Chapter Text
The fluorescent lights in the hallway buzzed like tired bees, and the air smelled like floor wax and too much Aqua Net. I was hugging my books to my chest, trying to keep up with Nancy and Barb while pretending I wasn’t still hearing that wet, ragged breathing from last night every time the hallway got too quiet.
Barb was mid-rant about her chemistry quiz when Nancy suddenly stopped in front of her locker. Her cheeks went the color of the strawberry lip gloss she’d started wearing last month.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, clutching a tiny folded square of notebook paper like it was the Declaration of Independence. “He gave me a note.”
Barb adjusted her glasses and gave Nancy the most unimpressed look in the history of unimpressed looks. “A note. Like we’re in sixth grade.”
I leaned in, curiosity buzzing louder than the lights. “What does it say, what does it say?”
Nancy unfolded it with trembling fingers. In Steve’s messy boy-scrawl it read:
Meet me by the gym after 7th period? – S ♡
I squealed. “Nancy Wheeler, Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington just drew a heart next to his initial! This is historic!”
Barb rolled her eyes so hard I was worried they’d get stuck. “It’s probably about homework.”
Nancy bit her lip, trying (and failing) to hide her smile. “It’s not homework. He winked at me in trig.”
“He winks at vending machines,” Barb muttered.
I elbowed her gently. “Barb, let the girl have her moment.”
Nancy looked at me with those big hopeful eyes. “Do you think I should go?”
“Obviously,” I said at the exact same time Barb said, “Absolutely not.”
We both stared at each other. I laughed first. “Okay, counteroffer: you go, but we tail you from a safe distance like the world’s worst spy movie. If he tries anything creepy, I’ll throw my algebra book at his head.”
Barb snorted. “You’d miss and hit Tommy H.”
“Worth it,” I grinned.
Nancy clutched the note to her chest again. “You guys are the best. Seriously. I’d be a total wreck without you.”
I bumped her shoulder with mine. “You’re gonna be fine. And if he’s a jerk, we’ll just tell my dad. Last week he made a jaywalker cry.”
Barb finally cracked a smile. “I’d pay to see Steve Harrington cry.”
The bell rang, shrill and awful. We scattered toward our separate classes, but not before I caught Nancy sneaking one more look at that little folded square of paper, her face glowing like Christmas morning.
As I walked to English, I felt this fizzy little spark in my chest. Nancy was stepping out of her perfect-good-girl box, and I was… well, I was happy to cheer from the sidelines. That’s what best friends do, right? We hold the flashlight while the other person jumps off the cliff.
✘
My room smells like vanilla and the cinnamon candle I forgot to blow out earlier. The fairy lights are still on, a soft gold net of gold over Whiskers curled on my pillow like nothing in the world was wrong, the stacks of library books, the cat-print comforter, the polaroids of me and Nancy tacked above my desk. I’m burrowed under two blankets, flashlight balanced on my knee, totally lost in a story about a girl who finds handprints on the inside of her bedroom mirror.
Then the floorboards creak, heavy and deliberate. Dad’s footsteps. Not the usual shuffle of him coming to tell me lights-out; this is fast, purposeful.
I click the flashlight off and sit up just as my door cracks open.
He’s already in uniform, badge glinting under the fairy lights, radio clipped to his belt. His face looks… wrong. Tired and tight, like he’s holding something behind his teeth.
“Daddy?” My voice comes out smaller than I meant it to.
He tries to smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hey, pumpkin. Go back to sleep, okay?”
I clutch the ghost-story book to my chest like a shield. “Is something wrong?”
“Just some neighborhood trouble,” he says, too quick. He steps in, rests a big hand on my shoulder, squeezes once. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
But I feel it in the way his fingers tremble, just a little. I know that tremor; it’s the same one he had the night Mom got really sick.
He leans down, presses a kiss to the top of my head like I’m still eight years old. “Lock the door behind me. I’ll be back before breakfast.”
Then he’s gone, footsteps retreating, the jangle of keys, the front door clicking shut.
I’m out of bed before I can talk myself out of it. Bare feet on cold hardwood, I pad to the window and pull the curtain aside.
Red and blue lights strobe across the cul-de-sac. Dad’s cruiser idles behind Hopper’s beat-up Blazer. Hopper himself is leaning out the driver-side window, saying something I can’t hear. Dad nods once, sharp, then slides into his car.
They pull away together, tires hissing on wet leaves, lights painting the neighbors’ houses like silent fireworks.
A cold wind slips through the cracked window and crawls straight down my spine. I didn’t leave that window open.
I hug my arms around myself, staring at the empty street long after the glow of their taillights disappears.
Last night I’d seen a monster chase someone down Mirkwood.
Tonight the police were racing toward Mirkwood.
And for the first time in my whole sheltered life, Hawkins doesn’t feel safe anymore.