Chapter Text
“Did you see that new chick in Homeroom?” one meathead said to another.
Eddie hung back behind the tiled partition in the locker-room to listen. He hated the public bathrooms. One too many cornerings for his taste. But the gym locker-room was usually deserted between classes.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only one who’d figured that out.
“Saw her in the hallway,” the second one said. “Kinda weird. Hot, though.”
The first meathead hummed in agreement, then said, “Total lezbo.”
Eddie knew what that meant: She’d ignored the meathead.
“How do you know?” asked the second, a tease in his tone. “You say something?”
“Nah, man, you can just tell.”
Yeah, Eddie bet that one had a lot of experience getting rejected by smart, weird girls. Him, on the other hand? Well, he had experience getting rejected by all the girls in Hawkins. He didn’t think they were lesbians, though. They were just afraid of his reputation. Or maybe intimidated by his presence, his wit, his fashion sense, and stunning good looks.
Yes, he joked with himself, he was the total package.
In a run-down trailer he shared with his uncle to go along with it.
Eddie would have to wait until his lunch break to see this new, hot, weird chick. Apparently, she shared a homeroom with that meathead, so she was a senior. He wondered which flavor of weird she was. Art weird? Theater weird? Band weird?
Weird weird?
He shrugged. He liked weird.
Later that day, he monitored the cafeteria, never finding a new, hot, weird chick. Maybe she had a different lunch break. Though, he figured he would’ve seen her by now. There were only so many seniors at Hawkins High.
Gareth and Jeff were discussing — arguing — with Henderson about… something. Eddie lost track of the conversation a few irrelevant facts ago. His baggie of generic Cheez-Its was long empty, along with the plastic cup he’d filled at the water fountain.
Tired of sitting, Eddie stood and left the table. There were fifteen more minutes until class. Maybe someone would buy the last of his weed; then he could go through the lunch-line for a sublime-smelling slice of pizza.
He marched to the tables in the shaded courtyard. People noticed him, and his black lunchbox, but looked away.
No takers.
There were always people hanging around behind the building. Usually smoking.
He went through the open double-doors beside the gym, the sun blinding him.
On his left, a male voice said, “Hey, Munson!”
Eddie squinted and turned to the voice. His eyes adjusted, and he grinned when he recognized the speaker.
Bingo.
He said, “Lowe, what’s up?”
“You got anything good in that lunchbox, dude?” asked Lowe.
“Don’t I always?”
Lowe chuckled. “Hell yeah.”
Seven minutes later, Eddie was twenty-five dollars richer and had an invitation to a weekend party. He smiled to himself as he joined the lunch-line. Parties meant drugs, drugs meant money, money meant adding to the Get (the fuck) Out of Hawkins Fund. He reminded himself to call his Indy connection for a meet-up, checking his pockets for change for the payphone.
Brenda, the nicer of the lunch-ladies, brought out a fresh pan of pizza from the oven. The scent was from the gods, heavenly, angels sang. His stomach rumbled in agreement. Brenda was his favorite person in the whole world.
Who cared about the new chick when one had a perfect, steamy rectangle of pepperoni pizza?
He was so giddy when Brenda gave him the lunch-tray, he snatched a chocolate milk from the refrigerated bin.
What the hell, he thought. Live a little.
You sat on the table part of the picnic table in the woods behind your new school. A Djarum Black burned between your lips, the paper sweet and smoke spicy. It was peaceful out here. Peaceful enough, you didn’t want to return to class.
Mom said it was only a year. Not even a year, she corrected herself right after. From September to June: nine months. She gave you a pointed look at that. Her previous arguments repeated in your mind: She carried you for nine months, and it had destroyed her body. They gave you everything they’d never had. You had a car of your own, a generous allowance, the big third-floor bedroom, and she kept your father off your back about your style.
She continued by assuring you after graduation, you could go to college wherever you wanted. You wanted to return to New York. However, your friends would have moved on by then.
Hell, you’d been in Hawkins nearly a month and none of them had written or called.
Fucking shallow lushes.
They’d thrown you a farewell party, sure, but that had just been an excuse to dress up and sneak into the Cat Club. It had been like most Saturday nights with them, anyway. The only thing different was they bought your drinks.
Maybe New York wasn’t your place anymore…
You glanced around the small clearing. Leaves were hinting at yellow. The air hadn’t lost summer’s heat entirely, but it would soon. Then it would be beautiful.
With a sigh and ashing of the Djarum, you finished the thought:
Hawkins wasn’t your place, either, because it was fucked up.
A feeling like static crept up your bones if you opened yourself to it. New York was a buzz of activity akin to a beehive. Not that there weren’t ghosts and shit, but Hawkins was on a totally different level of freaky. You couldn’t explain it.
This was Indiana, for fuck’s sake.
You checked the watch you’d thrown in your purse that morning. There were only five minutes left of lunch. You finished the Djarum, stubbed it out, and flicked it away. It bounced off a tree trunk.
As you shouldered your purse, your attention caught on a name carved in the table:
EDDIE MVNSON
The carving was worn with time, but recently darkened — including its heavy-metal flourishes — with the oil-slick ink of a ball-point pen. Other people had carved their names or initials as well, but Eddie Munson’s was conspicuous.
You ran your fingers over it. What a stupid-boy thing to do. Eddie was probably like that revolting jock in Homeroom, who watched you like a dog does a steak.
Images flashed unbidden across your vision: blood on broken concrete, poisonous lightning flaring across a crimson sky, the land cracking open with a growl.
You stumbled off the table, blinking away the waking nightmare, and trudged back to school. Though you now wanted to skip the rest of the day, you couldn’t. Mom would hear about it. Then your father would. And it would become a whole thing.
Your hands shook as you grabbed your books for the afternoon from your locker and checked your schedule. First was American Government with O’Donnell, then Study Hall in the library, and finally Home Ec.
You could handle that. It had nothing to do with what you’d seen in the woods.
O’Donnell’s classroom was like all the other ones you’d been in thus far. Taking a calming breath, you chose a middle seat in one of the left-side rows. A girl in a horrid pastel dress came in after you and huffed about your choice of location. You stared at her bubblegum-bitch face, because it was the first day of school. No one had assigned seats yet. She turned her nose up at you as she passed, sat behind you, and kicked the book rack under your chair.
Her friend sat beside her in the next row. They mumbled between themselves — no doubt about you — but if she didn’t have the guts to confront you, you didn’t have the fucks to give about her. On your other side, a long-haired boy slid into the free desk. You met his gaze, abruptly transfixed. His eyes were a soulful, Bambi brown, sweet like dark chocolate. His full lips slowly spread into a smile, and you found yourself mirroring him.
Holy shit, he was pretty.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hey.”
Before either of you could say more, O’Donnell strode in, her low heels click-clacking on the linoleum.
You perked up during roll call when she said:
“Munson, Edward.”
The pretty boy beside you raised his hand.
“Here.” Then under his breath said, “I am, rock you like a hurricane.”
You smiled, delighted by his use of the Scorpions’ song.
After that, you tried not to make it obvious you studied him out of the corner of your eye.
So this was Eddie Munson of the heavy-metal flourishes. He didn’t appear linked with your nightmare. On the contrary, he wore a faded Metallica t-shirt and shredded jeans. Chunky rings decorated his downright elegant fingers, and a cheap watch encircled his wrist. Under all that, he was long and lean with unblemished, tattooed skin. The bat tattoo on his forearm looked to be scratch work. He probably had more, too…
You gnawed at your bottom lip, because you shouldn’t think of that now—
Your father would be horrified if you brought home someone like Eddie Munson, though.
You tucked your chin to hide the smirk.
How delightful.
Midway through class, Eddie’s pen ran out of ink. He tapped it against the doodle-filled page of his notebook to no avail. You unzipped your pencil pouch and handed him a new pen. He gave you a double-take. You lifted a shoulder since it wasn’t a big deal. He offered a nod and private grin, which you returned.
Now that you’d met the real Eddie Munson, you realized he wasn’t like that jock at all.
After a dinnertime interrogation about your new school, you sat on the built-in bench under the window in your room. You should’ve been unpacking the last of your moving boxes, but you couldn’t shake the thought of Eddie.
You closed your eyes and breathed deep.
Why were you so preoccupied with Eddie Munson? He was just a guy—
A cute guy who liked Metallica and wore big silver rings. That should be in the beginner’s recipe for Douchebag a la Asshole. However, that hadn’t been in his smile or pretty eyes. He looked at you as if he’d been searching for you for days.
A piercing static stung behind your eyes each time you tried to hone in on Eddie. You couldn’t get past it to do that.
It was probably a mental block. That nightmare had thrown you, and you were focusing on Eddie to distance yourself from what you’d seen. Maybe if you examined it closer, you could get over it. While grappling with your abilities early on, you’d learned running away only made something chase you harder.
You had to face the beast and see it for what it was: a paper tiger.
You trekked to the kitchen for a tumbler of water. Your father had returned to his home-office, and your mother was busy plucking her eyebrows while on the phone with a New York friend. They’d be occupied for hours.
In your room again, you pulled the big box of salt from the back of your closet and cast a circle on the wood floor. The circle felt steady and strong. You held up the tumbler to view the truth behind your nightmare. It had probably been nerves, you reasoned, because there was no way Hawkins fucking Indiana was that terrifying.
You centered yourself once more and peered through the side of the tumbler. The glass distorted your bedroom, turning everything upside down, helping you to see.
The light fractured, then clouded.
It flashed like a strobe through fog.
Like lightning.
You held the glass securely. You had to see, but nothing made sense. Once you got your bearings, it shifted again. The floor swayed under your feet as if something was attempting to break your circle. The air blinked red, then blue, then gray. Your room was ravaged by time and neglect. Shattered windows looked like the gaping maw of some creature. Soot drifted like snow. There was no green, no life, no warmth.
It was your nightmare, but looking through the tumbler clarified nothing.
You lowered the glass, expecting the water to be sooty. It remained as clear as it had been from the tap. Your room was normal again: light golden and floor smooth under your feet.
You opened the circle and stepped out.
After setting the tumbler on your dresser, you went to the window to look out into the night. The street was idyllic. A few stray leaves danced in the gutters. The windows of the house across the street glowed, welcoming.
“Holy shit,” you murmured. “What the hell kinda place is Hawkins?”