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fate, up against your will (unwillingly mine) | chapter 6

eddie munson x goth!reader.

based on the plot of 10 things i hate about you. in his desperation to go out with chrissy cunningham, jason carver makes the freak of hawkins an offer he can't refuse.

summary: tommy hagan throws a party; part 1 of 2. 8.7k words.

warnings: repeated allusions to/depictions of sexual harassment (reader is touched without permission repeatedly, and has some nasty shit said to her), implied past trauma related to this; sensory overstimulation and getting triggered, intense anxiety, poor self-worth spiraling, a couple references to parental grief, unhealthy/binge drinking. also, regrettably, a blanket billy hargrove warning 😨💔

a/n: the party sequence is the heaviest part of the story so far and the word count got sort of out of hand, so i ended up splitting it into two separate chapters; apologies for the cliffhanger in the meantime 💔 also, this is going to be a 10 chapter story, so let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist for future parts!

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“You think I paid you seventy-five goddamn dollars of my money just for one date?”

Eddie’s head is on a swivel. After pulling his van into one of his typical parking spots, he couldn’t even fully step out the door before he was ambushed—practically yanked the rest of the way out, tugged around to the back of the van—and as obscured as they may be from the front of the school, the more times he’s seen speaking with Jason fucking Carver, the more likely people are to start asking questions that he has no intentions of even attempting to answer.

Which is exactly why, following his abrupt seizure, Eddie has had absolutely nothing to say to Carver beyond the fact that he’s done. It’s been about as effective as every other time he’s tried to call it off.

He takes a deep breath through his nose. “You said that when she starts dating, Chrissy can start dating,” he mutters, jaw set with resolve. The clouds overhead really compliment the dreary fucking vibe of the interaction. “I took her out, alright? We started. That should be more than enough to fulfill this…insane goddamn restriction she’s under.”

Carver couldn’t be less impressed. “Dating isn’t the only thing Chrissy’s parents are strict about,” he spits. Then he shakes his head, eyes flitting off to the side in thought; almost like he’s just as frustrated with the whole endeavor as Eddie is. “I swear, it’s like— She can’t do anything unless that freak is chaperoning her. We’re done when I say we’re done.”

The f-word sounds a thousand times dirtier directed at you than it ever has at himself, but Eddie bites his tongue—almost to the point of bleeding. Carver isn’t fucking worth it.

“...I assume you’re gonna be at Hagan’s party Friday night,” he goes on flatly, tense arms crossed over his chest. “Get your girlfriend to come with you.”

Eddie’s known about the party for a few days now, through no desire of his own. One of the few occasions on which he’s liable to be willingly approached by peers who would otherwise prefer to ignore his existence or add to its misery is to solicit or demand his availability at the next big rager—a good excuse, it occurs to him, if anyone does happen to witness this particular exchange. As unpleasant as it is to be the only stone cold sober person at a high school house party where everybody seems to mistake you for a living, breathing vending machine, the payout is generally well worth it. Eddie was, in fact, already planning on being there.

“You really think I’d be able to sell her on that? I don’t even wanna be there.”

“If you managed to sell her on giving you the time of day at all, then yeah, I do,” Carver scoffs, dryly amused by his own jab. “Chrissy can’t go unless she does too. Make it happen.”

As ridiculous as this proposition is, all Eddie cares about at the moment is ending this conversation as soon as possible. Obviously, he wouldn’t mind having you as company while he clocks in for an evening of loud, unpleasant, soul-draining commerce, but not so much that he’d go out of his way to beg you for it just so that the lunatic in front of him can keep up his trend of getting whatever the hell he wants, all the time.

“...I’ll invite her,” Eddie concedes. “But I told you before, I can’t force her to do anything.”

Carver rolls his frigid eyes. “I don’t care what you do, just get her there,” he spits with the same flippant tyranny as usual, inclining his head in a glare that, after three goddamn weeks of this absurdity, has entirely lost its menace. “It’s only your ass on the line if you don’t.”

As he stalks off back to whichever wretched bog he crawled out of, Eddie releases the passive tension from his limbs with a long exhale.

There’s not a chance in hell that he’s getting you at this party, but that’s alright. He can’t for the life of him remember a time when his ass reliably wasn’t on the line.

…

“So? How’d it go?”

The eyeliner pencil pauses halfway along your waterline as you glance at Chrissy’s poorly restrained anticipation in the mirror. You managed to avoid spilling the beans on Monday by preventing any encounters in person and hanging up on her when she called that evening, but today, she caught you on your way to the bathroom between third and fourth periods and practically shoved you past the threshold to give you the relative privacy to talk about it.

“...Fine,” you say.

The product transfer leaves much to be desired. You lower the pencil and start rifling through your bag in search of a lighter.

“Just fine?” Chrissy spits in outrage, leaning against the wall beside the sink.

“Yeah. Just fine.”

You flick on the flame and hold it beside the end of your pencil until the dull black tip turns glassy, and then drop the lighter back inside to try again. After a half-hearted blow to cool it off, the smooth black glides on easily, replacing the pigment blinked away during your first three classes.

“Seriously? The first first-date of your life, and all you have to say about it is that it was fine?”

You roll your eyes. “Why don’t you open the door and yell that down the hall?”

“Oh, like you actually care,” she groans. “...Well, what did you do? Where did he take you?”

“We saw a movie,” you say, moving to the other eye.

“Which movie?”

“You don’t know it.”

“Oh my God, you’re ridiculous.” She covers her face with both hands in theatrical frustration and shakes her head at you, curly ponytail bouncing to and fro. “What was he like, then? Can you at least tell me that?”

You pause to give her a side-eye. “What do you mean, ‘what was he like?’”

“Did he put his arm around you?”

“No.”

“No?”

You furrow your brow at her potent disbelief as you pop the cap back on your liner and drop it into the cavern of your bag, pivoting around to lean against the sink. She crosses her arms over her chest and scoffs, but you can’t tell if she’s offended on your behalf, or offended by the fact that you aren’t.

“...He took you to see a movie and he didn’t even try to put his arm around you?”

“He probably wanted to keep it attached, so no.” It failed to occur to you until now that he might’ve considered it or wanted to, but if he did, he clearly knew better.

“Well, did he—” Her eyes widen just slightly—she cuts herself off and glances around as if being overheard by the two girls occupying bathroom stalls is suddenly a major concern, then inclines herself towards you to ask in a lower voice: “...Did he kiss you?”

Your entire face shrivels up into a sneer. “No.”

Chrissy sags in disappointment. “Did you do anything interesting at all?”

Your mind summons a clipped siren piercing through the evening air; red and blue lights flashing, swirling together, softening into a sheer purple vapor. “...Not really, no.”

She sighs and surrenders to your stubborn nondisclosure. “...I guess ‘fine’ is pretty good by your standards. Are you gonna go out again?”

Probably. It comes to mind with shocking, subliminal ease, natural in the same sense as thunder after lightning, but that’s kind of fucking gross, so you frown and shrug and strain your voice as flat as it’ll go.

“...I don’t know,” you mutter.

Chrissy smiles, but by the look in her eyes, not nearly as wide as she wants to. “Do you like him?”

You couldn’t work out a more aggravating question if you tried. Before you can rebuff or redirect the offensive line of interrogation, another voice jumps out in your direction.

“Like who?”

One of the girls in the stalls was Laurie, also of the cheer squad. She steps up to the sink beside you to wash her hands, and the way that she tries to stroll right into the conversation despite how fiercely she avoids interacting with you most of the time would be perplexing—paradoxical, even—if you weren’t already used to it.

Normally, you’re ignored. It’s only in relation to Chrissy that anyone possessing an ounce of social credit pays you even the slightest bit of voluntary attention. It’s almost like the sheepish customers that loiter outside your mother’s shop—only when Chrissy acknowledges you do any of them find it natural to do the same.

You wish they’d just save both of you the displeasure.

“Mr. Greenwalt,” you spit out on instinct, flaring your lined eyes at the unwelcome eavesdropper. “The comb-over really does it for me, and I hear he always offers the girls extra credit.”

Laurie’s upper lip curls in disgust, pleasing enough to stretch yours into a nasty grin. She quickly dries her hands and throws a puzzled glance at her teammate before making her exit.

“...Why do you always do that?” Chrissy asks quietly once the door closes behind her, wearing a less intense frown of her own.

“It’s funny,” you insist.

“It’s gross.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s why it’s funny.”

“...Whatever,” she relents. You adjust your bag on your shoulder, clearly good and ready to leave, and that must be why Chrissy scrambles to spit something else out. “...Um, I have my first date with Jason this week, by the way.”

Now, it’s your turn to sneer. “He asked you out?”

“He’s been asking me out.”

“Why the hell did you say yes?”

Chrissy blinks at you a few times, and your brow furrows. Something in her posture looks close to guilty—similar to when she accidentally breaks curfew (or any other of her mother’s authoritarian rules) at your place and knows you’ll be getting a disparaging call from Judith the next day for being a malignant influence and corrupting her wayward daughter and what not because of it—but you have no clue why she would be. Even if you regard Jason Carver as little more than the useless hunk of sculpted plastic on toy store shelves that he was no doubt modeled after with an even more egregious staring problem than yours, Chrissy should know full well that you’d never actually look down on her for doing whatever the hell she wants.

“...I already told you,” she mutters, “he’s—”

“Nice, I know.”

Chrissy huffs at you. “He likes me a lot, and he’s always…well, a gentleman. So, I figured…why not?” Her head falls forward, staring at the toes of her white sneakers. “…And besides, I…don’t really have a good reason to turn him down anymore.”

The scoff you let out could bust through plywood. “You don’t need a reason to turn him down.”

“I know that, I just…” She rubs at her temples and groans. “It’s complicated, alright?”

“Complicated how?”

“Plus, it’s just one date,” she goes on, slapping her hands down on her thighs and murmuring to herself. “It can’t hurt. I’ll…get to know him more. Kathy said we’ll look really good together, too.”

“Kathy also thinks her abysmal fucking side-pony looks good, so I wouldn’t take her word for it.”

“You’re being mean again,” she sighs, but without much outrage. The side-pony really is abysmal.

Your stare hones in on her even sharper. “...I’m hoping it’ll rub off.”

If she really wanted to give Jason a chance, she wouldn’t have to convince herself of it. You don’t think you could stomach her dating him just because, for whatever horrific reason, she thinks that lunkheaded creep deserves it.

Chrissy doesn’t say anything else, just keeps flicking that weird, vaguely guilty expression at you, so with a pointed sigh, you turn and head on your way.

When she’s ready to explain herself properly, she will.

…

You’re starting to wonder if Eddie moonlights as a heat-seeking missile.

When the lunch bell goes off, you have no intentions of seeking him out or spending the period with him. If you did, you’d know exactly where to go looking—the few times you’ve set foot in the cafeteria in the past couple years, you’re pretty sure you’ve always seen him in the exact same spot; seated at the head of the far-middle table by the windows like the outcast overlord that he apparently is. Your headphones are up as soon as you leave the classroom, about a third of the way through In the Flat Field as you debate which of your rolling lunch spots to go for today, and you don’t even make it halfway to the perpetually empty corner near the library before Eddie apparates at your side and makes you leap out of your boots.

Yanking your headphones down to your neck, you elbow him in the side as hard as you can in retaliation.

“Ow!” he screeches, gripping the wound site with wide, insulted eyes. “What the hell did I—?! Oh, shit, you didn’t hear me, did you?” He’s snickering by the end of it.

“No.” If not for the headphones, you definitely would have. He jingles a lot when he walks.

“Alright, then I’ll give you a pass this time, but only cause you’re so pretty,” he says, rubbing his injury a little more before letting his hand fall back to his side. Someone speeding in the opposite direction clips him on the shoulder as they pass, but it doesn’t seem to register to him at all. He points a warning finger at you. “Next time, we’re gonna tussle. And you should know, I’m a feminist.”

He pauses, audibly waiting to be asked about it. Your unimpressed glance will have to do.

“...Which means,” he continues deliberately, leaning over into your space, “don’t expect me to go easy on you just cause you’re a girl. We’re gonna have it out. I’m talking all-out warfare.”

As usual, he’s amusing himself much more than he’s amusing you. “Is biting allowed?”

He jerks away like you startled him. “Uh, sure. Yeah. No holds barred.”

“How hard?”

Eddie’s sneakers scuff awkwardly against the linoleum; he has to speed up to keep in step with you. “Uh… Are you trying to say that you wanna bite me?”

“I’m saying what you’re saying,” you correct. “Fucking anything. Why are you following me?”

“Following you? We’re walking together.”

“Where are we going, then?” you drone.

“Uh…” He looks around like he only just remembered where he was and then shakes his head, rumbling with a little laugh. “...Okay, fine, I’m following you. Thought we’d eat lunch together.”

“Why?”

Eddie’s smile turns awful. “Well, since we’re kind of an item now—”

“Keep thinking that,” you stop him short, straight-faced. He only smiles wider. “Won’t your little nerds miss you?”

“Yeah, they will, actually,” he says, brows raised proudly to his hairline. “Which is exactly why you should appreciate the fact that I’m hanging out with you.”

Arriving at your destination, you press your back against one wall of the corner, sliding down to sit with your knees bent, and Eddie settles against the perpendicular wall, criss-cross with his metal lunchbox in his lap. When you go to pull Frankenstein out of your bag, he does a double-take in your direction.

“You aren’t actually gonna read, are you?” he complains.

You open the book without sympathy. “No, I’m just gonna stare at the cover for fun.”

“If I knew it was gonna be silent reading time, I would’ve brought my own.”

“That’s what happens when you hijack other peoples’ lunch plans.”

His shoulders slump in the corner of your eye. “Can you read it to me?”

“No.”

“Can we read it together?”

“No.”

“Can we at least eat together first?” he asks. One brief glance confirms he’s shameless enough to stoop to puppy dog eyes. “It’s not much of a lunch date if we don’t eat together.”

You forget to suppress your eye-roll. “It’s not a date at all if we’re legally required to be here.”

“Good point,” he says, cutting the reins on his smile. “...In that case, we should probably start planning the next one, huh?”

You set down your book with disgruntled negligence, and Eddie smiles even wider.

Your lunches look pretty close to identical. Two white-bread sandwiches wrapped in plastic, yours with a pack of cheese sandwich crackers, his with a slim jim and a can of ginger ale from one of the vending machines. You’ve barely taken a bite of your sandwich before you notice Eddie’s too focused on your food to dig into his.

“...Whatcha got?” he asks, staring at you as little kids often do—with big, wanting eyes, enticed in all situations by whatever they don’t have.

It takes you a moment to swallow. “...Bologna.”

“Goddamnit,” he grumbles in envy. Then he raises his eyebrows, unsubtly hopeful. “...Trade ya?”

You sigh. “What’s yours?”

“Peanut butter and jelly.”

“Like a five year old.”

He snorts. “Exactly like a five year old.”

You consider it. You’re nearly as sick of peanut butter as you are of bologna, but you haven’t had jelly to compliment it in a while. After a long squint, you hold out your sandwich, and Eddie’s face brightens like it’s made of solid gold.

“Fuck yes,” he exclaims, eagerly completing the transfer. He immediately takes a giant bite, throws his head back, and groans with indefensible abandon, so loud it nearly makes you spit. He waits until he swallows to speak again. “...Infinitely better. You’re a doll.”

You don’t admit it outright, but you prefer his sandwich, too. He went pretty heavy-handed with the jelly. Before his next bite, he pops the tab on his ginger ale, takes a quick sip, and sets it at a very deliberate midpoint between you.

“We’ll go halfies on the soda,” he announces, flashing you a smile. You glance at it and take another bite.

Though you eat together largely in silence—Eddie perhaps more aware of speaking with his mouth full after your date, or maybe just too hungry to stop once he’s started—he still, expectedly, throws back his food much faster than you do. You’re pretty sure he turned your entire sandwich into three and a half bites.

Once he’s finished, he sits there looking conspicuously like he has something on his mind, but seems to think he’s being successfully nonchalant about it. His eyes flit around in constant thought, pausing now and then on you, glancing away instantly when he gets caught, and beneath his crossed legs, one of his feet shakes unendingly. You finish off the last bite of his sandwich and ball up the saran wrap that encased it.

“What?” you prompt with exasperation.

His wide eyes snap up to your face. “Huh?”

You bounce the saran wrap off of his chest, and one of his hands raises thoughtlessly to clutch the wound, still staring at you expectantly. “What do you wanna say?”

He acts surprised that you noticed, but you aren’t sure it’s fully authentic. An awkward smile stretches his lips and a faint smudge of color rises to his cheeks. “Oh, uh… Shit. It’s nothing, really, I just…” He blows out an exhale and pauses to scratch at his scalp, the side of his neck. “You know, Tommy Hagan’s throwing a party Friday night.”

You stare at him for a while, wondering how the hell that could possibly be relevant to either of you. The words from his mouth alone make your insides unsettle.

“...Didn’t he stuff you in a locker, once?”

It’s way too easy—he puffs up and prickles on reflex. “I— What? No, he did not— I mean, come on, he’s like, five-eight!”

You blink at him a couple times, unconvinced. Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Well—okay, yeah, he tried to, but obviously, it didn’t work. I don’t fit in a goddamn locker, I haven’t since I was…” He trails off and shuts his mouth like he suddenly caught a glimpse of himself from the third person.

So he says. You narrow your eyes, graphing it out in your mind; you’re pretty sure you could fit him in one if you were determined enough.

“...Whatever,” Eddie spits, pink-faced. He waves one flustered hand to shoo away the tangent. “That’s not even— I’m talking about the party.”

“What about it?”

“Do you…” He stretches it out, flicks his eyes around noncommittally and shrugs his denim-draped shoulders. “...wanna go?”

You look at him as hard as you can. “...Is that a joke?”

“Unfortunately not, no,” he says with a sheepish laugh.

Your laser-bright stare rips away from him, focusing even hotter on burning imaginary holes into a row of lockers down the hall. “Why the hell would I want to go to Tommy Hagan’s fucking party?”

“Believe me, I hear ya,” he says. “I wouldn’t be going either if it wasn’t, um… A prime business opportunity. But, since I am, I…woudn’t mind having someone actually cool to talk to while we’re stuck at…pretty much the worst place in town. Y’know…misery loves company, and shit.”

It makes sense, but it doesn’t quell your upset. There’s nothing to think about. The only answer twists itself into a vibrant neon sign, blinking urgently behind your eyes.

“...I don’t think so,” you mutter.

When you glance at him again, Eddie’s smile seems a little forced—disappointed, maybe, but trying not to let it show. “...Yeah, I figured. Still worth a shot, though.”

A little breath of relief passes over you, tightening the lid on your escaping agitation. You finally pick up Frankenstein again, shifting around for greater comfort as you flip to your dog-eared page. Eddie watches you, unperturbed, with that same deliberate smile.

“...God, it’s gonna suck,” he sighs. He scrubs his eyes in exhaustion, then flashes you an even wider grin. “‘Least I can think about you to get me through it.”

You roll your eyes and privately savor the ring of his stupid chuckle.

…

On Thursday, Chrissy asks for a ride home after practice.

Normally, in your understanding, she gets a ride from her dad or from someone else on the team, but you figure for whatever reason no one else was available. She caught you at your locker this morning to ask (interrupting one of Eddie’s painfully, consciously unfunny jokes that he stubbornly doubled down on until the pure absurdity of his dedication finally forced you to crack a smile) and seemed greatly relieved to hear you accept.

You wait for her in the now-barren parking lot, working on homework and catching up on reading as the sun droops in the sky. Mask keeps your ears busy—you’ve found yourself on a Bauhaus kick.

It’s around five-thirty when you see her coming; the first cheerleader to leave the building by a large margin, bounding across the asphalt like she thinks she’s being chased. She rips open the passenger side door and practically slams it behind her, taking a breath as she settles in her seat and yanks the seatbelt across her torso.

“...Hey,” you say. There’s definitely something going on with her lately.

“Hi,” she responds, partially out of breath. She brought a cloud of ambient heat into the cabin, suppressed frantic energy radiating off of her. “Thanks again, you’re a total lifesaver.”

You blink at her and wait for her to settle down further. After a moment or two, she notices you staring and does a double take.

“...Gina’s been begging me every single day to let her come over and raid my closet for an outfit to wear to Tommy Hagan’s party tomorrow night, and it’s driving me crazy,” she explains. “If I let her give me a ride again today, I swear, she’d try to bust down the front door.”

“Ugh.” You spark the engine and start to pull out of the parking spot.

“Was that an ‘ugh’ at Gina, or at Tommy?” she asks, smiling at you in your peripheral.

“It was at your closet, actually.”

She gasps so hard, it drags the air pressure down. “You’re so mean!”

“That’s the price of making me wait at school for two and a half hours to drive you home,” you joke flatly, and Chrissy pouts. “...Doesn’t Jason have a car?” He probably has two.

Your jab was meant to fluster her further, but she goes sullen instead, staring down at her lap. “...I wanted you to drive me,” she mumbles.

You eye her for a while—as much as you can while making your way out of the parking lot. “Did you have your date yet?”

“...Um, yeah,” she says. “Yesterday, after practice.”

…That’s all she says. It throws you for a loop.

“...And?” you prompt. Chrissy just blinks at you, clueless. “How’d it go?”

“Oh, um—it went fine.”

A jolt of self-awareness goes through her belatedly; your eyes lock in mutual disbelief.

“Just fine?” you say, stretching out both words to really rub it in.

“No, well— It went great, actually,” she corrects on principle, holding her head up higher. “We…got a soda together, and it was…super great.”

“Super great.”

She dips her head in an exaggerated nod. “Mm-hm.”

It’s so phony, you have to scoff. “Well, did he kiss you?”

Chrissy stiffens up beside you. The dumbfounded look you throw her way finds her staring out the windshield, ignoring you vigorously with her arms crossed over her chest. Jesus. You hope, at the very least, that he asked her permission first, but something tells you that the nicest guy in Hawkins wouldn’t be quite so considerate in stealing undeserved affection from the girl he’s shallowly obsessed with. It strikes a match against your nerves, but more immediately, you grimace and wince at the image it conjures in your mind—smarmy lips puckered in her direction.

“...Ew.”

Her shoulders jump; she holds herself tighter. “Oh, cut it out,” she spits, harsh in a way she pretends she isn’t capable of. “Don’t you ever get tired of making fun of me? You’re lucky I even bother speaking to you.”

You pause for a moment at an empty intersection.

“...Sorry,” she says with a start. You don’t look at her, but you imagine the way she always cringes at herself when her discipline slips and lets something unpolished escape. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that at all. I don’t know why I—”

“It’s fine,” you cut her off. You’d probably act out too if Jason Carver had gone and put his slimy lips on you, and it’s not like she’s wrong, anyway.

For a minute or two, neither of you say anything. Your nails dig deeper and deeper into the leather of the steering wheel.

“...Are you going?” you ask.

“What?”

“To Hagan’s rager.”

Chrissy takes a long breath. “I…haven’t decided yet.”

About a hundred vehement discouragements come to mind, but you can only get out two words: “You shouldn’t.”

She just hums. You gnaw on the skin of your bottom lip in stress, probing around for something more emphatic that doesn’t plug up your throat.

“...What about you?” she asks, angling towards you in her seat.

It takes a moment to process, but when you do, you just scoff.

“I know you hate parties and all that,” she goes on lightly, “but, y’know… Eddie shows up to a lot of them. To, um…sell stuff.”

“...I know,” you grit out. “...He invited me.”

Her eyebrows pop up. “He did?”

You don’t say anything, but you can feel Chrissy winding herself up beside you, swirling again with her usual enthusiasm.

“Well, that’s perfect,” she says, clapping her hands together, “cause I just remembered that I really, really wanna go, but I need someone to drive me.”

Dread implants a more comforting image in your mind—the car ramming headfirst into a telephone pole, knocking you into a peaceful coma for the next week or two. “...I’m sure Gina would take you,” you grumble.

“Gina’s boyfriend is taking her, and all their seats are already filled. C’mon, you’re my only hope.”

She’s probably lying, but it’s working on you anyway. Goddamnit. There’s only one person you can actually trust to look out for Chrissy at a sleazy suburban house party, and it sure as fuck isn’t Gina.

A dormant pit of stress inside you rouses with a shudder; unfolding its limbs, reaching out, making itself at home again.

…

You’re a little late on purpose, because Chrissy’s never quite on time. When you honk the horn, you’re still stuck alone with your thoughts for a couple minutes, tapping your foot, gritting your teeth, and then there she is, a whirlwind.

After nearly sprinting out of the front door and down the porch steps, Chrissy yanks the door open and throws herself inside. You turn Pornography down low enough to hear her greeting.

“Hi,” she says, and, giving you a once over: “Wow, you look cool.”

All you do is grunt. Taking your time and putting much more effort into getting ready than the rotten occasion deserves seemed like the only way to stave off the horrible feeling that’s been stalking you ever since you agreed to this stupidity—the thicker the eyeliner, the sturdier your shield.

You start driving and at the same time, with a wholly unnecessary level of impatience, Chrissy wrestles herself out of her long-sleeved purple blouse, squirming and yanking so wildly that she nearly elbows you in the side of your head in the process.

“Jesus, is it killing you, or what?” you snap.

She finally rips the shirt off of her head, mussing up her fresh curls and smearing part of her lip gloss as she does. “Sorry,” she giggles.

Chrissy tosses the decoy shirt carelessly into the back seat and you reach over to flip down the visor in front of her. She catches on, sliding the mirror cover aside and grunting her annoyance as she wipes away the mess, while you take a couple glances at the carnation pink tube top you’ve never seen her in.

“Where’d you get that?” you ask.

Judith Cunningham won’t have her only daughter gallivanting around town dressed “like a whore,” and her parenting style is invasive and distrustful enough that hiding a top like that from her would be a sizeable feat, but then again, her definition of what exactly constitutes whorish dressing is ill-defined at best. You’ve been accused of such by her on more than one occasion, and between your extensive layering and accessorization, you tend to show only slightly more skin than your average nun.

“Oh, do you like it?” Chrissy flips up the visor and smiles like a little devil. “I borrowed it from Gina.”

You roll your eyes and refocus on the road.

The last vestiges of sunlight are still clinging to the horizon by the time you and Chrissy arrive, draining slowly from the sky and taking with it what little reassurance you’d managed to muster up while getting ready.

You flip down the visor to check your makeup. Chrissy does the same again, albeit more haphazardly, smudging out eyeshadow and daubing on more lip gloss with little regard for neat lines or symmetry. You’re stalling for sure; you can’t tell if she is.

As you get out of the car, way down the street, your eyes catch on a familiar van—a massive eyesore in a neighborhood like this. Your stomach does a flip, and even when you squint your eyes and confirm that he isn’t still inside of it—that he hasn’t seen you yet—it doesn’t settle back in quite the right place.

You haven’t been to anything remotely constituting a party since your sophomore year, and upon entering the gargantuan Hagan residence, you’re immediately reminded of why. The air inside feels thick, dripping with the excess sleaze of its artificial inhabitants; the music shaking the walls is somehow both irritatingly loud and entirely indiscernible under the mass of voices chattering and whooping and squealing, and rowdy, amped up bodies are packed in tight enough to create an immediately noticeable, deeply repugnant increase in temperature as soon as you step through the front door. It smells like sweat and smoke and a nauseating cocktail of at least twenty different over-used perfumes, and it clings to every inch of you.

No more than a few seconds of squeezing past familiar yet unenthused faces pass by before Chrissy runs into someone exciting. The shrill, mutual cry of two teenage girls recognizing each other briefly peaks above all other noise pollution, and, most likely assuming that you’re still right behind her, Chrissy pushes her way deeper into the crowd with vigor.

But you aren’t right behind her, because, while being related to Chrissy might afford you a pinch more consideration than you’d typically earn, it doesn’t mean much at all when she isn’t glued to your side. The same ocean of bodies that parts seamlessly to let her by—sprinkling her with eager greetings and partly-sincere compliments—freezes over instantly in her wake. Any sunny delight conjured up by Chrissy Cunningham’s unexpected appearance shrivels up and dies at the sight of you, contorting into baffled gawking, acidic side-eyes, poorly-concealed snickering, and plenty of other shameless staring that falls somewhere in between.

The only people that voluntarily move out of your way are those who seem to be concerned about contracting something lethal from the brush of your sleeve. Everyone else is a deliberate obstacle, uncaringly so or in petty provocation, leaving you no choice but to wedge and force your way through.

And when you finally make your way into an air pocket, none other than the freckled moron himself shoots out into your path, cutting you off with an outstretched arm against the wall. The group he ejected himself out of watches on in amusement.

“Oh, shit,” Tommy snickers, looking you up and down. “If it isn’t the wicked witch of the west. Here to get trashed?”

Your eyes are glued to Chrissy’s blonde head, bobbing and receding ever deeper into the blur of denser bodies. “...Move.”

He scoffs at you. “I don’t think that’s any way to speak to the host,” he says, leaning far enough into your space that you almost surrender to the urge to cringe back. You aren’t sure if he in particular reeks of booze, or the whole house just smells that way. “You’re lucky I don’t charge a fee to get in.”

“I’m already in,” you spit. She’s moving pretty fast and this house is huge—you’ll lose her entirely at this rate.

“Yeah, well, if you want past this point, you’re gonna have to pay the freaky bitch toll.” He pauses, drawing it out, glancing at his friends before letting his greasy smile pull even sharper. “...Flash your tits real quick and I’ll let you go anywhere you want.”

He wins, in a sense. You finally put your eyes on him and leave them there for more than a split second, staring long and hard and stubbornly unreactive. You know he’s just fucking with you in the way that hopeless shitheads like him are wont to do, but your heart picks up in stress anyway.

“Leave her alone, Tommy,” Carol insists superficially—it’s more than obvious that she finds it just as funny as he does.

Tommy rolls his eyes theatrically and steps aside, stretching his arm out in sarcastic welcome. “Mi casa es su casa,” he declares as you walk past. “...Careful with the punch, Vampira. Wouldn’t want ya to start taking your clothes off, or anything.”

One of his broodmates pipes up behind you. “Are you crazy, man?”

“Oh, relax. You don’t actually believe that shit, do you?”

You might’ve lost sight of Chrissy—you aren’t sure the blonde, curly head you spot making its way towards the kitchen is really hers, but you steer yourself in the same direction anyway. Barely five steps in, someone else sees it fit to make a nuisance of themselves. You squeeze past Tyler, or Terry maybe, the incurable stoner with the crooked nose, and no sooner than you do, he calls out your name with completely unearned familiarity.

“Holy shit, didn’t think you’d be here,” he notes, evidently convinced that the single reluctant conversation you’ve shared in the past year makes you friends—optimistically speaking. You keep moving without a glance in his direction. “...Hold on a second, y’wanna hang out?”

“Drop it, dude,” a friend beside him laughs.

“No, hold on,” T-name insists. He reaches out, grabs at your sleeve to hold you up. “You smoke? Cause we just scored some—”

The feeling of resistance—of restraint—sends panicked thorns bursting through your skin. You turn around without thinking, hardly seeing through the veil of vengeful red, and bash his solo cup straight up into his nose.

He snorts and chokes and cries out in regret, his face and most of his t-shirt drenched in pungent booze, and some of the splashback hits your face, soaks into your sleeve. You wipe it off and keep walking.

“What the fuck?!” he sputters behind you. “That’s—so not cool!”

“I told ya, man, she’s fuckin’ psycho.”

You walk faster now, a hit of adrenaline making your pulse speed up, cold sweat starting to drip down your sides. Completely fucking over it already, you start shoving your way past people, ramming shoulders and elbows into oblivious partygoers without remorse.

Chrissy isn’t in the kitchen—only a crowd of preppy undesirables congregated around the ginormous punch bowl on the island. Open and unopened beer cans are scattered across every surface, bags and bowls of cheap snacks placed here and there. No one spares you a glance as you squeeze past.

On the other side, the patio door hangs wide open to reveal a few handfuls of people spread around the expansive backyard. The smell of cigarettes, weed, and warm evening air filters in through it, and, kicked back in one of the patio chairs, speaking indiscernibly but unmistakably to a couple of presumable customers who couldn’t be more his visual opposite, is Eddie.

You freeze. Mind blank, ears screaming, you stand there and stare at him for so long that he notices, trailing off as he does a double take at you, stood like a rigid specter in the doorway.

Immediately, Eddie’s face lights up, his bright eyes glinting in the dark like lightning bugs, but his smile doesn’t even finish stretching across his face before you whip around to snap the connection, your heart bludgeoning your ribcage in panic. You knew he’d be here, you knew he was here, but even still, you hoped that he wouldn’t be. That he’d keep to some secluded, easily missed corner of the house, none the wiser of your own presence, or that business would dry up early and he’d take his leave without catching so much as a glance of you.

The combination of Eddie—dorky, bungling, total geek Eddie—and this vile, skin-crawling fucking environment unsettles you much deeper than you expected it to. A cringeworthy little piece of you told yourself that it might be easier to swallow with him around, that he’d function as the unlikely, aggravating exemption from the cloud of misery around you that he’s unfortunately starting to become, a pocket of clear air amid the suffocation, but the mortifying naivety of that thought revealed itself the moment you laid eyes on him; the moment he brightened in recognition.

He’s happy to see you here—why wouldn’t he be?—and the stress of it tenses every muscle in your body, straining inwards, urging you to curl up tighter and tighter until no one at all can see you anymore. Especially not him.

You’re off again. Cutting violently through the living room (where the music blasts the loudest, rattling every bone in your body), you barely even remember to glance around for Chrissy in your clawing need to put as much space as possible between you and the boy you like.

Just focus on Chrissy. Finding her, making sure nothing happens. That’s the only reason you’re here, isn’t it?

The song changes. You still can’t make it out for the life of you, but it ignites a wave of excitement, tides shifting as people crowd towards the epicenter, dancing and bumping along the way. The path you were on abruptly closes up, and more than that, it spits you out—two careless collisions, and you’re all but shoved into the dining room—probably the tenth circle of hell, given that the table’s been repurposed for beer pong.

With a deep, shuddering breath, you step in further just to give the room a proper scan, but as soon as you do, a couple faces from the far end of the table react. The attention draws the eyes of a few more people in the room, and only then, when he turns his body towards you, do you recognize the man you’ve wedged yourself next to in your search.

Billy Hargrove. If anyone could ever shut up about ocean waves and palm trees and Hollywood stars when it came to him, you’d probably assume he transferred straight from an even deeper circle of hell. He was put in your American government class, and while he’s so far been courteous enough to spare you from any direct interactions, you’ve caught him staring on more than one occasion—the kind that’s hard to tell whether he’s trying to work out what’s wrong with you, or peeling away layers of black with his eyes.

He’s smoking a cigarette, and it doesn’t surprise you in the slightest that Tommy might afford the privilege of doing so indoors to him alone. When your eyes instinctively meet his, he takes it out of his mouth and flicks his eyes down to your chest.

“...Wanna play?” he asks, jerking his head towards the table. The invitation isn’t remotely sincere.

It takes you longer than it should to summon a characteristic response—your brain feels like electrified mush. “...I’d rather eat a bullet.”

Billy grins, and the aura of doom he gives off is suffocating. There’s no Chrissy so there’s no point in staying, but as soon as you turn to leave, his hand catches your elbow. It feels like fire, burning through your layers to singe his mark against your skin. Your jaw clenches painfully hard—you nearly bite your tongue.

“Wait a second,” he mutters. “Got a question for ya.”

He holds the filter to his lips for long enough to piss you off, his big, lazy, California blue eyes smearing themselves all over your tense face. Once he’s gotten his fill of leering at you, he blows the smoke out of the corner of his mouth and coils it up into a smirk.

“...Is it true?” he finally asks. “What they say about you.”

“They” say much more about you than you’ve ever cared to keep track of, but it isn’t hard to guess the realm of what he’s referring to. Your spine’s been crawling since the moment you arrived, but it’s still enough to trigger an especially icy jolt. “What the hell do you think?”

Billy chuckles as he takes another drag. “...You’re pretty feisty,” he notes. “Thought you might be. …I like that. You wouldn’t make it easy for me, huh?”

Coming from him, it sounds like a threat. You aren’t his type at all, so you don’t know why he’s pretending.

He shakes his head, admiring; frustratingly immune to your meanest glare. “...Nah, I bet you like to put up a fight.”

Your hackles raise, your face pulls taut—you’d claw his face off if you thought you could manage it. “Eat shit, Hargrove.”

You almost, almost feel a pinch of regret as it leaves your lips—you know what he’s like, after all, and you’ve seen his temper in action at school on more than one occasion—but when all he does is snicker at you and half of the onlookers do the same, that’s when it clicks. He’s just poking the bear for fun, making a spectacle out of you. When you try again to rip your arm out of his grasp, he lets you, and you whip around to leave with a vengeance.

“Don’t be like that, baby!” he calls after you, winning even more ass-kissing laughter from the mindless crowd around him.

The blood rushes to your head and stays there, pounding in your ears, boiling beneath the skin of your face.

You feel like you’re in a demented fucking funhouse—each room presenting you with some sadistic new hurdle to jump over, tailor-made to upset you as viscerally as possible. It’s like they can smell it on you. Time seems to be caught between two here-and-nows, ripping you back and forth between them with enough brutality to snap your neck. You’re too caught in your mind to think clearly, and the many distressing sights and sounds and smells of the party overwhelm you from every angle.

There was a staircase near the front door. You should probably make your way back through the living room to look upstairs, and it’ll probably be less intolerable up there anyway, but just as you’re about to re-enter the fray, you spot him again, shaggy brown hair at the edge of the kitchen. He saw you first this time—his hand is raised in an awkward wave to get your attention, and even across the room, you can see the frown on his face. Confused, concerned, whatever.

Your stomach surges so abruptly it gives you a stitch in your side. Without even thinking, you spin on your heels and start off in the opposite direction, turning down a less populated hallway. Somehow, over all the layers of agitating noise, you can just barely make out the sound of him calling your name—assuming anyone else could hear it in the first place.

Rushing down the hall, you have no luck. You pull open a door here and there, finding three girls snorting something in a home office, a couple making out in a bathroom, but still no Chrissy.

The hallway loops around to the front of the house, and when you get there, you pause, caught between the staircase and the front door.

Since you haven’t found a trace of her, she’s probably upstairs, but every fucking ounce of you is screaming at the top of its lungs, begging you to just leave. It’d be so easy to escape it all, wait in the car and pray that nothing happens to her in the meantime, but…you can’t. Not until you’ve at least seen her. It’s too close to you right now, fresh and sharp and nauseating all over again.

Even still, your legs don’t move like they should. Standing there, staring up the steps into the dimly lit second floor, you only feel dread. If you go up there, there’s only one way out, and who knows if there’d be anywhere to hide. If Eddie decides to come up there too, or sees you going up— If he catches up to you, and there’s nowhere to run, and you can’t get around him—

Sudden enough to make you gasp, Jason Carver drops his hand on your shoulder and turns you forcefully in his direction. Your nerves are too shot for this—the shock makes you lightheaded.

“Where’s Chrissy?” he asks predictably, hardly willing to even look at you directly. He drops it with such passive entitlement, it makes you want to strangle him.

As if you’d ever help him find her. “She’s here,” you offer unhelpfully, shoving his arm away from you.

He looks about as pleased with your answer as you are with his existence. “Isn’t it your job to look after her?”

There’s an acid to his voice that throws you off; bitter, like you’ve personally wronged him in some way. You don’t know where the hell he got that idea from, but you wouldn’t argue against it. “...Yeah, it is,” you drone. “So do me a favor and leave her the fuck alone.”

His ken-doll face twitches in annoyance; he squints at you in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

Just then, you hear your name echoing down the hall and panic stiffens your spine. That goddamn heat-seeking missile. If he’s that close, you aren’t sure you can make it up the stairs without being seen, and even if you do—no.

Turning your back on Jason’s surly face, you move on instinct. There’s a coat closet beneath the stairs. You throw yourself into it and nearly slam the door behind you. Wading through thick fabric, you push your way to the back of it and slide to the floor, hugging your knees like a little girl hiding from the boogeyman.

Just for a couple minutes, just until he moves on and goes looking elsewhere. It’s quieter in here, dark and insulated from the sensory hell of the party, and it should give you some reprieve, but instead, it just thrusts all your internal stressors to the forefront.

You squeeze yourself with painful intensity, smacking urgently to ward off the awful feeling of being touched and grabbed and yanked and groped when it manifests against your skin, but the lack of anything else to focus on only makes the onslaught inescapable. Eyes squinted shut, muffled music and voices beat you down from every direction, and your heart beats so rapidly in your chest that a whisper against your ear drum wonders if you’re close to dying. Your mind tries desperately to flee, sprinting from place to place, looking for anything at all to grab hold of and keep your head above water, but everything slips through your fingers within seconds. Making Chrissy watch Halloween with you on your birthday; taking two forks to the haphazard, brutalized cake she surprised you with until neither of you could fit another bite. When you were kids, and your dad took both of you to the county fair, let you go on as many rides as you wanted until Chrissy threw up in your lap—you laughed so hard you cried—she still has the stuffed dolphin Dad won for her—God, you miss your dad. Eddie’s stupid, ridiculous performance of Barracuda—no, fuck, not him. Chrissy…

Chrissy…

You’re lucky I even bother speaking to you.

She’s never cut you like that before, but it’s been a long time coming. She’s so tolerant, especially of people who don’t deserve it, you more than anyone. Of course she’d have to snap sometime. You’ve been waiting for it for years.

If not even your own mother cares to deal with you, why should she? Why should she care about what happens to you at all?

You, the angry fucking bitch that you are, lashing out against anyone in arm’s reach, biting every hand that so much as considers feeding you, unable to do anyone the basic courtesy of ever admitting why. It’s too late now—the damage is well past done.

Maybe it’s all some terrible, well-deserved joke that they’re all in on, everyone but you—payback for years of casual spite. How did Chrissy know that Eddie had been talking to you? Why did both of them invite you to this stupid fucking party they both know damn well you’d never, ever want to be at without them, both of them?

Why did she leave you behind?

There are hands all over you, squeezing and pulling; closer now, ripping, punishing you for being stupid enough to let it happen, again, again; and it hurts, blood in your palm, dripping down your wrist; screaming, praying, Daddy, why’d you leave me? You deserve it, you stupid, prude-whore— ice-cold— mental case— loveless fucking bitch!

The door slams into someone as you burst out of it. You don’t know who, you don’t care, and big, white splotches block out the corners of your vision anyway. You blink and you’re in the kitchen, shoving aside some girl with a side ponytail to grab the first cup you see and sink it deep into translucent red.

It’s borderline undrinkable. Your face screws up in disgust, almost gagging at the taste, the strength of it making your weak stomach shudder. Too many cups of this could definitely put someone in the hospital—even that would be preferable to being here right now. You can feel it streaming from the corners of your mouth but you ignore it, forcing yourself to swallow every last drop.

Turn it down, turn it off, just turn everything off.

The less you remember, the better.

-

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