Summary: Valentine's Day isn't all it's cracked up to be. To make it worse, you're paired with the most annoying boy in school for a semester-long project.
What to expect: Barb death mention. Angsty/Rude Eddie. Canon Divergence (Byers bros stayed in Hawkins. Who the fuck is Vecna?)
Word count: 4.3k
A/N: I'm back again with another series. Whoops. I hope you like it! Let me know if you do! Feedback always appreciated. ❤️🙏🏼
February 14th, 1986
Barb’s absence stung even more on Valentine’s Day. True, it was the third holiday without her, but it would also be the last one you had to endure within these halls. Senior year was upon you, and while you were happy for Nancy and the few pink carnations in her grasp, it was just another reminder that the one person who sent you the annual flower-gram was no longer with you when she absolutely should be.
You, Barb, and Nancy had been childhood friends, though as the three of you got older it became clear that Barb and Nancy were closer. It was difficult not to be envious of their friendship--often feeling like a piece of furniture in the room instead of one in a trio when you were all together.
It made Barb’s disappearance more painful when you found out she went missing during a hangout you weren’t invited to. You wrestled with many feelings during her absence. Panic and despair at the fact she was nowhere to be found and the second missing person within a week or so, as well as anger and betrayal for being left out again.
But Barb always knew what to say to make things better, and would have sleepovers with just you and her, especially once Steve Harrington came into the picture. It made you feel like you were finally worthy of their attention, but once they started to push you to the outskirts again, it only hurt more.
You tried to remind yourself that the top priority was finding Barb safe and sound. However, at night when you were staring at the popcorn textured ceiling, it was impossible to keep your mind focused. What was wrong with you? Why would Nancy and Barb not invite you? Especially since Barb had voiced on many occasions her distrust for Harrington and how she did not like who Nancy was becoming to keep his attention. Were you not cool enough to go to Steve Harrington’s little backyard powwow? Did Nancy explicitly say that you weren’t allowed to come? As soon as you realized where the rabbit hole of self pity led, guilt for making Barb’s disappearance about yourself sat heavy on your mind.
When it turned out she died, you were devastated. Absolutely distraught. Your friend since preschool was gone and never coming back. There would be no more trips to the lake with her, laughing and counting her new freckles from being under the summer sun. No more Rob Lowe movie nights at her house. No pictures together for graduation. She wouldn’t be your roommate at University or be there to talk about the cute college boys. You wouldn’t be able to do her hair and makeup for her first date…
It took a few months to be able to think of your redhead friend without bursting into tears, but as the saying goes, time heals all wounds, and though it pained you, you eventually moved on.
But every year on Valentine's Day, you were plagued by the absence of your best friend and a simmering resentment towards Nancy. Though you tried to bury it, a small part of you blamed her. She abandoned Barb to have sex with Steve. If she had been a better friend, Barb would still be here.
When you shared this with Ms. Kelly, the school counselor, she said to remember Nancy lost her best friend too, and try not to judge or blame her.
As your grief became less pronounced, so did your bitterness. The trio became a duo, but Nancy wasn’t who she used to be. She dropped Steve Harrington like a box of rocks and started dating the total freakazoid Johnathan Byers. You tried to be nice to him, talk to him and include him in things, but he made no effort to reciprocate those efforts--often giving one word answers or only shrugging when you attempted to engage with him. Eventually you just gave up trying to be his friend. Of course this led to seeing Nancy less. So instead, you tried to make an effort in becoming closer friends with your classmates.
Being in Hawkins for so long, it wasn’t easy to suddenly try and become something more than just someone who shared a classroom with them. You’d talk to your desk neighbors and they would respond friendly enough, but when you approached them outside of the classroom, you were often meant with furrowed brows or awkward chuckles before they scurried away to the safety of their true friends.
It didn’t take long to accept that it would only be a few years before you were headed to the other side of the country and could find kindred spirits of your own. Barb’s death, Nancy’s all consuming relationship with Johnathan, and the growing chasm between you and your parents only solidified that there really wasn’t anything worth staying in Hawkins for. Once school ended you would spread your wings and flee from the nest as far as the wind would take you.
Watching Nancy happily caress the pink and peach petals of her carnation made the weight of guilt and loneliness heavy in your gut. In an attempt to hide your frown, you rested your chin upon your palm and stared at the state flags hanging from the cafeteria ceiling, until a loud voice rose above the rest of the rumble and caught your attention.
“—asinine, man, and completely commercialized!” the voice exclaimed.
“I bet more than half the people in here don’t even know who St. Valentine was.”
You frowned and rolled your eyes when you realized who the malcontent sitting at a table ahead of you was: Eddie Munson.
Malcontent was certainly right. Eddie Munson was a well known annoyance. A notorious loudmouth always bitching and fretting over something, always using the cafeteria table as his soapbox and the student body as his unwilling audience. Most of the time you and everyone else had just ignored him—much like the ever present hum of the lightning from the fluorescent bulbs overhead—but sometimes the shrill of his voice would pierce through the armor you’d built against him--like now.
You actually did know the origins of Valentine’s Day and the significance of the titular saint, but you wouldn’t ever try to encourage him. Munson was insane and instantly made a spectacle of anyone who dared to engage whether they agreed with him or not. And that wasn’t just in the cafeteria. In the class you shared he was just as feisty. Thankfully he knew well enough to isolate himself towards the back far away from everyone else, but that didn’t stop him from clashing with Mr. Albrecht on a near daily basis.
You, like everyone else outside of his weird cult following, stayed away from him. He was combative. Rude. A snarling beast with no manners and always itching for someone to say something to him so he could snap at them. So you limited your interactions with him to almost none at all—at least indirectly if you could help it.
Unfortunately for you, it seemed your sneering judgment alerted him to your gaze.
Quick as a whip, Eddie paused his furious monologue about his personal vendetta against the entire Hallmark cooperation and the founding family to challenge your stare.
“What?” he snarled.
You startled at suddenly being on the receiving end of his scowl, but only gave a half shrug in response. You weren't afraid of him like some of the other people in school, but you could do without being on his radar like Jason Carver. He couldn’t possibly turn a mute gesture into a shouting match in the middle of lunch, could he?
No, he spared you the personal attack he would have certainly given Jason. Instead he flipped his eyelids inside out and stuck his tongue out at you, forcing you to look away in total disgust at the unnatural sight.
Nancy turned at your exclamation of “Eugh!” and huffed at the howls of laughter from the Munson minions behind her. “Ignore him,” she advised. “You won’t want to encourage him before class anyway.”
Considering the very next class after lunch was your Contemporary Living course, no, you did not want to sit through an hour long class with him in an even more irate state than he already was.
With another roll of your eyes, you forced yourself to tune out the screech ramblings of the village lunatic and tried not to focus on the gleeful girls with carnations from their boyfriends in their grasp for the remainder of the lunch period. It wasn’t as easy as it sounded—stifling down the longing to have a physical token of someone’s affections for all to see. Your eyes found the side profile of the jock you hooked up with a few times last year during spring break, but Patrick McKinney didn’t spare you even a sideways glance once school resumed the following week, nor for a single second since.
Choosing somewhere else to set your sightless stare, more than once you found yourself nodding along to the echoing sound of Munson’s sentiment that Valentine’s Day really did suck.
——
You walked absentmindedly besides Nancy and Johnathan towards Mr. Albrecht’s classroom and were a little confused to see the teacher standing outside the door instead of his usual spot behind the desk. He was of average height, a little stocky, with short dark hair, and numerous deep scars on his face that many assumed were from his own struggle with stubborn acne back in the day. As always he looked bored and annoyed, but stood guard at the door and instructed the approaching students to line up against the lockers instead of shuffling into unofficial assigned seats you all picked yourselves at the beginning of the year.
You did as he said, silently scooting up in line with a wrinkled nose as you realized he was assigning seats now in the middle of the year for whatever reason. You hoped he kept you close to Nancy but separated Johnathan from you, that would feel a lot better to have your friend back without her boyfriend around for one class period. A small grin tugged at the corner of your lips at the thought.
Mr. Albrecht glanced at you and muttered your last name before sighing deeply. “You’ll get ten extra credit points for your efforts. Deal?”
“Huh?” you questioned dumbly.
Patience much thinner than the rest of him, Albrecht scoffed. “Sit down and if you don't react poorly, you’ll get your points. Column One, Row Five.”
More confused than ever, you slowly took in the new order of the desks—columns paired by twos—and made your way towards your destination and sat at the desk Winny Cartwright usually occupied. Nancy and Johnathan followed in and settled a few rows over and ahead of you sitting side by side in their new seats, blissfully unaware that you were not within easy note passing length of them. Your hopeful grin fell into a frown. Of course they wouldn’t notice you weren’t amongst them. They were, as usual, happily paired. You tried not to look at them by redirecting your efforts to digging out your career portfolio for class.
You were glad for this unit to be over soon. Mr. Albrecht had somehow turned Contemporary Living into a nightmare. He said part of it was to instill good researching habits in preparation for the journey to college while also giving you an idea as to what you wanted to study, but it felt like a hell of a lot of busy work to keep you and the other students out of his thinning hair for the hour. If it weren’t a required course for graduation, you wouldn’t have put so much effort into it.
The project, in theory, was simple. Pick a career, research the education requirements, and the entry level salary. Then, pick a college, research the total amount of money or student loans one would accrue from start to finish with the necessary degree for the chosen field of study. However, it wasn’t all bad. It gave you something to fantasize about as you laid in bed at night and drifted off to sleep—Where would you live? What kind of dwelling would it be? A house, an apartment, a loft? Would you have roommates, a boyfriend, or even a spouse? It sucked starting a new life in debt, but you’d do just about anything to get away from Haunted Hawkins, and this project let you see a lucrative way to do so—plan a life only a few years down the road, well within your reach.
A howling, menacing cackle pulled you from your thoughts, and in no time the small frown etched upon your lips melted into a full blown grimace as none other than the cursed loudmouth himself came sauntering down the next column. The chains dangling from various bits of his clothing noisily clanging as he came closer towards you. You hoped he would pass. That he’d walk right by you and keep going all the way to the back like he usually did but again, no such luck. Eddie Munson shook his head to beat back the wild mane of frizz and unkempt curls as he slid into the desk right next to you.
Now you understood Albrecht’s bribe. For ten extra credit points you could pretend that being separated from your only remaining friend in to school and instead sentenced to sit next to Eddie Munson’s wasn’t some kind of sick punishment. You propped your head against your palm and kept your head turned to avoid him. The last thing you wanted was to get caught staring at him again.
Given the new seating arrangement, you were likely expected to fill in the person in the row next to you about the contents within your portfolio and pretend to care about theirs. You weren’t sure what the hell Eddie Munson ended up picking since he and Albrecht started the unit fighting over whether his career choice could be a rockstar this time (his third), but Mr. Albrecht’s joke about the Munson boy’s only hit song being a rendition of Jailhouse Rock for other Indiana State Prison inmates resulted in a very frightening shouting match between both males that ended up with Munson suspended for a few days.
You couldn’t care less what his future job ended up being so long as his eyelids stayed flipped the right way and he kept any comments about your made up life to himself. However lame it may seem, you did put some elements of your true desires in there and weren’t keen on having anyone make fun of them.
You hoped that with the completed research for your preferred college, the course load, the kind of debt you would be in after graduation, your chosen career path, average annual salary for the state of Indiana, and a new seat yards away from your original desk, the unit would be done after today and that you would move on to something else that required far less investigating. Maybe something more useful like resume building.
You should have learned by now that wishful thinking did you no favors.
Albrecht entered the room with the door slamming shut behind him, demanding the class cease their chatter and get their stuff out if they hadn’t already. You spared Munson a peak over your shoulder and found he made no movement to reach for his things.
“Do you even have a backpack?” you blurted.
Munson blinked, shocked that you’d addressed him at all much less like that, before scowling. “Don’t get excited. You won’t care in a minute.”
You didn’t care much now. At least you didn’t have to pretend to be impressed with whatever stupid job he picked. Brow furrowed and frowning, you resettled your attention on moodily picking the fraying plastic of your binder until Albrecht spoke again.
“Listen up!” he barked. “There’s no whining and there will be no switching or reassigning partners so don’t bother asking. Capisce?”
When Albrecht’s cold grey eyes landed on your grimace, you gave a surly nod. Ten extra points didn’t seem to be enough. Perhaps you could swing fifteen. The guy didn’t even have a backpack for god’s sake! What did he expect you to work with here!
“Column one, look at the person next to you in column two,” he said, casually strolling at the front of the room. “Column four, look at the person next to you in column three.”
Reluctantly, you looked at Munson, who merely sat in the desk with his arms folded crossed his chest looking incredibly sour. This did nothing to improve your mood. What did he have to be so pissy about? You were a great partner!
“Boys and girls, what you’re looking at is your new spouse for the remainder of the semester!” Albrecht announced loudly with a laugh and a thunderous clap of his hand.
The room rang out in cacophony. Gasps, shrieks, laughter, protests. Jeering, hollers, and demands for clarification.
“You heard me right!” Albrecht shouted over the crowd. “Your desk mate is now your spouse!” He held up a stack of papers before passing out a stack for each column to pass back. “Here is your rubric. You and your new spouse are to build a life by putting your two careers together! You’re gonna build a budget. Balance a checkbook. Hell, I doubt any of you know how to write a check! We’re gonna learn that, too. In this unit you’re going to learn how to buy a car. Buy a house. File taxes. Oh, yes!” he exclaimed over the cries of misery from his students. “You are going to learn personal finance, people! And you’re going to do it with a partner to prepare you for what it’s like when you’ve got someone else’s hand in the honeypot.”
The class had a lot to say about this. Some seemed excited while others were downright distraught by the prospect of having so much work to do alongside someone they didn’t like or know. More than once you heard someone say that their boyfriend or girlfriend was not going to like this, to which Albrecht said they could take it up with him and he’d tell them to get over themselves.
You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t say anything with how heavy your tongue suddenly felt in your mouth. The sight of the course load as you scanned the rubric was almost heinous! And the idea of having to spend the amount of time it would take to do these kinds of things in the way that would meet your own expectations in one class was a little ridiculous. Did Albrecht think this was the only class you had? Did he forget about math, science, English, and the other core classes needed to graduate? The nerve of that beady eyed bastard to assign this kind of work right at the end of the final freaking year!
Not to mention the thought of having to spend any amount of this time with Eddie Munson, much less speak to him about these things. Filing taxes together? Balancing the family checkbook? Good Grief. You eyed him skeptically as he stewed in his seat, no portfolio to show for the last six weeks of work assigned.
“Well?” you prompted rudely. “Don’t you have your stuff with you?”
Munson stared at you incredulously. “What, you’re not gonna go crying to Albrecht for a new partner?”
“You heard him. We can’t,” you replied sharply.
Munson snorted, and mumbled something under his breath that sounded something like “wouldn’t be the first time”, but he refused to clarify when you asked him to say it again.
You huffed and looked over the outline again, making a mental note of how much time each assignment would take outside of class to complete. The chapter reading, the discussion, agreeing on the execution, and eventually putting it together nicely for your binder to turn in. Would you use yours? His? Well of course not his seeing as he didn’t even have one! Would you need one for your “married” life together now that would probably end up just being your responsibility to take care of anyway?
Albrecht demanded the class settle down and began to teach. “Building a budget,” he narrated as he wrote the words on the blackboard in chalk. “To do that you will need to determine both your monthly input and output. In other words, the money that comes into the bank, and the money that comes out of it. Someone gives me an example of what money input might be. Dixon?”
Andy Dixon, the mullet wearing jock a few rows ahead simply shrugged. You rolled your eyes and tried not to join in when Munson snorted loudly beside you at the meathead’s apparent idiocy.
His partner raised her hand, to which Albrecht agreed to let her answer. “Money from our jobs.”
“That’s exactly right,” Albrecht nodded. “The money coming into your bank account will be the number from the salary of the career you picked.”
“But you said that was money we make in a year!” Andy exclaimed.
Albrecht huffed and began writing the equation to calculate the monthly sum one would get from the annual salary if they did the math correctly. A flurry of pencils began scratching across paper and before Mr. Albrecht turned back around, hands shot up in the air.
“No, you may not switch careers,” he said without facing the class. “You will stick with what you have.”
All the hands dropped as a chorus of disgruntled sighs rang out.
“Now, someone tell me what output would be,” he said, continuing to draw a chart on the board.
“Costs,” Nancy answered simply. “Any payments that may take place.”
“Correct,” he said. “Now, your parents might be tight lipped about what it takes to keep the lights on, but in my day, the kids worked just as much to chip in for the bills. So, here’s what we’re going to do for this unit--”
For the remainder of the class period Mr. Albrecht went over general bills each ‘household’ would have to account for and stated that every Monday each group would receive mail from him with due balances. Checks, which he also went over how to write and passed out a handful of fake (“So don’t try to use them at Melvald’s or anywhere else because you’ll end up in jail!”) sets of to each group, would need to be turned into him along with a transaction sheet showing what was left in the bank along with how much accrued debt in student loans was still owed.
And that was only part one of this semester-long fiasco.
“You will need to spend time on this outside of class,” Mr. Albrecht warned seriously. “Exchange numbers. Find the time to make the effort, people, or you’ll see me again next year, or god forbid the year after that.”
The dig wasn’t very subtle, and quite a few heads turned to peek over their shoulder at Munson, who simply sneered at the onlookers.
Too engrossed in taking notes and hanging on to Albrecht’s every word, you hadn’t paid much attention to Munson, but looking at him now he still hadn’t bothered to move a muscle. He didn’t take notes. Didn’t do anything but lean back in his seat with his arms crossed over her chest and look miserably bored. You supposed with this being his second? Third? Time taking this class, he wouldn’t need to take notes, but his lack of effort was still quite irritating.
“So,” you began uneasily. “How do you want to continue? I have time tomorrow afternoon.” You had more than enough time with no plans besides a couple of other assignements, but you didn’t want to seem like a loser with absolutely nothing to do besides homework, no matter how true it was.
Munson’s brow furrowed. “You’re serious?”
You looked to Albrecht for assistance with your less than compliant partner, but he was walking around the class individually answering questions on the assignment.
Face heating with annoyance, you snapped at him. “I’m not doing this project by myself so yes, I’m serious.”
Munson’s brow shot up, a small smirk starting to form on the corner of his lips. “Well excuse me. No one has ever wanted to work with me on this project before.”
“You may want to stay in Hawkins forever, but I don’t. If working with you is how I get out, then fine,” you said sharply, scribbling your phone number and address on a sheet of paper with your name, not entirely sure if he knew it, and slapped it atop his desk. “Call me when you have a time in mind.”
Munsons scowled, balling the paper up and shoving it in his jacket pocket. “You think you know everything, huh?”
“Is that supposed to mean something?” you questioned, shoving your binder into your backpack.
“Yeah. It means you don’t know shit about me, so don’t pretend that you do,” he barked.
The sharp command in his voice made you look at him. While you never interacted with him directly before now, you finally understood why some considered him frightful. Lips pressed in a flat line, brow furrowed over angry brown eyes glowering directly at you, red dusting the apple of his cheeks--Eddie Munson did look like a force to be reckoned with.
While he did make you feel a twinge of shame for your judgement, the attempt at intimidation only made you want to remain firm. He may push everyone else around with fear tactics, but you refused to be one of them.
“And you wonder why no one wants to work with you?” you challenged.
The bell rang, signifying the end of class. Instead of answering you, Munson forcibly pushed himself out of his desk and charged out of the room without a word to anyone. Tension in your shoulders that you hadn’t realized you were holding released in an instant and you fell limp against the back of your chair. This was going to be a long few months and not at all worth only a measly ten extra points.
This is my Hazbin Hotel Oc! His name is Filp and he's a little flower demon. He doesn't like talking, but he will when he really wants something. He's also very protective of his territory (A big ass garden filled with deadly plants) and tends to eradicate anything that trespasses. He's such a lovely little petal!
Do you ever think that seija don't wanna filp everything and she care about it so much No you just thinking about yourself #seijakijin #filp #touhou #touhoummd #touhouproject #zun #sadlife #youdontknowme #meinthesheets #vs #meinthestreet
A/N: I actually did have a project like this in 11th grade. My partner/“spouse” actually did become an aviation pilot as he intended! Hope you guys enjoy this one. Let me know what you think!
What a curse it was to fight against the pull of unconsciousness when the shrill of the alarm demanded it five days a week, only to wake up naturally on one of the few days you could actually sleep in. The commotion your parents were making down the hall wasn’t much help either, and no matter how much you tried to block out the noise of them puttering about the kitchen to get ready for their busiest day, you couldn't go back to sleep no matter how hard you tried.
The loud thump of the front door announced their departure with a defaming bang. Angrily thrashing the heavy comforter from atop of you and unwillingly rolling yourself from the haven of your mattress, you faced the ever uneventful Saturday—the idea of going back to sleep long forgotten.
If the weather was warmer, you would’ve spent the day outside like you normally did. True that since Hawkins became haunted with the souls of the damned and deceased, you hadn’t ventured into the woods much anymore, but you did still like to go to the Eno River and the three lakes to go mudlarking and even magnet fishing sometimes. If you found anything good, you’d take it into town and trade with Mr. Horowitz at the antique shop. But with winter in full effect, you decided it was best to be near the water when it wasn’t freezing should you accidentally fall in.
There were other things you could do: Homework, watch TV, or get your laundry started, but none of it sounded appealing. Even after eating the last stale bagel, you couldn’t bring yourself to do anything but lounge around the empty house and wait for the mailman to come by.
You’d been waiting for months to hear whether or not you got into the University of Chicago. As February was already nearing its end, you hoped to have heard back about your early admissions application. Every day you sprinted home to see if the hefty welcome packet was waiting for you in the mailbox, and yet every day you were disappointed. You were accepted into Indiana State already, but you weren’t keen on it as your first choice. Too many Hawkins classmates were going to be there and the program you wanted wasn’t nearly as prestigious as Chicago’s. Not to mention Terre Haute was way too close to home and your parents.
Your relationship wasn’t always this strained with them. You remembered a time when family dinners were a nightly occurrence made by a homemaking mother for your very business oriented father at the end of his work day. Where there would talk about your day and gossip about the neighbors. But those quit by the time you finished the fourth grade. Mom decided that being by dad’s side selling homes was where she belonged. She said he needed to have a closer eye on him. Later you realized that meant she didn’t trust him to stay within their marriage though you were never told exactly why she felt that way. You let your imagination run wild and it left a very bitter taste in your mouth towards him. He didn’t seem to notice.
Even so, mom became obsessed with reputation. Upon her insistence, they created a tag team husband and wife realtor duo with the studious daughter who never got in trouble, and worked hard at selling their ’American Dream come true’ to young families looking for a place to reside within western Indiana. Nevermind the fact that the wallet size photo of their precious model daughter was used as a tool to sell houses while the living, breathing girl was mostly forgotten. Left alone in the house after school until the late evenings and on the weekends. For a while Sundays were when you saw them and got to spend time with them, but even that came to an end when they started branching out to show homes more than thirty miles from town.
You felt like a piece of furniture in the background of their life. Like an ugly armchair with a poky spring that was too uncomfortable to sit on but remained within the house because it completed the living room decor. You tried to express your loneliness to them, but they just pushed you to have more slumber parties with Nancy and Barb, or even ask the Wheeler’s if you could stay for dinner at their home most nights. After Barb went missing and so many people died in the mall fire, the only thing they said was they hoped the term Haunted Hawkins wouldn’t stick and ruin marketability.
So now, in your last semester of high school, you were beyond ready to leave. You didn’t want to be the ugly armchair in the corner anymore. You wanted to get out there! Chicago was the New York City of the Midwest. You couldn’t wait to explore it and live a life of your own. Try new foods, meet new people, make new friends! All without being told to stay and hold down the permanently empty fort that was once a home. Get to go out without being reminded that they were prominent community members and that anything you did reflected badly on them and their business. In a new town you could be someone else. Someone cool. The person you truly wanted to be.
When the mailman came around ten o’clock, you sprinted out into the freezing and damp cold to greet him as you did every Saturday morning. The stack was thin, and all too soon you realized there was no correspondence from your dream school—only coupons for a pizza place and presumably bills addressed to your parents. Shoulders rounded in defeat, you went back inside. Perhaps doing some of your homework would show whatever ruling divinity that you were serious and really really wanted to go to Chicago in the fall.
It wasn’t very stimulating work and you found it very difficult to focus for long periods of time. You tried changing subjects, taking brain breaks, and getting small snacks to keep your mind fueled, but nothing helped your thoughts remain on course. As much as you wanted to please your calculus teacher, you did not pass up the opportunity to abandon chapter fourteen’s review questions when the phone rang around one o’clock in the afternoon.
Perhaps it was Nancy wanting you to come over to hang out. Even if it was just to talk about Johnathan Byers, you’d jump on the opportunity to leave the house for some company.
“Hello?” you answered hopefully.
The masculine voice flatly reciting your name on the other side of the line certainly did not belong to your childhood friend.
“This is her,” you replied, frown etching its way across your lips. There was only one person it could be. The same person you gave your number to the day before in class. The one you were paired with for a dreadful grade-defining project. But still, you asked the question anyway in hopes that literally anyone else would answer. “Who’s this?”
“Munson,” the voice said. “ From Albrecht’s class?”
Pouting, you crossed your arms across your chest. “Yeah, okay.”
He scoffed at the lack of your enthusiasm. “Wanna meet up today and get this over with or what? Fine by me if you don’t.”
As awful as it sounded, further evaluation of the rubric determined you were going to need him, and were absolutely not going to deny his help if he was saving you the trouble of trying to bully it out of him. You cleared your throat and tried to be a little more forgiving in your tone towards him since he at least took the initiative to not be a total useless lump thus far.
“That sounds fine, actually. Yeah," you agreed. “Did you have a place in mind?”
Munson inhaled deeply, probably smoking by the sharp sound of it, before answering. “How about The Standard on Franklin in a half hour?”
Wrinkling your nose, you questioned the location. “The gas station?”
“They’ve got heat, fifty-cent burritos, free bathrooms, and unlimited drip coffee. They know me there and they won’t kick us out. Name a better spot to hang--I dare you,” Munson challenged.
You could think of a hundred different places that were better than the greasy corner store adjacent to the gas station on Franklin street. The library, but it didn’t allow food or drinks. Burger Chef had food, but it certainly wasn’t as cheap as fifty-cents nor did they let customers stay for an undesignated amount of time. Robusta-Ina-Cuppa had coffee but--
“Got a problem with that?” he snapped.
“Geez! Would you just--!” you exclaimed in frustration with clenched fists. You glanced at the clock above the mantle and exhaled deeply. “Fine!”
“In a half hour,” he repeated firmly.
“I will be there when I get there!” you sneered, slamming the receiver onto the hook and huffing verbal annoyances to yourself as you dressed for the outdoors.
Biking in the winter was less than ideal, but part of the deal with your parents allowing you to apply to schools out of state was to save money by not allowing you to own a car. You were licensed on your eighteenth birthday and reluctantly added to the insurance policy at your father’s dismay, but other than that you weren’t like the other kids at school who were offered a car. Instead, you agreed to let that money be put towards room and board for a school far away from home. It sounded like a dream come true at the time, but as you peddled and skidded the three miles towards the meeting spot with your backpack thrashing side to side, not opting for a car was a stupid choice.
By the time you chained your bike to the frost covered rack outside of the corner store, you were both simultaneously freezing and sweating from the cold and exertion of the trek. No one seemed to be around except some guy pumping gas a few feet away. Unraveling the scarf from your neck and removing the gloves from your hands, you went inside the small store to see if Munson was already there.
You scoffed when a quick sweep of the small, poorly lit interior alerted you that he wasn’t.
The place reeked of smoke, oil, and burnt coffee grounds, and you tried to ignore the way you had to nearly rip your shoe from the clutches of the thick film that tried to anchor it to the floor as you made your way towards the two small booths that sat in front of the food display. With a wrinkled nose, you eyed the hot dogs as they rotated under the heat lamp--glistening with grease and blistered from being dried out. The fifty-cent burritos Munson mentioned were on the hot rack next to the offending hot dogs, and by comparison looked far more edible, though you weren’t eager to give either a taste test. Declining on the less grimy table, you set your backpack down and continued to remove the layers of winter clothing.
“Can’t sit in here if you’re not gonna buy something,” a hoarse voice wheezed out.
Looking towards the origin of the speaker, you found a severe looking woman in her later forties behind the counter staring at you--a lit cigarette pinched between her red nailed fingers.
“Right,” you muttered to yourself. You kept glancing over your shoulder to see if Munson was pulling into the driveway, but even after you picked out a drink and something to snack on, paid, and resumed your seat, he was nowhere to be seen.
What you did see, however, nearly made you slip under the table to hide. The sleek, black Jeep Cherokee parked crookedly as close to the front door as possible, and out poured five familiar face from the Hawkins High basketball team, including one that still ached to see.
In an effort to hide from Patrick McKinney, you quickly pulled out your portfolio and the other materials needed for Contemporary Living and quickly tried to shield yourself from view—leaning your forehead against your palm to hide your face and looking intensely interested in the rubric, occasionally jotting down cursive nonsense in your notebook while Jason, Andy, and Patrick noisily made their way through the shelves of the small store.
Each thump of your heart against your throat only slowed the agonizing passing of time. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. How long did it take to pick out snacks and leave? Forever, apparently. They were so loud, rowdy, and bickered about everything. What flavor chips to get, how many bags, which candy Chrissy Cunningham liked better. The more they moved through the store, the more assured you were that they weren’t paying any attention to the people around them. They didn’t seem to care who knew that there was going to be a party at Benny’s, or that they were trying cases of beer for it with Andy’s new fake ID.
The mention of Benny’s Burgers made your shoulder slump with sorrow. The restaurant that had once been where you went with your friends on Wednesday night for dollar malt shakes and pinball was once Benny’s murder scene and has since been used as a den of degeneracy, or so you had heard from the grapevine at school. What a sad way to memorialize the place. Perhaps it wouldn’t sting so much if they at least took the sign down…
Barb. Benny. The restaurant. The mall. Haunted Hawkins indeed.
The raspy voice of the store clerk hollering pulled you from your sadness.
“And what do you think you’re doing with that, young man?” she demanded waspishly, peering over the jeweled rim of her coke bottle glasses directly at Andy Dixon.
He held up a wad of cash in the hand not holding a case of Budweiser and looked at her as innocently as he could muster. “I’m gonna pay for it.”
The clerk chuckled as she stamped out her cigarette. “Seeing as you’re not 21, I don’t think so.”
Andy looked nervously to his ring leader, who immediately jumped into action. Jason, ever the charmer, put his hand across his heart and smiled just wide enough to allow a dimple to dent his cheek. “Ma’am, I think you might remember me? I’ve been here quite a few times since I am 21 and I’ve always had nothing but good things to say about this establishment—“
The clerk leaned across the counter, looking down at Jason like a judge would a guilty defendant, with a very unamused, flat face.
“What kind of fool would I be if I sold beer to a bunch of kids wearing their high school lettermen jackets?” she asked cooly. Pointing at Andy, she demanded he put the case of beer back immediately.
You, Jason, and everyone else looked at the team and sure enough, each of them were wearing signature greens and white leather to show their accomplishment on the basketball court. The high school court, to be exact, with Hawkins High School Tigers etched in loopy cursive down the sleeve.
There was no stopping the chortle that erupted in the back of your throat or the eyeroll that went along with it. What absolute fools. Unfortunately for you, the mocking scoff alerted the dunderheaded jocks to your presence, and though you tried to keep your focus on the work in front of you as a way to maintain your innocence, Jason Carver wasn’t going to let being laughed at go.
From your peripheral vision, you saw him saunter over to you and brace his wrists on the table.
“Is something funny?” he sneered.
Continuing to avoid his gaze, you shrugged. “You could say that.”
Jason looked down at what could be holding your attention instead of him and chuckled. “Albrecht, huh? Chrissy and I were paired together. No surprise there, we’re gonna be together forever—“
It took an extreme effort to hold back a second snort at his cliche proclamation. Jason Carver and Chrissy Cunningham absolutely would be the high school couple that got married young and ended up being community staples with enough kids to roster their own basketball team with substitutes that never left Hawkins except the summer vacation to the cabin two hours north. Jason’s life dream was your personal nightmare.
“—but I wonder who you got paired with? I know it wasn’t who you wanted it to be,” Jason smirked.
Your eyes briefly flitted over to Patrick, who stood by silently with his back turned pretending not to hear what was going on as he looked at the nutritional information on a stick of beef jerky. Typical. He didn’t stand up to Jason back then, so there was no reason to expect he’d do so now. Especially no on your behalf if history had anything to show for it.
Cheeks stinging with embarrassment and irritation, you stared into the crystal blue eyes of your tormentor. “Weren’t you just leaving?”
Jason shook his head. “During our pleasant conversation? Not a chance! C’mon, who’d you get partnered with if not my dashing friend over there?”
Fate was a cruel thing. The frizzy haired freak could have shown up ten minutes earlier or even ten seconds later, but instead he came bursting through the corner store door like a bull in a china stop. He stopped when he saw you being crowded by Jason, a look of pure disgust and fury wrinkling his features. “I knew you’d ask for a new partner,” he accused viciously.
You hoped Jason would be stop on the uptake, but you weren’t that lucky. Roaring with laughter Jason said, “Munson!? Now that’s funny!”
Mortification and rage pulsed through veins as you clenched your fists on the tabletop. If the ground could just open up and swallow you whole, you’d let it in an instant as the rest of Jason’s cronies joined him in snickering at your misery. It was hard enough being estranged from your once good friend, but to be lumped into the same loser caliber as Eddie Munson on top of it was downright insulting.
Munson, however, smiled smugly as he stepped closer to the booth. “Jealous I’m already taken, Carver?”
Jason’s laughter ceased immediately and the grin slid from his face. Even you were shocked as Munson winked and picked his lips to send a kiss to the stunned jock.
With his pale face reddening, Jason barked, "Let's get away from this freak,” to his friends before marching towards the door.
“See ya, toots,” Munson sniggered, watching Jason practically break out into a run towards his Jeep with his minions sprinting behind him to keep up.
You eyed Munson curiously as he roamed through the isles, loudly shouting towards the clerk behind the counter as he grabbed copious amounts of snacks, a burrito, and a coffee. He seemed to know the woman he called Jeanine well, daring to ask about her weekend plans and teasing her about her red nails. She didn’t seem amused by him at all. In fact, she chastised him for his flirtatious behavior towards the other boy, advising him that even in jest he should never suggest such a thing. A part of you wondered if he was just joking at all. It would certainly explain a thing or two about him if he wasn’t kidding.
Munson waved her off dismissively. “Got rid of him, didn’t I?”
Jeanine grunted in reluctant agreement, her thin red lips pursed in disapproval as she rang him up and slid his purchased goods across the counter. “I’m trying to get rid of you, too. Get on and tell your uncle I said he needs to come see me more often.”
Munson let out an indignant huff as he ripped a massive bite from the greasy burrito and made his way back towards where you sat. You noticed again that he didn’t have a backpack or…anything with him at all related to school work when he slid into the booth across from you.
Cheeks bulging from the giant bit he took of his lunch, Munson raised his brow at your furrowed one. “You look pretty pissed. What did dear ol’ Jason Carver want with you? Hopefully he wasn’t hitting on you.”
Mortified, you gagged. “Never, and I mean ever would I even consider—! He’s a pig!”
Munson waved his hand dismissively, wincing. “Jesus, okay! No need to get so shrill. I’ve got sensitive ears.”
Irritation reaching its near peak, you had to resist the urge to jump over the table and throttle him by his stupid neck. “Where’s your stuff?”
“What stuff?” he asked with faux innocence, taking another mouth full of food.
“Your portfolio?” you huffed. “Your backpack? A pencil? Literally anything to help with this project!”
He shrugged. “Don’t need it. Besides, you seem prepared enough for the both of us.”
“No, oh no you don’t!” you snapped. “I told you I wasn’t going to do this by myself! You’ve taken this class how many times? You don’t have any notes from last year?”
Munson scoffed before swallowing roughly. “What kind of person saves their homework from last freakin school year?”
When you didn’t dignify his inquiry with an answer or waspish retort, Munson rolled his eyes.
“Who said you were gonna do it by yourself? I said I didn’t need a portfolio and I don’t!” he replied sharply. “Occupaiton, Hawkins power plant employee. Education needed, High school diploma. Annual income, $18,000. What else do you need to know?”
“Eighteen--Powerplant?” you blubbered. “Of all the things you could have picked, you went with the powerplant down the street?”
He sucked the greasy remnants from the finished burrito from his fingertips before wiping his hands on his jeans. “You were there when Albrecht said I couldn’t pick rockstar.”
“Yeah, but you still could have done something with more money,” you argued. “18,000 is barely above the poverty line. You would know that if you did the worksheet--”
Munson cut you off sharply, a violent sneer twisting his features. “Believe me, I do know that.”
Shifting uncomfortably beneath the weight of his gaze, you still pressed on. “So, why not something else?”
He shrugged. “What’s the point? I’m familiar with the requirements for the powerplant. Less research to do on my end.”
Rubbing your temple with your thumb to prevent the headache he was brewing up for you, you decided not to grill him anymore on his career choice or how he knew all of those specifics. Perhaps his dad worked there and gave him the information. It didn’t really matter anyway. You filled out his portion of the household income worksheet and sighed heavily. This was going to be a lot of work.
“According to the rubric, we have to come up with a budget so we can start looking for a house and a car by the first of march,” you informed him. “I’ve got some ideas for categories that don’t include the mortgage, gas, car insurance, and maintenance. What do you think?”
He shrugged haphazardly, looking incredibly disinterested.
“Fine,” you muttered beneath your breath. “Our total monthly income, which I found by adding our two annual incomes and dividing by twelve--”
Munson sat quietly as you broke down the finances and listed the categories of the budget. It wasn’t until you started to fill in the blanks on the projected budget did he show signs that he was actually paying attention.
“Why the hell would we need that much for a phone bill?” he questioned. “My phone bill is twelve bucks a month, not twenty.”
“I’m just estimating--”
He pulled the binder away from you and turned it around so he could see. “Sixty bucks for electricity? Are you leaving the lights on all day and night? No way, thirty bucks, max.”
God, he was annoying! Offended at your hard work being picked apart, you snatched the binder back. “And how would you know? You don’t live on your own!” Suddenly, you weren’t so sure. “Do you?”
Munson scoffed. “Might as well be. I pay half the bills at my house and maintain my own vehicle. I know a thing or two about budgeting, sweetheart and this--” he said aggressively tapping his finger on the worksheet. “--shows that you don’t. How did you even come up with these numbers?”
You slapped his hand away from your work, embarrassment--and for some reason--shame, heating up your face. “I looked at the bills from my house last month.”
He barked out a mocking laugh. “That explains it. You’re looking at numbers for a 3,000 square foot house that mommy and daddy pay for, right?”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing!” you added defensively.
The smirk plastered across his dumbface was infuriating. “Right. I’ll show you some real bills. Let’s go to my house.”
You watched him slide from the booth in disbelief. “What, now?!”
“Yeah?” he replied as if you were stupid while he stuffed his remaining snacks into his denim jacket pockets. “I don’t keep bills on me and I have brownies in the oven.”
You stared at him incredulously. “You were late because you were making brownies?”
Munson let out a genuine laugh and shook his head. You tried not to notice that he had dimples in his cheeks. “No. That’s not what I--nevermind. I just need to get home.”
Looking at the sad bicycle that was chained to the rack outside, you frowned. You didn’t want to ride even further away from home in the freezing cold, nor did you want to ride back in the dark. You did, however, want to get as much of this done today and you hated being wrong or worse, look stupid. And Eddie Munson’s critique of your proposed budget left you feeling a bit of both.
He paused at the door and followed your line of sight when you didn’t move to join him. “That's your bike?” he asked.
“Yeah,” you sighed. “How far is your house? It’ll take me some time to get there.”
Munson left out a PFFT and rolled his eyes. “Don’t be stupid. I’m not a piece of shit.”
You weren’t sure what he meant by that, but you were fuming at being called stupid. Angrily tossing your notes together and shoving them into your backpack while Munson exited the building with a curt goodbye to the clerk. You were putting your layers back on when you noticed him pull loose the chain that secured your bike to the post.
“Hey!” you shouted, paying no mind that there was a glass window between you. “How did you--That was locked!”
He either didn’t hear you or was purposely ignoring you as he walked the bike towards the only vehicle in the parking lot--a large van. Realization suddenly dawned upon you while you watched him open the double doors of the back.
He intended to give you a ride.
Going in Eddie Munson’s van to Eddie Munson’s lair sounded like the beginning of a slasher horror film, and you’d be lying if you said your chest didn’t constrict with a bit of fear at the thought. But you weren’t in a position to refuse. No one sane would turn down a warm car ride in the dead of winter to trek in the freezing sleet miles back home with a soon to be setting sun.
Awkwardly, you walked towards the passenger side of the van and climbed inside. It reeked of weed and cigarettes and had scraps of paper and food wrappers everywhere, but it was still better than being outside. You just hoped you could wash the smell from your hair before your parents caught a whiff of it.
“Thanks,” you said quietly when Munson clambered in beside you.
“Uh, yeah? Like I said, I’m not a piece of shit,” he retorted. “Can’t believe you biked here to begin with. It’s as cold as a witch’s tit outside.”
You didn’t have time to contemplate the euphemism before the stereo came on and blasted a shriek so loud it made your skull vibrate.
Munson made no effort to lower the volume as he screamed along to the high pitched falsetto as he smashed his foot on the gas to throw the van into a harsh reverse.
“Good god!” you hollered, instantly grabbing onto the handle atop of the ceiling and putting your other hand across your chest to keep your heart within its designated cavity when he kicked the van into drive and thrusting you full force back into the seat. “TURN IT DOWN!”
Either he didn’t hear your command or just didn’t care as Munson paid you no mind. It wasn’t until a very crude shrill of a much too long guitar solo came to an abrupt end that he stopped the tape and ejected it. His lips were moving, but you couldn’t make out what he was saying—your ears ringing and fuzzy from the cacophonous noise. Judging by the tape and pencil he tossed it into your lap, you gathered that he wanted you to rewind the offensive material.
“I most certainly will not!” you protested loudly. “I can’t hear myself think, much less speak!”
Munson rolled his eyes and said something in reply, but you couldn’t make out the muffled mess. You told him you’d appreciate some silence until your hearing returned. Luckily for you, it only took a few minutes of clasping your palms against your ears to cure. Munson scoffed at you and punched to power off, muttering something about being dramatic.
“Buying a house will be the easiest part of the project,” you informed him—your voice a little too loud still from your recovering hearing. “My parents can help with that.”
Munson waved at you dismissively. “We don’t need a house.”
“Oh yeah? Are we living in a box under a bridge?”
“Just get a trailer,” Munson shrugged.
Your face morphed in disgust. “I’m not living in a trailer.“
“Why not? Are you too good for that kind of thing?” he challenged.
“Sorry for not wanting to live in a shack,” you quipped. “Having standards isn’t exactly a bad thing.”
“Standards,” he repeated.
“They’re way too small. You shouldn’t be able to hook your house up to a truck and drive off with it.” you continued. “I want a real home.”
Munson looked almost amused as the corner of his lips ticked upward. In fact, it looked as if he was fighting the urge to laugh as he bit his lips. It wasn’t until a few moments later when he turned down a terribly bumpy and unpaved road that you realized exactly what he found so funny.
Much to your horror, the van passed one—two—trailers, an RV, and a few broken coiled playground horses, and approached a very small, grimy, blue and white trailer. Munson engaged the parking brake and turned off the vehicle.
“My shack awaits,” he said with a frightening faux sweetness and bright smile.
All the air in your lungs rushed out in a mortified, defeated sigh. How was it possible that this day could get worse? How many times were you going to be embarrassed beyond the will to live? Face scalding from the humiliation of having shoved a metaphorical foot in your mouth, you slowly turned towards your classmate.
All the mirth that was spread across his face evaporated in an instant. He was no longer grinning—lips now pressed firmly in a flat line. His eyes were just as dark and unforgiving as they were the day before when he snapped at you in class. The revulsion radiating from was almost palpable.
It was futile, but you tried to issue damage control anyway. “I didn’t mean—“
The way his lip curled made you fall silent. “Don’t,” he hissed. “We both know what you meant.”
You didn’t make another attempt to apologize or correct him. Instead, you flinched at the harsh way he slammed the door when he made his exit. Head ducked in shame, you followed behind him with as much enthusiasm as a guilty man walked towards the hangman’s noose.
A/N: Sorry it took so long, but I hope the length makes up for it. Let me know what yall think!
It was near impossible to not get caught up in the overwhelming spirit of the game once you were in the crowd. The air was electric with excitement and giddiness as people filtered into the bleachers to the beat of the drumline. Everyone was there. Literally everyone! From current students, former alumni, the teachers, and even community members like Jeanine. You almost didn’t recognize her from outside of her perch at The Standard, but the cherry red talons that were her nails gave her away. You were glad to see her and went to say hello.
“What brings you out here?” you questioned with a wide smile.
She patted a guy--not much older than you but with an obvious lapse in cognitive ability given the way his eyes were set low on his face--and grinned. “My grandson here loves to see Timmy the Tiger, don’t you, Reg?”
Reggie made a honking noise and nodded happily, making your smile grow at his joy.
You gave them a small wave goodbye and wished them a good evening. Nancy was standing by Johnathan and Fred, almost yelling at each other over the cacophony of the band and the excited voices of the cheer squad echoing through the gym. You took the long cord of the camcorder and wrapped it around your pinky finger and sat on the floor with a collection of blank tapes to look, as Nancy put it, necessary to the press team.
“Perfect,” she winked, before turning to face the court. Johnathan looked just as giddy as a corpse with the camera dangling around his neck, and Fred Benson didn’t even acknowledge you were there, too busy mouth breathing in Nancy’s shadow.
Within a few minutes, Higgins ushered the crowd through the pledge of allegiance, a less than melodic version of the national anthem, and the introduction of the home team members. As Patrick jogged out to the sound of his name, you were furious at the way your heart raced within the confines of your chest. It became even more erratic when he spotted you on the floor and waved, a bashful smile creeping across his lips.
You did not wave back, working hard to snarl at the traitorous rate of your heart.
He did look good though. The white tank top contrasted nicely against his dark skin. His hair was freshly trimmed and shaped, and the basketball shorts showed off the strong muscles of his legs.
You wanted to slap yourself for noticing any of this. Instead, you turned your attention to the members of the opposing team to see if they had any cute boys on the roster. Meh. Nothing special.
The game was instantly intense, each team scoring back to back on one another. No one had a lead for long, and you found yourself watching with far more interest than you anticipated. Every once in a while, Fred would yank the cord from your hand as he paced the sideline to catch the action, but you wound up not reaching for it again, too enthralled to care about pretending to belong.
It wasn’t long before the game started turning violent. After half time, an illegal hipcheck to Chance took him out, letting little Lucas Sinclair have a shot at playing the court for the first time all season if what he said this morning was true. The look of pure shock and glee on his face as he ripped his long pants off to reveal his matching team outfit led you to believe that was true. You looked in the stands to see if Mike or Dustin were in attendance, but you only saw the tell-tale bowl cut of Will Byers bouncing around with joy as he screamed for his friend.There was no thin faced mike, or gummy grinning Dustin in the crowd beside him. You hoped Lucas didn’t notice. It would probably break his heart if he did.
Out of the many baskets scored for Hawkins, both Jason and Patrick were among the top scoring. You hated the shriek of joy you let out at the three pointer Patrick hit to gain a one point lead. It was so loud that even Nancy peeped over her shoulder at you with an amused smirk. You ignored it, but couldn’t ignore the way your eyes followed him for the rest of the game.
Until Lucas Sinclair also hit a three point jumpshot at the buzzer, sending the entire stadium--even the opposing team’s side--into an uproar of cheering. You were jumping and screaming, cheering on the kid that had escorted you to school every day this week and whom you had once babysat as a younger child. He was being lifted upon the shoulders of his teammates, the object of everyone’s celebratory screeches.
Hawkins had won the Championship game with the help of freshman Lucas Sinclair’s Hail Mary basket in his debut game.
If Lucas was worried about ever being cool, this surely gave his mind ease.
Fred was saying something to you--probably berating you for letting the tapes clatter to the floor when you jumped with excitement at the swish of the winning shot, but you didn’t care. For the first time in a long time you were enjoying something amongst your peers.
When the team let Lucas touch the ground again and the parents started migrating towards the parking lot to leave, you helped roll up the cords and wires, waiting for Nancy to finish with her furious scribbling on her notepad to recount this glorious win in the school newspaper after spring break was over.
You heard him before you saw him--the telling squeak of his sneakers against the laminate wood of the court. Sweaty, with tinged cheeks and a smile so wide you could see all his teeth, Patrick started making his way towards you.
You couldn’t figure out why. He was a big deal now. A champion. Surely one of the cheerleaders would be happier to see him than you, but he didn’t seem to care. He walked right up to you, the dimple in his right cheek on full display.
God, he looked so good. Almost as good as he used to when he was hovering over you and whispering how pretty you were when you were wrapped up in each other.
No.
NO. Don’t go there. For heaven’s sake, don’t go there.
“You came,” he observed with a heaving chest, still working on catching his breath.
You nodded, giving an awkward but friendly..smile? “I did. Thank you for the ticket.”
“You’re welcome. It really wasn’t a big deal at all, you know?”
Fred turned to you, an expression of pure disgust written all over his lanky features since you abandoned him to do his own work to have awkward small talk with a boy that wasn’t him.
You pointed your thumb at Fred. “I gotta finish up here, so--congratulations on the win,” you offered. “You deserve it.”
Patrick took a couple of steps closer, stopping you from turning towards Fred. “Come to the party with me.”
You frowned. “You know I don’t like parties.” Or you, you resisted adding.
“I know but--” he sighed and licked his lips. Those gorgeous, plump lips that probably still tasted like you remembered. “We can go there for a couple minutes just to say hi, you know, make an appearance. Then go somewhere where it’s just us.”
The hair on the back of your neck was standing up, warning you that this was a bad idea. It felt wrong. Dangerous. Like you were walking into a trap.
“I can’t, I have plans with Nancy,” you said.
Patrick scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Really? She used to stand you up without even calling first to go hang out with bowl cut Byers. You complained about it all the time.”
That…was true. Especially during the summer when Starcourt Mall opened. There were many days and nights you were supposed to meet there but more than a handful of times you were left at Orange Julius waiting for someone who never showed. At least you got to ogle at some of the guys from the next town over, but it always ended up hurting. Nancy never said she was with Johnathan, but she never answered where she was either. It was always “something came up. An emergency." Initially you thought how many times could Nana Wheeler fall without being moved into her son’s house, but then you realized she was probably lying to go hang out with her boyfriend. It wasn’t completely out of her character. It’s what she did the night Barb went missing.
Not to mention at lunch she so blatantly pointed out you wouldn’t have any differing plans. True, you told her before about Patrick trying to coerce you into going to this stupid party and really didn’t have any desire to attend, but to cancel third wheeling at the pizza shop because you had plans with a boy tasted a little smug. Something you didn’t get to be often.
“If I go, I need to be home by midnight,” you told him.
A smile curled across his lips. “Alright.”
“I mean it,” you said sternly. “We can’t leave at midnight. I need to be inside the front door of my house.”
Patrick laughed lightly. “Yeah, I got it.”
“I’m serious.”
His smile grew, lighting up his whole face and sending your pulse into hyper speed without your permission. “I promise.”
Finding Nancy in the red room while Patrick changed out of his gear, you tried to remind yourself that this wasn’t going to be a repeat of last year’s spring break. You were better than that. Smarter than that. You could go to this party as friends and not do anything except talk. If he tried to get handsy, you’d poke his eyes and run to the nearest pay phone.
Yeah. That was a great plan.
Nancy didn’t seem to think so.
Her usually round eyes were narrowed with suspicion. “And you’re sure going to a party with him is a good idea?”
You shrugged. “We won’t be alone. I’m sure the cheer squad will be there, too.”
Nancy was not convinced if the purse of her lips and the deep wrinkle of disapproval was anything to go by. So you quickly added, “If you’re so worried then come with me.”
Johnathan scoffed. “I don’t like parties.”
You resisted the urge to remind him you weren’t talking to him at all and eyed Nancy expectantly. “You could come play UNO with me if it gets too boring?”
She gave a small smile and shook her head. “As fun as that sounds, I’m gonna stick with my original plans. But hey—“ she raised her brow and gave you the look. The one that meant she wasn’t able to say what she really wanted in present company. “—call me when you get home, okay?”
Let me know you didn’t do anything stupid. You nodded. “Of course. Have a coke float for me.”
You waited for Patrick by the locker room exit, trying to ignore the queasy sensation in your stomach at how familiar this felt. Déjà vu of what was so exciting and new but turned out to be a big heartbreak and disappointment. But this wasn’t going to be like last year. Just hanging out. Nothing physical or romantic. Hell, you weren’t even really friends.
When he remerged, smiling widely at little Lucas Sinclair and freshly showered from a well fought victory, the queasiness turned into stupid fluttering again, only made worse when he directed that smile at you.
“Ready? We’re gonna ride with chance if that’s alright. Jason is gonna take Andy, Lucas, and the girls,” he informed you with a nudge of his elbow to yours.
It’s not like you could disagree, so you nervously smiled and nodded.
It felt awkward being at his side again—like an out of place ornament that didn’t match the decor. As he laughed and replayed what he was thinking to Andy, Matthew, and Brittany Snitzer, you walked alongside him to the car with your arms folded over your chest phasing in and out of the conversation. You stopped in your tracks when you heard the cacophonous racket exploding from the doors of the east wing.
“A NAT 20! DOWN TO THE WIRE!!” Dustin Henderson screamed, jumping as high as his little legs would allow and clacking his heels together. He was followed by Mike Wheeler, Erica Sinclair, and guys that were wearing matching shirts Eddie wore every Friday. They must’ve just gotten done with their game—the one Lucas and Mike had been arguing about all week.
It was then that you noticed Lucas had stopped to gape at them, too. The grin he’d been wearing so proudly slipping away into a heartbroken frown. His friends missed his game—the first game he got to play in and ended up securing the winning goal—and they didn’t seem to care. You knew all too well what it was like to feel left out, so you tried to offer some words of comfort.
“Will Byers was at the game,” you told him, both of you watching the Hellfire Club walk towards their vehicles buzzing with excitement. “He screamed the loudest, I think.”
Lucas sniffled, clearing his throat as he did so. “Yeah, I saw him in the crowd. He found me after, too. Means a lot. But I wish they all could’ve seen it. I would’ve done the same for them, you know?”
Patrick called your name, catching your attention. “You guys coming?”
You looked at the departing Hellfire club one more time, noticing that Eddie wasn’t among them and frowned. If the rest of his friends were positively screeching with glee, where was he? Stretching to the tops of your toes to see behind the mass herd of people walking to their cars to exit the crowded lot, you searched for the messy mop of Eddie Munson, heart sinking further in your chest with each passing second. Sighing in defeat, you slid into the backseat of Chance’s car.
As soon as the door shut, squishing your thigh painfully as you crammed into Patrick’s side, you regretted your decision to ditch Nancy. The smell of Patrick’s cologne was so familiar, but of a time that was now tainted with bitterness and sorrow. The touch of his legs against yours didn’t ignite a fire of desire and giddiness in your veins, but panic and fear. Your stomach twisted in knots, tighter and tighter as the car picked up speed. The air was getting hot. Each sharp turn made your body press harder into Patrick, making your skin crawl. He didn’t notice that you were starting to sweat. He didn’t even look at you. His attention was on Chance, Matthew, Ross, Chuck, and Hunter who were talking excitedly over each other—bragging about how wasted and high they were gonna get and taking bets on who would puke first. Typical stupid high school boys with nothing to do but try to impress each other. You glanced at the door handle, wondering if you could safely fall out of the car and roll into a ditch at the next stop sign. You really did consider it until Patrick leaned closer to whisper to you, the brush of his lips against your ear startling you.
“You really had me going earlier. I didn’t think you were gonna show up,” he said softly.
“Yeah, me either,” you muttered.
Judging by the bashful smile he was giving you, he completely missed the nausea in your tone.
“I’m glad you did. Maybe we can try and be friends again, you know?” He didn’t sound sarcastic or seductive. Just genuine and maybe a little shy. The same kind of timid charm that caught your attention the first time. It only made your muscles more rigid.
He must have felt you tense up, because his face quickly switched to panic. “No—I didn’t mean—not like that. Not that I wouldn’t—I just—I mean—“ he took a deep breath, puffing his cheeks out like a blow fish. It was something you once found cute, and instantly reminded you of the time you were at Lake Jordan one afternoon last year. He held his arms around your waist, keeping your body close to his as he rubbed the tip of his nose against yours in an Eskimo kiss. You were both giggling and smiling like idiots to each other. Then he made that face—what you called his thinking face—sending you into full blown laughter.
Recalling that day and seeing that same expression on his face now sent a sharp, stinging pain right through your chest. How different things were. How different they could’ve been. How much your feelings had changed—both yours and his.
He let out a quick sigh. “I just meant I would like things to not be so awkward anymore—for us to at least be friends.”
The hopeful sparkle in his eyes seemed sincere, but you couldn’t stomach what he just said. As if he wasn’t the whole reason for the mess between you!
“I’m not the one who made things awkward, Patrick,” you reminded him sternly.
He looked down in shame. “I know. I’m sorry.”
It was the first time you actually believed he meant it. He only said it but once before. Sort of. But something in the way he frowned and wouldn’t meet your eyes led you to believe that for once, he might have an inkling of guilt over what he’d done.
If he’d come up with this sort of apology a year ago, maybe you would’ve been able to remedy things. But the truth was he didn’t know just how much he hurt you. He didn’t know how many nights you cried yourself to sleep over his sudden abandonment. How much you questioned yourself over what you could’ve done to prevent getting dumped like that. How much time you spent ruminating over every single second of that relationship to see where and how you went wrong and agonizing over how to fix it. How many times did you forgo meals because you were too upset to eat? How many times did you physically feel your heart shatter every time you saw him in the hall pretending you didn’t exist? He didn’t know what that was like. He couldn’t.
And so, you couldn’t bring yourself to truly even consider being his friend. You’d have too much resentment. Too much venom to swallow whenever you caught yourself enjoying his company. You could accept his apology. You could even forgive him eventually. But to be friends? No. That didn’t sound feasible.
But you didn’t tell him that. Not just yet. Not when you were crammed in a car at the mercy of him and his friends. Thankfully when you got out, you didn’t have to address it. As soon as the car pulled into the dirt parking lot of what used to be Benny’s, Patrick lost all interest in talking to you, which came as a relief. The tense, anxiety ridden state of your nerves decreased a little due to the open air, but when you stepped inside the small restaurant that had been turned into a hell den, you were ramped right back up.
People were already filling the cramped space—perhaps twenty or so of your classmates. The girls in the cheer squad were dancing on some of the tables that remained in tact. The only lights were that of the neon beer signs. The booths had been cut up. destroyed, and turned into makeshift mattress or benches. Blankets, towels, and aprons were strewn about in makeshift pallets all over the floors. It smelled of old vomit, beer, and very strong weed. The walls had been tagged with varying penises, phone numbers, and a particularly interesting image of a cartoon principal Higgins with his thumb in his bare ass. You snorted, wondering if Eddie was the artist of that one.
It was supposed to be like this. Benny wasn’t supposed to be dead. He was supposed to pass the restaurant on to his kids like his dad did for him. He was supposed to be the one stop shop for burgers, fries, and pies for the next two generations. Seeing the restaurant you used to frequent with your parents and friends torn to shreds was heart breaking. Surreal. Like a scene straight out of purgatory.
Patrick was getting clapped on the back and congratulated when you found a spot to post up against with a beer that had been shoved into your hand by Jason, sloshing all over the place.
You could try. You really could. You could slam a few beers and get out there. You knew a lot of these people all your life. Most of them you’d been in school for the last decade together. You were once friends with Rosemary Berglund in middle school. Would it be so bad to try and connect with her again? Or even Chrissy Cunningham. Before mom went to work with Dad, you and Chrissy had been in the same children’s program at church. Would she talk to you if you made an attempt all these years later or would you embarrass yourself?
Gulping down the disgusting contents of the red solo cup in hand and shivering at the bitter cold taste, you decided that yes—you would try.
After one more nasty cup of beer to try and calm the nerves.
Fun. This was supposed to be fun. Everyone was doing it. It would be fine.
With much more courage than you had before, you maneuvered through the clumsy crowd of bodies until you were face to face with Chrissy Cunningham.
Of course the other cheerleaders were looking at you like you were lost, but Chrissy had always been nice. Instead of wrinkling her nose and curling her lip into a snarl, she quickly masked the initial shock and smiled politely.
“Oh my god! I can’t believe you’re here!” she said brightly, twirling her blond hair around her finger.
“Yeah,” you nodded dumbly. You didn’t know what else to say, eyes flickering between the unwelcome glares of the others. To wipe those stupid sneers off their faces, you made it known you were there by invitation just like them. “Patrick asked me to come.”
Chrissy covered her cheeky smile with her hand. “That’s right! Oh, I’m so glad. Poor Patch, he was so put out when you guys stopped hanging out.”
Unsure as to what you say, you just nodded and tried to keep your face neutral with hopes that the muscle twitching beneath your eye could only be felt and not seen. Chrissy’s comment seemed to shock the other girls more than your claim of being invited. They immediately started looking around for the honorable mention to see if he was lingering somewhere. In an instant, you found him at Hunter’s side playing beer bong.
Your eye twitched again. Not drinking my ass.
Chrissy leaned a little closer but didn’t make an effort to lower her voice. “Are you guys…you know?”
You shrugged, pretending to sit on a secret that was far more interesting than the blatant NO you wanted to say.
“Well, be gentle with him. He’s a real sweetie,” she advised. “I’m gonna go get Jason’s jacket. I’ll see you around, okay?”
Awkwardly, you waved bye while she and her minions made their way gracefully through the crowd—not having to weasel or elbow their way like everyone else.
You felt like a fucking loser being dismissed like that, so to not stand there like a lonely idiot, you stuffed your hands in your jacket pocket and meandered towards the side door.
There were people outside, too. Playing cornhole and horseshoe on the grass. Evan Turney was trying—and failing—to shotgun a beer with some other boys. You watched them with mild interest as most of the beer spilled down their chins and soaked the already wet ground. It didn’t seem like they were swallowing anything with the amount that was pouring from their red faces. Still, it didn’t stop Andy Dixon from raising his empty can victoriously when he finished making a mess before everyone else.
This…was not fun. You could easily walk to the town square and see if Nancy and the Byers were still eating. That way you could salvage your night and put this whole thing behind you. But what would you do if they weren’t there? Probably call Mom to come and get you so you didn’t have to walk alone in the dark, which somehow made you feel even more like a loser.
Your name being called made your head turn. Someone recognizing you was shocking enough, but when you realized who was trying to get your attention made you blink harder and do a double take.
Relief crashed over you like a rogue wave. Muscles you hadn’t realized were round so tight it hurt suddenly uncoiled at the sight of him. Never in your life did you think you’d ever be so happy to see Eddie The Freak Munson, yet it took everything in you to not wrap your arms around him and his stupid squeaky leather jacket as he approached you with a look of mild amusement.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he questioned.
“Being stupid,” you admitted with defeat. “What about you? I thought you hated parties?”
Eddie patted the pocket of his leather jacket. “Only thing I care about is green. And these idiots? Pay heavily for cheap weed.” He stepped a little closer, studying your face in the dark and mimicked your frown. “Why the face?”
You sighed. “I thought it would be fun but I just wanna get outta here.”
Eddie nodded. “Want a ride home?”
“Can we get something to eat first?” you questioned hopefully. Truth be told you hadn’t eaten since lunch.
Munson snorted. “Of course. Let me get some more cash real quick. Hang tight.”
You wouldn’t have to be here with a bunch of drunks or stuck looking sad and pathetic while everyone else partied around you like you weren’t even there. You wouldn’t have to walk home, find a ride, or rely on Patrick or Chance who were probably not sober enough to drive by now. Like a knight in shiny…black jeans, Eddie Munson came to save the day. You were so happy you could weep.
So happy, in fact, that you actually smiled when he came sauntering back from Andy Dixon with a wicked grin on his face. “Does the lady want McDonalds again or should we splurge and get some Waffle Hut?”
You walked beside him, glad to see his van parked across the street. “You don’t actually eat there, do you?” you grimaced. “Isn’t it nasty?”
Eddie rolled his eyes and gave you a look. “Haven’t you learned to stop listening to other people and try shit for yourself? Try before you deny. Though I would recommend getting a little toasted before. Smother and covered hash browns when you got the munchies is just…man there’s not even words to describe—“
“Hey, what the hell?!” a voice yelled from behind you. You peeked over your shoulder just in time to see Patrick jogging towards you at the edge of the property.
Your stomach dropped like a rock in water. You didn’t wait for him to reach you all the way before saying “I’m tired. Eddie is gonna take me home.”
Patrick stopped short just a few steps from you with a snarl present on his lip as he glowered at Eddie before looking at you. “You don’t need to go with him. I’ll take you home.”
“You don’t have a car,” you deadpanned.
“Chance will drive us later,” he countered.
That was the absolute last thing you wanted. “Chance has been drinking. I don’t want to go with him. I want to go home now with someone I trust driving.”
Patrick scoffed, giving Eddie a once over, disgust clear on his face. “Trust him? Since when? I already told you to stay away from him! ”
“I’ve had enough of this. I’m leaving. Bye,” you turned on your heel to keep walking towards the van, but a loud thud made you spin around again. Patrick’s nice maroon polo collar was suddenly in Eddie’s tight grasp.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Eddie warned sternly. The look on his face was dark—rigid with a warning—the same face of disdain he used to give you when you were assigned to work together.
Patrick didn’t seem to care, staring equally unyielding at Eddie with defiance and fury. “Get your hands off me.”
“Fine. I don’t want any trouble,” Eddie agreed, releasing Patrick’s shirt from his clutches. “But don’t take another step further.”
Patrick sneered. “Or what?”
Eddie took a heavy step forward, crowding Patrick’s space and making the four to five inch height difference much more noticeable as he peered down dangerously at his classmate. His chest swelled, making his intimidating size even larger.
Patrick tried to remain firm, squaring his shoulders and not backing away. “You don’t scare me,” he spat.
Jess Christ, what the hell was happening?! How was it that you—usually unnoticed and passed over—was suddenly the cause of two guys sizing each other up?! These kinds of things happened to girls like Chrissy and Heather. Hell, even Nancy! While you were afraid Patrick was about to get his face rearranged by the heavy rings on Eddie’s knuckles, an odd rush of excitement ran down your spine. This wasn’t something that happened to girls like you, and yet…how thrilling to be the center of attention for once. Was it sickening to think so? Shame seeped through your pores just as quickly and intense, drowning out the excitement of it all.
“This is stupid. Let’s just go,” you interrupted.
They both ignored you. Eddie smirked at his opponent, a light huff of a half chuckle escaping his nose. “Oh I don’t care if you’re scared of me. I’m just wondering…what will your friends think? They’re looking over here, you know?” Eddie nodded towards Andy and Chuck who were staring at the scene a few yards ahead of them, talking out of the side of their mouths. “They’re probably wondering what the hell you’re doing. Begging a chick who clearly doesn’t want to be here to stay here with you. It’s not a good look, buddy.”
“Not as bad as letting The Freak walk away with the chick I came here with,” Patrick retorted quickly.
Your jaw dropped open in shock and disgust. “Oh, fuck you! Is that what you’re worried about, you shit ass?!”
Patrick finally spared you a glance, saying nothing with his lips, but his eyes said everything.
You shoved Eddie aside, standing directly in front of your ex boyfriend with fury pumping so fast through your veins you were shaking. “That’s what this has been about the whole time, isn’t it?” you theorized aloud. “The warnings, the flowers, the wanting to be friends again? It’s so your idiot teawon’t think you lost your toy to Munson?”
Patrick looked at Eddie, an uncharacteristic smirk full of malice spreading across his lips. “I don't care if the freak wants my sloppy seconds.”
It happened faster than a blink. You didn’t even realize you were doing it. It wasn’t a thought that formed in your head that you had time to consider. You don’t even remember grabbing the sleeves of his shirt or yanking him closer to you. You hadn’t even felt your knee make contact with his body. One second, Patrick was standing there looking smug and boisterous, and the next he was dropping to the ground while he clutched his crotch. With his forehead buried in the dirt, he rolled into a ball like a rollie-pollie gasping and trembling as he struggled for breath.
You were shaking, too. Chest heaving with ragged breaths while the fellow lettermen came rushing to their friends' side. Something—someone—Eddie, put his hands on your shoulders and started steering you towards his van. He was saying something, that much you could tell, but you couldn’t make out the muffled noise over the loud pulsing of blood through your ears.
Numb, trembling, and breathing heavily, you climbed into the passenger side of the van and fumed as Eddie kicked it into gear. Was any of the stuff Patrick said earlier real? The apology, the olive branch, the hope for friendship—was any of it genuine? Or was it just for show? To keep you hanging on by the thin thread of hope he tried to bait you with? How could he do that? How could he look so soft and authentic if it was just a ploy?
You tried to get your breathing under control, turning the labored panting and sniffling into a regular rhythm the best you could while furiously wiping away the tears fueled by anger that stained your cheeks. You refused to cry over Patrick McKinney again. He’d taken too much and you would not allow any more of yourself to give a flying fig newton about him. Coward. He was a coward for caring more about what other people thought about him.
Eddie kept the radio off while you got yourself together. He was trying not to be obvious, constantly flickering his eyes between you and the pitch black county road that led to the next town over, but Eddie Munson was about as subtle as a brick to the face.
“I’m fine,” you said bitterly, wiping your nose on your sleeve.
“Duh,” he chuckled. “I’m just trying to figure out why you let me think you were a stuck up wimp when you’re actually kind of a badass?”
You scoffed, sinking lower into the upholstered seat. “I am not.”
“Looked pretty badass to me!” he argued, a small smile forming on his lips. “I imagine most girls would’ve just run away crying after hearing something like that.”
“I did run away crying,” you reminded him.
He shook his head. “Nah, You didn’t run away. I had to help you along a little bit but you didn’t run. You handled that like a true warrior. Just grabbed him like a chump and kneed him in the sac. Honestly, it made my own junk shrivel into my guts cause know that shit hurt.”
You didn’t know what to say, so you remained silent and rested your head against the window. You didn’t think kicking him like that was as impressive as Eddie made it sound. If anything you were certain rumors at school would start circulating at school about how you went psycho on him and attacked him. You slid even further in your seat. Oh god. Your stomach turned thinking about what kind of stories were going to greet you after spring break.
“I’m not badass,” you muttered. “If anything I’m realizing just how much of a loser I really am.”
“You’re not a loser. Even if you were—“ Eddie shrugged. “Could be worse. You could be twenty in the twelfth grade like me.”
“The twenty year old twelfth grade loser is my only friend so it is worse,” you pouted.
Eddie blew a raspberry hard enough to shower the dash with spittle and put his thumb down. “Boooooo!” he yelled loudly, making you jump. “Leave the pity party behind! You just made your ex boyfriend cry and we’re about to get some good food! Lighten up!” He leaned over with raised eyebrows and a manic smile. “Or should we—you know—light up before we get there?”
Apparently it took you too long to answer, because Eddie was already digging a joint out of his cigarette pack and stuck it between his lips.
“It’ll make you feel better,” he said through the side of his mouth as he lit the end of the spliff. “Always does me.”
You doubted that very much. All the energy you had upon seeing Eddie at the party was replaced with agitation and the desire to just go home and sulk. Munson must’ve seen the distrust in your face and once against advised you to stop being a Debbie downer and get over yourself.
“Yeah, it fuckin sucks he was a prick, but you won,” he said, handing the joint to you. “He’s not gonna make the mistake of messing with you ever again. Not unless he has some sick fetish.”
You eyed the handrolled funky cigarette in your hand. The last time you got high you were sleepy, drooling, and awoke from a nap with a pestering headache. You hoped it wouldn’t be the case this time, but there was only way to find out you supposed.
“Yeah,” you agreed, bringing the joint to your lips. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“Course I am,” he smirked. “Was there ever any doubt?”
You shrugged, letting the bitter smoke fill your lungs. You still coughed a lot just like the first time, but you weren’t choking and gasping as bad so that was some improvement. Munson snorted, showing off the dimples in his pale cheeks as he took pleasure in your amateur skills, and kept driving towards The Waffle Hut in the next town.
When you got there a few minutes later, you were starting to feel the effects of the weed. Your limbs were growing heavy, everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, and you were blinking hard to clear the haze of your vision. Eddie thought this was funny too apparently, cause he kept chuckling every time he glanced your way.
He opened your door and offered his hand to assist you in getting out of the van. “Better, right?”
You took his hand and held it in yours, inspecting it with a wide stare. Soft and scratchy at the same time. Warm. No, hot. But not sweaty. Pink and pale with blue green veins bulging on his palm. The gaudy rings sparking in the neon yellow light of the restaurant sign.
“Yeah,” Eddie laughed heartily, pulling your hand just enough so the rest of your body followed and tumbled from the van. “You’re doing just fine, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. Your face was already hot from the weed, but now it was blazing at the nickname. He released your hand and walked toward the entrance, but all you could focus on was how lonely and cold your palm was now that he had let go. Sullen and with a pout on your lips, you followed him into the diner.
Inside was loud! Numerous people—at least fifty—were sitting in the yellow booths, smoking, drinking from their coffee mugs, and laughing. Most were men, but there were some women with them too, and people of all shades talking to each other across the isles and even the farthest corner of the room in one giant conversation. It seemed like they all knew each other—one big party of flannel and trucker hats. Three cooks were standing at the flattop grill placed in the center of the restaurant, flipping pancakes in a frenzy while also hootin and hollering with the customers like old friends.
Skin tingling as if you stepped through the looking glass, you asked “What is this place?”
Eddie gave you a sloppy grin, his eyes starting to redden from the effects of his own buzz. “The interstate—74–is right there and this place never closes. Not even on Christmas. Especially not on Christmas. Lots of truckers come here to eat and stretch their legs for a minute.”
“And they all know each other?”
Eddie nodded. “Oh yeah. Rides are long and lonely but they talk to each other on the CB—the radio with the walkies? They run into each other at the weigh stations and stuff too, so. You know. Bound to make a couple friends.”
You gaped at him. “How do you know all this?”
He tapped the tip of your nose, sending a heated flush through your face. “How you think Wayne got all those hats, sweetheart? Driving trucks around.”
There it was again—the nickname with no malice or sneer. You swore your knees were about to knock together from swooning but good god why was it over Eddie Munson of all people?
Drugs. It was the drugs. Now you know why the Reagans were so adamant against them. They really did lower you inhibitions. No—they took your critical thinking straight to hell.
A woman in a pale blue uniform dress and apron nodded her head towards Eddie, her husky voice asking when his uncle Wayne was gonna come through again as she weaved through the small isles and led you to an open booth.
“He’s such a handsome man,” the woman purred. “Even for a baldie.”
Eddie laughed and slid into the booth. “I’ll be sure to tell him he’s missed.”
Leaning over the table, you asked Eddie a question that had suddenly popped into your mind. “Why is it that every time we go somewhere, a new woman asks about your uncle?”
Eddie grinned mischievously and shrugged. “You heard her. He’s a good lookin man. Even for a baldie.”
Your jaw dropped. You supposed it was kind of true. You could tell that he might’ve been a looker when he was younger—less worn and grey—but not so much now.
“Oh my god. Is Wayne a slut?” you blurted.
Eddie snorted, which turned into a deep rumbling laugh, which inevitably turned into a menacing cackle that made his Adam’s Apple bounce uncontrollably. It made you laugh, too. First a couple confused chuckles at what could be so funny, but then you couldn’t stop. Some sort of high pitched squeal erupted from the back of your throat, shocking both you and Eddie, and sending each of you into unbridled giddiness. Well, you tried to cover your mouth and physically hold back the blooming cacophony, but it did nothing to muffle the sound.
The best part was that no one around you seemed to care. There was no judging stares, no whispers about if you’d gone crazy. Everyone else was enjoying their own conversations with the same energy and amusement. Everyone was having fun and not giving a shit about what the people around them were doing.
The stitch in your ribs from laughing so hard and loudly, nor the spittle that leaked from the corner of your mouth, or even the lack of breathing could get you to stop. The only thing that ceased your guffawing was the return of the waitress who asked if you were ready to order. You immediately cleared your throat, wiped away the tears that escaped the confines of your waterline, and tried to get yourselves in order. You might have been able to do it if Eddie hadn’t gaped at the waitress with bloodshot eyes and a dropped jaw and asked “huh?” like an idiot burnout. The total lack of awareness sent you back into a fit of giggles that only seemed to peeve the waitress.
“Wave me down when you’re ready,” she said sternly, clicking her pen closed and moving on to the next table.
“Okay—okay—shhh,” Eddie hiccuped. “I have to focus.”
“That’ll be the day,” you giggled.
Eddie pointed an accusatory finger at you. “I resent that. I can focus when I want. And I want to eat so hush. To answer your question, I think Wayne prefers the term ‘Tom Cat’ to slut. But I wouldn’t know, I’d rather die than ask him shit like that.”
You let a few giggles escape your lips. Your sides were sore and you were trying to get your breathing back to normal, coughing every now and then from the sudden change of oxygen intake. How long had it been since you laughed like that? Actually, have you ever? Despite having felt like you’d just run a few miles, it felt…good. A release.
You opened the menu to see you were still struggling through the hazy vision. If there weren’t pictures beside every option you wouldn’t been screwed. There was every breakfast combo one could ever think of as well as heartier dinners like pot roast, pork chops, and burgers. You were so hungry that everything sounded so good. Waffles, pancakes, grits, eggs, breakfast potatoes, sausage in any and all kinds of forms.
“Hash browns smothered in onions, covered in cheese, chunked with hickory smoked ham,” you read inquisitively.
“That’s what I’m getting,” Eddie said proudly. “With a chocolate chip waffle and a sausage egg and cheese sandwich.”
Your stomach gave a loud rumble and you clutched it with a whine. “God, that sounds good but I think I may puke if I eat all that.”
It took some time, but when you did decide what sounded the best, you and Eddie placed an order and used the time to properly recover. You leaned your hand against your knuckles and looked him over. His eyes were still bloodshot but his cheeks were returning to their normal color now that you’d both stop making a commotion. It really was unfair—why did guys get all the things girls wanted? The long, thick hair. Gorgeous eyelashes so dark and bold without a lick of mascara. He had no trace of acne scaring or pesky chin zits. There were some light freckles across the bridge of his nose and under his eyes, but no other blemishes otherwise. Despite having seen this before the first time you went to his house, it was still incredibly irksome and yet gorgeous at the same time.
You wrinkled your nose at the thought. What was wrong with you? Munson and gorgeous were not meant to be used in the same sentence. And yet…
He caught your grimace and turned his attention to stripping himself of his jacket, flashes of black ink showing on the inside of his pale forearm. He cleared his throat and started to fidget with his rings as he spoke.
“So can I ask what the history is with McKinney?”
The ghost of the smile that had been dancing on your lips faltered. What a way to kill the mood. But, he did rescue you from the party and it looked as though he would’ve scrapped with Patrick judging by the nose to nose standoff you interrupted, so perhaps he did deserve the full story.
“Oh, you know. The usual,” you shrugged. “He was sweet, attentive, and wonderful for a couple weeks and then once he got what he wanted from me he turned into Scarlett O’Hara: Gone with the Wind.”
Eddie grimaced. “Well that’s fucking stupid. Both of you.”
You threw the balled up paper wrapper from your straw at his stupid face. “Gee, thanks for not judging, asshat.”
He flicked the paper back at you when it landed on the table. “I guess it’s not your fault. Nature teaches us that hazardous creatures come in vibrant or unique colors. Poison dart frogs, coral snakes, shit like that. But they forget to mention that most harmful are the ones that blend in. Stone fish. Cottonmouths. Step in the wrong spot and—wham! Dead.”
You frowned, not at all following his train of thought. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“The fart knocker that blends in is the person who said I was dangerous because I don’t. And yet, he’s the only one of us who left a mark.” He pointed at the window, “Cottonmouth.” he said, then pointed at himself. “Jewel Beetle.”
That made you scoff. “Jewel beetle?”
“Colorful like a hazardous bug yet totally harmless. Unless you’re a blade of grass or something.”
“Right. We’re making this about you now,” you snapped.
For once, Eddie Munson didn’t know what to say. He bit the inside of his lip for a few moments before he copied your position, resting his cheek against his palm and scanning you over. “I’m sorry that happened to you. All of it.”
If you didn’t know any better, you would’ve thought he was just blowing smoke up your ass. Trying to save face or just say what you wanted to hear. But the frown tugging at the corners of his mouth and the way his shiny brown eyes shone with sincerity, you could clearly tell—no guess work—that he was being genuine. It was kind of uncomfortable and unnerving the way his gaze was boring into you.
Clamming up a little, you nodded. “Thanks.”
“So…why would you go out there after all that?”
“Yeah, well,” you sighed. “I did say I was being stupid.”
Eddie’s right eyebrow ticked up, a small grin fighting to make itself known across his lips. “Don’t tell me you were wooed by those ugly ass flowers? Or weeds more like.”
You snorted lightly and rolled your eyes. “Actually, I thought those were from you.”
Surprise flashed across his face, his brows hiking up so high they disappeared behind his bangs and he pointed at himself. “Me?” he squeaked.
You nodded slowly, warmth spreading up your neck. “That was the day Lucas and Mike showed up to ride with me to school because you told them to, and I thought that maybe you put the flowers there too as an apology for being a butthead the last couple weeks. But obviously that’s not what happened.”
Munson tilted his head to the size, watching you quizzically for a couple beats of agonizing silence. “You almost sound disappointed.”
You hated that your heart jumped at his words. You were disappointed, but was that because they were from Patrick or because they weren’t from Eddie? You refused to ponder any further and just shrugged, not offering anything to give you away.
As if he could see the demons on your shoulders arguing, Munson hummed thoughtfully before leaning over the tabletop to let you in on a secret. “Well. I don’t know about shitty flowers, but I can get you some cheap yet exquisite grub at—“ he checked his watch. “—quarter to midnight?”
The dumb lopsided smile that showed the white of his teeth along with the ridiculous wiggling off his eyebrows was enough to get a soft chuckle out of you.
“Yeah, okay,” you agreed with a growing smile. “I suppose that will do.”
When the food did appear, it was in much larger portions than you imagined. It was also a lot greasier than you imagined. Everything, even the utensils and coffee mugs, had a thin layer of slipper residue on it.
“Gross,” you commented, showing him the way the syrup carafe was covered in crystallized overflow and sticking to the pads of your fingers when you picked it up.
Eddie waved his sandwich that was dripping hot sauce from the bottom dismissively. “Who cares? It’s damn good food.”
And it was. Every bite was heavenly in your tongue and settled nicely in your growling stomach. You and your classmate sat in silence for the next twenty minutes just enjoying the nourishment and listening to bits of conversations from the booming voices around you. It wasn’t long before you were adequately full and slowing down to a sleepy pause.
“I can’t believe I ate all that,” you said.
“Leave room for pie,” Eddie commented through a mouthful of food.
You shook your head slowly and groaned at the thought of more food. There was no way you could fit in anything else. The tingling sensation of the high was wearing off now that your appetite had been cured, making the meal you just inhaled that much heavier in your gut. “You might have to roll me out of here as it is.” Leaning your back against the wall and stretching your legs across the vinyl booth in effort to get more comfortable, you watched the cashier frantically punch in numbers on the register.
“Do they sell pull tabs here?” you wondered aloud.
Eddie barked out a laugh—sharp and loud. “Christ, girl! Couple weeks around me and you’re assaulting people and deep into illegal gambling? Maybe Higgins is right—I am a bad influence.”
You shrugged before woefully admitting, “Not the worst thing I’ve done lately.”
He leaned in further, almost dunking the ends of his hair into the puddle of syrup on his plate. “Pray tell the adventures I’m missing out on? Or is it something lame like being out past your curfew.”
You sneered playfully at him, “No, it's not that.” But you hesitated telling him what it really was because…well…it was shameful.
In order to keep up the ruse with your parents that you had actually gotten into University of Chicago, you started making a habit of checking the mailbox early in the morning to snag any outgoing mail Dad put in there. You didn’t want any checks going to the university and Dad getting a call saying he was mistaken and that you weren’t actually officially in yet. That would be horrible. Embarrassing, even. Instead, you swiped the envelopes addressed to the registrar and put them at the bottom of your closet in an old shoebox hidden beneath a heap of clothes you didn’t want anymore.
Eddie kept looking at you expectantly—those brown eyes shining with curiosity and mirth. You weren’t entirely sure you could trust him with such sensitive information. Would he throw it back in your face? He seemed the type with his volatile temper. But then again he knew far too much about you as it was and hadn’t been a complete piece of shit about anything you’d shared with him thus far.
So you took a chance. You told him about intercepting the mail, avoiding his gaze and tracing designs on the greasy laminated tabletop as you recounted your shame.
Munson dropped the remnants of his sandwich and gaped at you—wide eyes and equally wide open mouth. Shifting uncomfortably in your seat under his dumbfounded gaze, you snapped at him to say something. Anything!
He blinked a couple of times before chuckling. “Sorry, Sweetheart, I just wasn’t expecting grand larceny as an answer. Holy shit!” He leaned over the table more to whisper. “You know those are felonies right? Tampering with mail and withholding that kind of dough?”
A felony? TWO felonies? Just for hiding an envelope and saving Dad hundreds of dollars? You doubted the validity of the statement but then again…this was Eddie Munson and if he could be trusted with any kind of knowledge, criminal charges would be it.
“Of course you would know that!” you snapped, panicking a little. Was it suddenly hot in here?
“I’m surprised you don’t, future lawyer!” he retorted. A sly smile ticked the corner of his lips. “But thinking about it…it’s not that far-fetched. How very white-collar of you. Next you’ll be telling me you’re embezzling it.”
You straightened your posture, suddenly smug at his mistake. “It’s only embezzlement if it’s within a company.” At least that much you actually did learn from Albrecht’s class. Maybe he wasn’t right about the felony thing after all.
Eddie mocked your facial expression before blowing a particularly slobbery raspberry. “You’re splitting hairs. Fraud is fraud and you are being quite fraudulent.”
Fraud. Your stomach sank lower at the implication. “Only if I use it,” you said meekly.
He shook his head. “Stealing checks out of the mail—no matter the intention or whether you spend it—is the double-edged felonious sword you’ll fall on, my friend. If you’re caught. But you’re smart so I doubt you will.”
His faith did seem to perk you up a little. “You think so?”
He shrugged. “Just give him the unopened envelope when you eventually confess. I’m sure he’ll be so relieved to see that money again he wouldn’t even consider the criminal part of the equation.”
You sighed heavily, the idea of having that conversation with your parents making your guts wriggle like earthworms. It was an unpleasant thought. All of it. From relaxing you spilled the beans to Eddie to having to eventually pop the bubble of perfection you spindled for your parents in an attempt to earn their attention and pride. It was honestly killing the mood.
“What’s Lady Wheeler say about your sudden wild side?” He pulled a cigarette from the breast pocket of his jacket and let it dangle between his lips. “I noticed she wasn’t with you at the party.”
Why was he honing in on all the sore sports all of a sudden? You crossed your arms over your chest and frowned deeper, watching him light his smoke and looking obnoxiously handsome doing so.
“Of course she wasn’t there,” you said bitterly. “She was hanging out with her boyfriend.”
Munson nodded slowly and hummed, blowing a stream of smoke out of the side of his mouth. “I see. Not really into being third wheel?”
“Who is?” you snapped. “I don’t think they even really like each other, you know? It’s weird. They’re weird! All they do is bicker. He doesn’t like it when she does—well—anything! He is always belittling the things she likes as if the shitty music he listens to makes him cool and different. She actually hates the music he plays when I do hang out with them but she doesn’t say anything! And I think that’s what bothers me the most is that Nancy just lets him talk down to her. Yeah, she bites back and gets her licks in sometimes but it’s like—why? Why does she allow him to just do that? He’s such a pessimist, too—“
Eddie let you rant. He stared intently at you as he occasionally took a drag from his cigarette or ticked it against the half melted ashtray on the table as years of bitten back opinions just came flooding out like a river through a broken dam. You weren’t really sure why you trusted him with these feelings, but he didn’t interrupt or look anywhere else to give you the idea that he was bored with the conversation. If anything, he genuinely seemed interested in your theory that perhaps Johnathan liked the idea of dating Nancy—the girl next door with the perfect nuclear family with a talent for sleuthing and good writing, something unattainable and such a status symbol for someone like him—versus actually dating Nancy—someone who was from a well to do family and hadn’t experienced the fractured home that Johnathan Byers did—as he so often threw in her privileged life in face.
“—not that Steve Harrington was any better. I mean, he was a stuck up douchebag but at least he was good looking. Objectively,” you added quickly with a half shrug when Munson curiously raised a brow at your statement.
He pulled his chained wallet from his back pocket and dropped a worn ten dollar bill atop the receipt the waitress had dropped off during your fuming. You followed him from the booth and out of the resturaunt continuing to think aloud and narrate how you’d been disappointed when in ninth grade Nancy had broken the news to you and Barb that Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington had come up to her at lunch and called her cute—you hadn’t even really noticed that he opened the van door for you until you were sitting in the passenger seat and backing out of the parking lot.
“Thanks,” you added quickly. “Sorry. That was a lot about people you don’t even like.”
Eddie shrugged. “More like I’m learning a lot about people who I spent my whole life around and didn’t actually know anything about. Though I can see Byers liking The Smiths. But uh…don’t you think you’re being a bit harsh?”
You scowled. “No. But you obviously think I am.”
Eddie shrugged, a look of unease marking his features. “I mean…you don’t really have to understand why she likes him. She just does, right?”
Anger—from seemingly nowhere—started to ignite a fire in your chest, sending hot blood to your cheeks and an ugly confession to your lips.
“No, what I don’t understand is how she juggled two totally different guys while our best friend was missing,” you said hotly. “Barb was missing for a year—literally a year—before that tape came out and what was Nancy doing during that time? Living her own episode of The Love Connection like it wasn’t her fault Barb went missing in the first place!”
Munson’s brow furrowed. “How was it Wheeler’s fault?”
You were shouting now. “Because! She asked Barb to go with her as a cover to Steve’s house and as soon as she got there, Nancy told Barb to get lost so she could fuck the most popular guy in school. Then Barb disappeared and ended up dead! If Nancy had just walked her back to her car or—I don’t know! Been a better friend! Then Barb would still be here!”
Eddie was taken aback judging by the look of surprise on his face. He nodded slowly, seeming to process what you had just said.
“If she had just walked Barb to her car—,” you spat furiously through gritted teeth. “—if she had just made sure she was safe!” Your eyes were stinging with tears that took no time to spill over. You tried to wipe them away, but there was no use. They flowed freely as you let your true feelings spring from your lips. “She let Barb wander back to her car alone and she stepped in the leak or something. Got exposed to whatever chemical! She died ALONE and afraid and—!”
You couldn’t talk about it anymore. The iron grip of pain surrounding your heart was clenching so tightly that your voice failed. Instead you tried to focus on your breathing. Steadying it. Get it back to a rate that wouldn’t lead to hyperventilation as you tried to rebury the secret resentment back into place.
“So…because she was the last person who saw her…it’s Nancy’s fault your friend died?” Munson asked carefully.
It sounded stupid when he phrased it like that. Nancy wasn’t the hand that ended Barb’s life. It wasn’t really her fault. But if she had just been there. If she had been paying attention. If she could’ve just—
Munson interrupted your train of thought. “So you must think I killed Barry.”
“What?” you blinked.
“Yeah. If you think Nancy killed Barb, then by that logic, I killed Barry,” he said venomously.
“The lab killed Barb,” you snapped.
“I was the last one to see him!” Eddie shouted, pointing himself hard in the center of his chest. “I wasn’t fucking him, but I went off to shoot fireworks with Gareth while Barry walked away! Does that make it my fault?!”
You gawked at him, mouth hung agape as you tried to follow his thinking. “We weren’t even talking about you! Or Barry!”
The angrier he got, the louder he shouted, and the faster the van sped down the dark country road. “But it was Nancy’s fault, right?” he challenged, his voice getting louder. His cheeks getting redder. “My fault? Because we were the last ones to see them alive?”
“Tha—that was different! You didn’t shoo him away like a fly, did you?”
“And if I did, would it matter?!” Munson balked. “You said yourself it was the lab that killed Barb! So is it my fault or not?”
You swelled. “They’re not the same thing!”
“Aren’t they?!” he hollered back, going so fast that the engine roared almost as long as him. “It’s exactly the same thing!”
“Slow down, you’re gonna kill us!”
Eddie pointed a stern index finger at you. “THAT would be my fault, but you’re saying it was my fault that Barry—“
You were going to rupture. “I LITERALLY DIDN’T SAY THAT. YOU SAID THAT!”
“WHERE WERE YOU THEN, HUH?!” he screamed, eyes as dark as the sky outside. “IF YOU WERE SUCH A GREAT FRIEND HOW COME YOU WEREN’T THERE TO SAVE HER?! MAYBE IT’S YOUR FAULT! DID YOU EVER THINK OF THAT?”
You glared at him, chest heaving wildly from breathing erratically from the raw fury coursing through you—heart thumping so hard it was giving you a headache to the same throbbing rhythm. The next time you spoke it was so low it didn’t even sound like you.
“That’s all I think about.”
In seemingly less than the normal time it should’ve taken, Munson turned the corner that led down your street so hard it made the tires squeal and threw you against the window even with your seatbelt on.
“You’re a shit friend for blaming her because you’ll never know what it’s like!” he shouted. “She will hate herself every fucking day for the rest of her life because all she thinks about is what she could’ve done different because SHE WAS the last one to see her fucking friend. Just like I do! Every goddamn day since it happened!”
He slammed the brakes in front of your house, causing you both to lurch forward. Furious, neck burning from the cloth of the seatbelt burrowing into your skin, and shaking, you scrambled to unbuckle your seatbelt.
“Yeah? Well you’re a shit friend, too!” you yelled. “Every single time I have something to say, you somehow make it about YOU! YOU! YOU!”
He chuckled humorlessly. “Be thankful you don’t have to worry about that anymore.”
“Thank FUCKING GOD!”
If you weren’t in such a rush to get away from him, you would’ve loved nothing more than to grab that frizzy hair of his and bash his head into the steering wheel until his face looked like minced hamburger meat. Instead, you slammed the van door hard enough to make a bang like a gunshot before storming up the driveway angrier than you had ever been.
