of better things to do,” Johnathan muttered. 

“Well I wasn’t talking to you,” Nancy bit back. 

While she may have not meant it in a cruel way, the phrase struck you like a slap anyway. She may as well have said that you didn’t have any other friends to hang out with. Which sadly was true. Eddie had his stupid club game thing tonight and judging by the loud argument between Mike and Lucas this morning, there was no getting him to reconsider cancelling it. 

Your two—perhaps one and a half, actually—friends were both occupied. So you really didn’t have anything else to do but sit at home and pout about being excluded even though you did it yourself this time. The option would be to go to a dumb basketball game and secretly endorse Jason’s abhorrent words and give Patrick false hope about your forgiveness. 

“I’ll get you a press pass so you can sit on the floor with us. How’s that?” Nancy offered. “You just hold the extra tapes for Fred and look necessary.”

You were warming up to the idea. At least you’d be sitting near people you liked instead of some randoms you hadn’t talked to since elementary school. 

“Fine,” you relented. “I’ll go.”

Nancy perked up like a flower in the sun. “Great! We’ll make a real Friday night out of it.” 

Seeing her smile—the real one that showed her teeth—brought a small one to your lips as well. She genuinely seemed happy for you to go instead of stemming from pity like you’d seen so much of recently. It made your mind feel all the lighter. 

————

Part 8