Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Joey had to admit, eighth grade was a pretty great year.

He was no big fan of school in the first place, and he didn’t think middle school was particularly enjoyed by just about anybody. Sixth grade had been tough, that’s for sure, being the new kid in town. But seventh grade had been particularly hellish, when suddenly his big brother was off at Purdue, and math had numbers and letters in it, and girls started acting weird (even his friends!).

But things were looking up.

He’d gotten used to Matt being at college. It still sucked to not see him so often anymore, but Matt followed through on his promise to come home every couple weeks, and he’d even convinced his parents to let him take Joey to his very first college football game.

He hadn’t gotten that much better at math, but he understood now the letters were just placeholders for the numbers they were trying to find. Once you got that part, the rest was a lot less stressful.

Girls were still a little weird. He was still friends with Sarah, Emily, and Rachel, but they seemed a lot closer with each other now. They had lots of sleepovers together. Oftentimes during recess, instead of joining in on their soccer game, the girls sat on the sidelines and just talked. About what, Joey had no clue, but he didn’t let it bother him too much; he was just glad they still sat with him and the guys at lunch, and chatted with them on AIM, and stuff.

And, of course, eighth grade meant new teachers.

Specifically, Mr. Harrington and Ms. Buckley.

There were others, sure, but they were young— cool, even. And gradually those two names trickled down the grades at Hawkins Middle until the younger students became convinced there were two angels awaiting them in their eighth grade year.

That’s how all the oldest kids made them sound, anyway.

“Mr. Harrington always brings in cookies when the test average is at least a B-minus!” Joey had been hearing for years.

“Ms. Buckley makes you write a lot, but she lets you write about anything— even, like, Michael Jordan!” Others said.

One eighth grader told him, “You don’t have to memorize a bunch of names and dates in Mr. H’s history class. He turns the lessons into games, and skits, and stuff. For our last project, we got to make a board-game about the Mongols.”

“They go to metal concerts together, too!” Someone had claimed. “There’s a photo of them at a Corroded Coffin show on Ms. Buckley’s desk. Backstage.”

“They say they’re best friends,” a bunch of girls had told Joey. “But they’re totally in love. Either they haven’t tied the knot yet, or they don’t wear their wedding rings to school.”

Plenty of rumors in Hawkins Middle turned out to be completely fabricated, of course— the majority of them, Joey would say—and each new tale whispered during homeroom was sure to wind up strung into three new ones by the last bell. But nearly all the stories Joey had heard about Mr. Harrington and Ms. Buckley had turned out to be true.

(The only one that didn’t, ironically, was the most constantly touted. Mr. Harrington and Ms. Buckley did seem very close, but they shut down any rumors of their supposed romance whenever it came within earshot. Ms. Buckley gagged at the mere suggestion; Mr. Harrington added “platonic” to the vocabulary wall, and underlined it three times.

The girls could coo and fawn over it all they wanted, but Joey could tell: those two were just friends. Totally platonic (definition: of a relationship marked by the absence of romance; synonym: friendly.)

It was pure luck that Joey ended up getting Mr. H as his homeroom teacher in addition to history, so he got to hear even more of his entertaining stories than most. Joey never thought being a kid in Hawkins could be exciting in any way, but Mr. H always told his tales with such conviction that nobody doubted them; after a few stories in particular, Joey looked at Ms. Sinclair the librarian quite a bit differently.

Mr. Harrington really was a great history teacher, too, though.

Joey had always preferred it over classes like math and science, which tended to just make his head hurt, but he’d had his fair share of bad history teachers: the kind who just rattled off a bunch of battles or presidents or years, and then expected him to rattle them back.

But Mr. H made his classes fun, even when the topic wasn’t. Sure, there was the usual reading and writing to be done in a history class, but then they got to the cool stuff— building dioramas illustrating the Silk Road, finger-painting their way through the Renaissance, even making up raps about George Washington facing down the British. Sometimes Mr. H even brought out his guitar and ad-libbed a goofy song while they worked. Who would’ve thought that the Black Death could turn out to be so funny?

But this project…

Joey wasn’t sure about it.

It was the first time Mr. Harrington and Ms. Buckley had them doing a project together.

“It’s not a small project,” Ms. Buckley had warned when she first brought it up. “But you’ll get time to work on it in History and English.”

But she wouldn’t reveal any other details— not, she said, until she and Mr. H had a chance to gather both classes together— so Joey had no clue what to expect.

He let himself get excited, though. At least he could work with his friends on it. By some cruel force of evil, Joey had ended up in first period History on his own, while all his other friends were in English. The classes were still fun, of course, but he was a little jealous that the rest of them got to be in a group together while he was stuck in a class of mostly strangers.

On Monday, both their classes were together, sat on the gym floor so all fifty of them didn’t have to cram into one already-tight classroom, while Mr. Harrington and Ms. Buckley stood in front of them.

“It’s finally December, which means we’re closing in on the New Year,” Mr. Harrington began, leaning against the wall. “Can you guys call out some stuff that New Year’s makes you think of?”

“Resolutions!" One voice called.

“Fireworks!” said another.

“January?”

Laughter broke out from the students, and Mr. H chuckled, too; Ms. Buckley looked like she was biting back a grin.

“All good answers,” he said, “but Ms. Buckley and I were thinking of the future.”

Ms. Buckley took a step forward.

“Normal teachers might be asking you to imagine the future. But Mr. H is a history teacher, I’m unfortunately nostalgic, and neither of us are normal, so we’re going to ask you to do the opposite,” she announced. “And, because most of you are turning fifteen in the next year, we’re going to think in terms of fifteen years.”

“Think fifteen years in the past,” Mr. H clarified with an easy smile. “Well, not just think about it. Research it. Find out what was going on in the world in 1986. And pick one of these events to write an essay about. That’ll be your final project for both me and Ms. Buckley.”

She hopped in to add, “Five paragraphs! And I expect you to cite your sources, alright? Remember how we learned to do that?”

She was greeted by a chorus of groans, but reluctant nods.

“C’mon, cheer up, guys,” Mr. H chided. “There was a ton of stuff going on in 1986.”

He shared a brief but meaningful look with Ms. Buckley.

“You have plenty to pick from,” he continued, turning back to look at them. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you all chose different topics.”

A conniving smile crept onto Ms. Buckley’s face.

“And, if you turn in your papers on time before the winter break, I’ll show you a photo of me and Stevie from ‘86—”

If she said anything else, Joey couldn’t hear it, not over the raucous cheers from the boys and the eager giggling from the girls, which erupted before Ms. Buckley could say another word. Joey just laughed at the red flush creeping across Mr. Harrington's face.

Chapter Text

Joey has logged on.

Joey: hey

Tyler, Gavin, and Sarah have logged on.

Gavin: sup

Sarah: hiya

Emily has logged on.

Joey: whatcha up to

Derrick and Rachel have logged on.

Tyler: playin Age of Empires

Emily: rollercoaster tycoon :P

Sarah: using my literal 2 seconds of computer time

Rachel: ???
Rachel: sarah, don’t you get like an hour after dinner?

Gavin: yeah, you normally get more than any of us

Sarah: that was before Molly’s teacher told my parents she needs to practice her typing at home
Sarah: i only have a few minutes before she’s home from girl scouts and then it’s “mario teaches typing” ugh

Tyler: that sucks

Derrick: hey, most of us have to share with our siblings, too
Derrick: tough luck

Gavin: haha eric is literally banging on the door right now
Gavin: i hope he doesn’t tell mom i locked him out of the computer room, but there’s only so much “aladdin's math quest” that a guy can take

Rachel: i suddenly feel very lucky to be an only child

Joey: and i feel very lucky matt’s in college

Emily: how is matt btw??

Rachel: yeah, we haven’t seen him since thanksgiving!

Derrick: you mean a week ago?

Gavin: you girls will never let matt just live, will you
Gavin: HE’S 20 YEARS OLD

Joey: i suddenly feel very unlucky

Sarah: don’t worry joey, i don’t have a crush on your brother :)

Tyler: YEAH BECAUSE YOU HAVE A CRUSH ON MINE

Sarah: NO I DONT

Rachel: at least carson is 16
Rachel: that’s better than 20

Tyler: you are not helping

Joey: hey subject change!

Derrick: yes god thank you

Joey: i came on here to ask if any of you guys have decided what you’re gonna write your 1986 paper about

Emily: i haven’t decided yet
Emily: it’s gotta be good so mr. h likes it

Derrick: jesus christ

Sarah: i think i’m gonna do Halley’s Comet
Sarah: it only comes within our planet’s sight every 76 years

Gavin: oh i’m doing a space one too
Gavin: challenger disaster

Tyler: i was thinking about that soviet power plant that blew up?
Tyler: i dont know how to spell it but it's like churnobell

Derrick: oprah became oprah

Sarah: wait what?

Derrick: you know oprah from tv?

Sarah: yes obviously but like
Sarah: when was oprah NOT oprah

Gavin: before 1986 apparently

Emily: have you picked something yet joey?

Joey: no i’ve got no clue
Joey: i kinda wanted to do something local but then i remembered NOTHING happens in this town

Tyler: yeah dude lol
Tyler: you might need to broaden your horizons a bit

Derrick: “broaden your horizons” ? are you serious?

Tyler: it was in the story ms buckley read to us today

Derrick: now THERE’S a crush worth talking about

Tyler: shut up, derrick

Sarah: i’m just gonna ignore that, but
Sarah: i don’t think hawkins was always boring, joey. i’ve heard my mom talk with her friends about some pretty crazy stuff that happened in the 80s. i don’t know if it was 1986 exactly but maybe you could look that up?

Derrick: oh my dad's mentioned that! there was a TON of weird stuff going on back then
Derrick: literally like people going missing and murders and earthquakes

Tyler: in hawkins?
Tyler: OUR hawkins?
Tyler: fuck off, there's no way lol

Derrick: i swear, that's what he said!

Rachel: well, even if it wasn't ALL of that, something must've happened to start those rumors, right?
Rachel: check with the librarian. she'd probably know where to look

Joey: i don't know if i believe any of it, but it would be a crazy cool essay if it turns out to be true
Joey: thanks for the idea!

Gavin: worst case scenario, just do the world series
Gavin: mets beat red sox that year

Joey: i’ll keep it in mind

Joey has logged off.

Joey biked to school early the next morning so he could visit the library before homeroom. He wanted to research the stuff Sarah had told him about last night, but a part of him wondered if he was wasting his time.

Missing people, murders, and earthquakes? If even one of those was true, Joey would be astounded. Hawkins seemed as boring as a town came, especially after living most of his life in a bustling little city like Columbus. But Rachel made a good point. There was a hint of truth in every lie, wasn’t there? How else would the rumors had started?

Nevertheless, he figured that even if it all turned out to be completely made up, then he could still ask the librarian for other ideas he could write about.

Ms. Sinclair was even younger than Mr. Harrington and Ms. Buckley— hell, Mr. H said he’d even babysat her way back when— so she was probably around Joey’s age in 1986. And if anyone knew juicy gossip, it was Ms. Sinclair. That’s how she got so good at researching, she claimed, in books and on the Internet.

“There’s always a good story out there for you to find,” she’d say. “And there’s always an even better one underneath it, so long as you’re willing to dig for it.”

Ms. Sinclair was really cool.

Still, Joey couldn’t help but feel a bit of anxiety in the pit of his stomach as he pushed open the heavy door into the deathly silent library. Ms. Sinclair was cool, but she was also a bit… intense. Joey was certain that her “shush!” could cut through glass, and she wasn’t afraid to put the fear of God into anyone who disrespected her library or its books.

Every kid at Hawkins Middle knew that the fastest way to earn yourself a detention was to mess around in the library’s computer cluster, or to get even a tiny bit of dirt on a book. Hell, it was under Ms. Sinclair’s direction that the late-return fine doubled a few years ago. And rumor had it that the reason Wyatt Williams was held back a grade is because he once returned a book with dog-eared page corners.

(Joey knew that rumor was false, though. He sat next to Wyatt in Science, and the dude was simply dumb as a bag of rocks.)

Joey wasn’t surprised that the library was empty this early. It was only a half hour before the homeroom bell would ring, but most kids went to the library during their study hall if they needed a book; the rest stayed after school to find what they needed.

But Joey was a morning person, and apparently Ms. Sinclair was, too, because she was already standing on a ladder with a precarious stack of books in her hands.

Joey winced when the door shut loudly behind him, but she didn’t scold him.

“Could you give me a hand, little sir?” She called, jerking her chin down at all the books balanced in her arms.

“Yes, ma’am!” He hastily dropped his backpack by the door and scurried to her side, holding out his arms for the books.

She gingerly passed them down to him, and Joey let out a little grunt at the weight, but then Ms. Sinclair was stepping down from the ladder and already taking them back from him to set on the nearest table.

“Thanks for that,” she said easily, not seeming the slightest bit winded from the exchange. “My plan was to just hold all the books while I re-shelved them, but I realized that wasn’t a great idea once I got to the top of the ladder.”

Joey laughed a little, because it seemed like she’d allow it, and sure enough she grinned back at him. 

“You’re Joey, right? Joey Stoker?” She guessed. “You’re one of Steve’s kids this year.”

He bobbed his head, a little surprised she knew his name. He wasn’t exactly a frequent visitor to the library.

“Yes, Ms. Sinclair. I was wondering if you could help me with a project Mr. Harrington and Ms. Buckley gave us,” he said, trying to keep his chin up and maintain eye contact. His mom was always saying that was the best way to make adults respect you, but Ms. Sinclair just looked a little amused.

“Oh, the 1986 paper? Some of your classmates have already come in asking about books for that. What topic did you have in mind, Joey?” She asked, leaning back against the bookshelf.

Joey hesitated.

“Well, I’m not sure yet,” he admitted. “My friends are doing real big stuff, like the Challenger, or Chernobyl, or Oprah.”

“Oh, Derrick,” Ms. Sinclair mumbled, rubbing her temple.

“But I kind of wanted to keep my topic closer to home,” he explained.

The librarian was already nodding.

“Well, that was quite a year for Indiana,” she said thoughtfully. “Purdue’s president caused quite a stir when he tried to ban the students’ Nude Olympics tradition. Indianapolis was a spot along the line in Hands Across America. If you’re willing to go a little further outside the state, there was a bad earthquake in Cleveland, I believe—”

“Actually, I—”

Ms. Sinclair’s eyes narrowed at him.

“Sorry, ma’am.” He cleared his throat. “I, um, I was actually trying to look into what happened in Hawkins that year.”

A few moments passed.

Ms. Sinclair opened her mouth, then shut it, and seemed to think very hard for a few more moments.

“Hawkins ain’t all that interesting, Joey,” she said finally, pushing out a short laugh. “Listen, I’ve grew up here, moved back after college, don’t have many complaints, but we don’t got a lot to write home about.”

She turned and started walking toward her desk in the corner of the library; Ms. Sinclair was a pretty short woman, but Joey had to jog a little to keep up with her pace.

“But that’s not what my friends said,” he protested as politely as possible. “Sarah, her mom said there was a bunch of weird stuff, and Derrick’s dad, too! Like earthquakes and people going missing and murders—”

Ms. Sinclair whirled around, and Joey only narrowly avoided crashing into her front. He didn’t want to know what she’d do to a kid who did that.

“People like to talk,” Ms. Sinclair said tightly. She swallowed hard. “Hawkins is like any town. Bad things happen once in a while. And once every few decades, really bad things happen. But people talk and talk, and truths become half-truths, then rumors, eventually those become flat-out lies. And by then no one cares about the people who were affected by those bad things when they first happened. Or are still being affected by ‘em.”

She was panting a little by the end of it, an almost panicked look in her dark eyes hidden by pursed lips and a set jaw and shoulders pushed back.

Joey looked down. He looked at the ugly green carpet, at the mud on his sneakers, at Ms. Sinclair’s shiny pink heels. He listened to the clock on the opposite wall tick abnormally loudly, and listened to Ms. Sinclair as she breathed very controlled in’s and out’s, like one of those meditation CDs his mom played in the car.

“I care.”

He chanced a peek up at Ms. Sinclair, who looked calmer, but still a bit wary. She eyed him up and down.

“If people are spreading rumors and wrong information about stuff they weren’t even involved in, then someone should be responsible and figure out the truth,” he said, trying his best to sound confident. “It won’t make the stuff go away, but maybe it can help the people affected feel a little better.”

Ms. Sinclair bit her lip and folded her arms over her chest in something of a self-hug.

“Are you sure you want to learn about this?” She asked in a low voice. “Because you can’t un-learn it, kid.”

Joey wasn’t sure at all, especially not with the look on her face, but he was nodding his head resolutely before he could stop himself.

At last, Ms. Sinclair put her hand on her hip and pinched the bridge of her nose with the other, blowing out a slow breath.

“These damn kids. Now I know how Hopper felt.”

She shook her head, then sighed and motioned for him to follow her to her desk.

He waited awkwardly in front of the desk while Ms. Sinclair knelt down and rifled through the bottom drawer. He heard loose papers and folders being rummaged through, and after a few long, weirdly quiet seconds, she straightened up and held out a worn (dog-eared!) book.

Joey recognized the drawing on the cover immediately. It was a striking sketch of the old, abandoned laboratory on the outskirts of town. No one dared go near, not even stupid teenagers on a drunken dare. You couldn’t really, not with the tall barbed wire fence and radiation warning signs plastered up, but no one wanted to, anyway. The entire place looked eerie, with the forest all grown-up-and-around it, and even the air around it felt… different.

Hawkins: The Real Story, the title read. By Murray Bauman.

Joey looked back up at Ms. Sinclair, who had sat down in her desk chair and grabbed a notepad.

“If this is really what you want to write your paper on, then I’ll help you,” she said. “But there’s conditions. You're sure you don’t want to do something cute and easy like Hands Across America?”

He nodded his head.

She sighed, uncapped her pen, and began to write.

Chapter Text

Joey kept Ms. Sinclair’s list taped in his notebook as he pored through the book over the next few days and began his rough draft.

1. You will write with respect for the real people affected by these events.
2. You will not discuss this topic with your friends, especially not until both Mr. Harrington and Ms. Buckley read your paper.
3. You will not refer by name to any person who was under the age of twenty-one in 1986. (Use anonymous words like "a teenager" or "a townsperson.")
4. You will not consult any other source about this topic.

“But Ms. Buckley said it’s important to get multiple sources when you’re making any claim,” Joey had tried to protest when he read the last condition on the list.

Ms. Sinclair had shaken her head firmly.

“No. Mr. Bauman is the foremost expert on this topic. And there was so much bias and bullshit in the papers back then that you won’t be able to tell what’s fact and what’s rumor,” she said, a bit of ice in her tone. After a moment, she shook her head and plastered a fresh smile on her face. “Ms. Buckley actually knows Mr. Bauman quite well. She’ll be glad you focused on his book alone.”

Joey didn’t argue further, didn’t even say anything else at all, but there was a niggling feeling in the back of his head that Ms. Sinclair might know this Bauman person, too.

He also had a feeling nearing certainty that Ms. Sinclair had spoken to Mr. Harrington and Ms. Buckley about his topic. Neither of them had said anything to him about it, but he noticed their gazes linger on him a little longer than the other students when everyone was working on their projects in class.

He took notes like a mad-man, read and re-read chapters, even at night under the covers with his flashlight, and started— struggled— to begin outlining any of the madness in Mr. Bauman’s book into a concise essay. He tried his best to swallow the rising dread that he felt the further he read, the more names he recognized, the longer his draft grew.

His mother asked if he wasn’t sleeping well. His father told him he didn’t need to work so hard on a simple school project. Neither of them understood.

The more of himself that Joey invested in this project, the closer he felt to getting some semblance of justice for these people— these kids who’d saved Hawkins from any number of bizarre government lies and cover-ups two decades ago and never got any credit for it. 

But eventually he finished it.

He took all his notes and drafts and Mr. Bauman’s book, and managed to file an entire year of insanity, corruption, and death down into five pages. At the end, just like Ms. Buckley instructed, he included a little citation for Hawkins: The Real Story , and then he made clean copies in the library, stapled them neatly, and even made a cover page. His cover didn’t have a fancy picture of the laboratory, though. Instead, it simply read:

Hawkins, 1986: An Abridged Story

Joey Stoker — Grade 8

December 2000

Dedicated to those who fought, and those who won. Thank you.

Hell, he even turned it in early.

Mr. Harrington and Ms. Buckley smiled at him a little extra brightly the day after he left the copies on their desks, and he received his A-plus before most of his classmates had even turned their projects in.

His friends were amazed at the speed with which he finished it, and maybe a little concerned with the bags under his eyes afterwards, but when they asked about his topic, he just smiled.

“The Hands Across America fundraiser,” he said easily. “It raised over $15 million to fight hunger. Isn’t that just the wildest thing you’ve ever heard of happening in Indiana?”

He waited until the last day of school before winter break to visit the library again.

Luckily—and unsurprisingly—it was empty, save for Ms. Sinclair typing away on the computer at her desk. She looked up when he opened the door, but he remembered to catch it so as to keep it from slamming shut.

“I was wondering if you’d stop by again,” she said with a smile, pushing back her chair with a smile. “I hear from my friends that you wrote a damn good essay.”

He ducked his head to hide the blush that crept up his cheeks.

“Well, I had a lot of help,” he said, and she grinned as he passed over both the book and the copy of his essay that he’d made for her.

“I can’t wait to read it, Joey,” she said earnestly, and he managed to hold her intense, albeit warm gaze. “Now, that’ll be 50¢. This book was due a week ago, you know.”

He stared at her, mouth agape.

A few seconds passed, and it wasn’t until he fumbled for his pocket that Ms. Sinclair burst out laughing.

“God, you’re easier than Steve!” She positively cackled. “Get out of here, kid. And enjoy your break. You of all people have earned it.”

Joey huffed a laugh of his own. “I think you did, too.”

Just a few days before the spring semester began, Joey got a letter in the mail. There was no return address, but somehow he knew who it was from before he even tore it open— in his room, of course, with the door locked.

To the young Mr. Stoker,

My dear acquaintances at your school informed me that you read my book. Good to know at least one little gremlin still appreciates quality journalism.

I read your essay, too. You should work on that handwriting of yours, if I’m being honest, but you’ve got guts to take on a story like this— and a good head on your shoulders, too, it seems.

Keep reading, keep writing, and keep caring. It matters.

Sincerely, Murray Bauman

P.S. Surely the others told you this already, but don’t talk about this shit to anyone. Government cover-ups, remember? Trust me, kid, you don’t wanna be on a watchlist.

Joey carefully folded up the letter and slid it under a loose floorboard under his nightstand before flopping back on his bed and letting his eyes drift shut.

But before he allowed himself to drift off completely, he thought of all the names from Murray’s book—especially those he wasn’t allowed to name in his essay—and silently thanked them, one by one, for preserving a Hawkins where kids only worried about things like sharing the family computer and returning library books on time.