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Chapter Text

“You’ve got a bright future ahead of you, Chrissy Cunningham,” Ms. Kelley says. On the beadboard wall behind her, there is a painting of a lily, its showy red petals unfurling around a single word: “Believe.”

Chrissy is silent. She touches the “86” pendant on her necklace. “This was my Christmas gift to myself, a good luck charm,” she explains softly. “I was prideful. I told the clerk at the jewelry store, ‘1986 is going to be my year.’”

The clerk misunderstood her, though. Distracted by her Hawkins High cheerleading uniform, he thought she was commemorating the basketball team’s inevitable championship win. “I’ll wrap it in trophy-gold!” he said, tying the box with a shimmering ribbon, and she dutifully chanted, “Go Tigers!” But Chrissy had not been considering the team at all. She was rooting for herself. 

And once she was alone, behind the wheel of her Ford Escort, The Crystals’ crooning “Joy to the World” from her state-of-the-art speakers, she’d let herself picture it.

Chrissy Cunningham’s Year. 

She saw the lake, reflecting a rainbow sherbert sunset, and a basket of club sandwiches and cherry pie on a gingham blanket. She saw roller skates with neon racing stripes, and Edison bulbs, glowing around the theater marquee. She saw a green mortarboard, abandoned on the asphalt. And she saw her white suede wallet, unfolded to reveal the train ticket in the center slot, where she used to keep a photostrip of her boyfriend. Destination: Anywhere But Here.

“I might as well have been planning a trip to outer space,” she tells the guidance counselor, shifting in her seat. With her feet dangling an inch above the floor, she feels like a little kid. “It’s funny, whenever somebody asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I used to say I wanted to be an astronaut. My dad bought me this pop-up book on the solar system, but I didn't care about the planets, I just wanted to save Laika.” She huffs a laugh, self-deprecating. “I saw this PBS special on Sputnik and got totally obsessed with space dogs.”

Ms. Kelley smiles.

“I had it all figured out,” she continues, warming to the topic. “We were going to live in the Tycho crater. I’d build Laika a red doghouse, like Snoopy’s, but she’d sleep with me in my bed. We’d plant a white garden, and eat Moon Pies—I thought marshmallows were made of moonflowers.” She shakes her head. “I wore out my crayons drawing pictures. Mom got so mad! She told me I was being stupid, that the dog died before I was even born. She wanted me to be more realistic, I guess.” She stutters, “I used to have nightmares...puppies in orbit. Decomposing.”

"So when you were a little girl, your mom said something scary, something that made you feel like your interests didn't matter, and you started having nightmares. And now, you're having nightmares again. Do you think that's a coincidence?" Ms. Kelley never lets Chrissy veer away from the present for long, knowing her tendency to sink into fantasy and memory. 

“It's totally different," Chrisssy insists. "That was just kid stuff. Charlie Brown, compared to what I've been seeing over the past few weeks.”

Now, it’s Chrissy’s body that’s rotting; in her dreams, her sclera is turning to slush, and her bones are already brittle. The Cunningham house is rotting, too: although the maple floors appear new, the polished planks splinter under her weight, and the windows are rusted closed behind the lace curtains. The ceiling buckles, and Chrissy runs to her brother’s room, crying, “We’ve got to get out!”

But Jimmy is missing, and it looks like he was never there. No sheets on the mattress, no toys on the shelf. The walls are blank white: the ladder Chrissy drew to chart his height is painted over. 

She keeps searching, passing a moldy feast in the dining room, and a flickering chandelier in the foyer. But she never finds her brother, and she never escapes. The dream ends in the den, where her father is lashed to his Laz-E-Boy, his eyelids and lips stitched brutally shut, and her mother is sitting at the sewing machine, repeating, “I have to let out your dress, Chrissy dear. You’re fat as a sow.” When a grandfather clock chimes, 1-2-3-4, Chrissy knows it’s warning of the End Times.

“My migraine was like a pickaxe in my eye this morning,” she says. “It’s never been this bad before.”

In the depths of winter, the dream came once a week—usually Sunday night, when Chrissy was under the most pressure, squeezed between mass and homeroom. After waking up at one am, on the dot, Chrissy would toss and turn until sunrise, then down three cups of black coffee with her grapefruit breakfast—until her boyfriend Jason complained her kisses were bitter, that is, and she went back to drinking chamomile tea.

Then the ice cracked on the lake, and pain started ticking in her head. By the time the green shoots blossomed into snowdrops, Chrissy was trembling in class. Cold wriggled on her tongue like a maggot. It crept across her scapula like a black widow spider.  

On Valentine’s Day, while Molly Andrews was drawing a green heart on her cheek—the squad’s tribute to romance, school spirit, and Rainbow Brite—Chrissy heard the Singer, chugging between her ears like a train. She jerked in a panic, convinced she was being sewn onto the tracks, only returning to reality when Molly touched her shoulder, assuring her that she’d sharpen the point of the heart to cover the smudge. 

So, blinking back tears to preserve her makeup, Chrissy had tip-toed into the guidance counselor’s office, blurting out, “I can’t take it one more minute.” Ms. Kelley had praised her for coming, explaining that asking for help is a form of “practicing hope.” And Chrissy had nodded in agreement, even though she was thinking, It’s not hope that brought me here. I’m here because I’m desperate. 

She wants to trust Ms. Kelley, who is looking as optimistic as a wedding favor in her white slacks, petal pink sweater, and faux-pearl clip-on earrings. Her fluffy perm, caught up in a sunny yellow Scrunchie, softens the elegant angles of her face. Yesterday, Chrissy had worn a similar outfit, though hers was trendier, because her pants were pleated, and her sweater had puff sleeves. She’d felt like a Jordan almond, her hard center hidden by a cracking shell.

“Do you ever feel like...like you’re playing a part?” she asks.

Ms. Kelley tilts her head. “Do you?”

”Most people do, right?” Chrissy muses, thinking of her friends. Molly, who rubs vinegar on her nails on exam days, to stop herself from biting them to the quick. Debi Finley, who mouths the words to the hymns at church, because her high C sounds like a cockatiel-squawk. Mindy Hopkins, whose signature stack of twist-a-bead bracelets hides a scar on her wrist, and Tiffany Ruiz, whose Wonderbra is padded. Chrissy collects their secrets—not to judge, or use against them, but to remind herself, None of us is perfect. Still, she doubts they have as many flaws to conceal as she does; her mother swears that she’s always been more trouble than other girls.   

“We’re here to talk about you, Chrissy,” Ms. Kelley says. “Not anybody else.”

Chrissy ducks her head. “...sometimes, it's like I'm wearing a costume.”

“And what role are you playing?”

“I’m trying to be good, I guess?” She gestures at her body, clad in her cheerleading uniform instead of the usual modest pastels. "Except for today. All the girls roll the waistbands of their cheer skirts up. I’d look weird if I didn't.” She tugs at the hem, self-conscious of her dimpled skin. 

"It uses up a lot of energy, worrying what other people think about how you look. But, Chrissy, they don't matter. Your body is yours.” Pausing significantly, she adds, “And you’re the one who decides what weight's right for you—by eating when you’re hungry.” 

This has been Ms. Kelley's refrain since Chrissy told her about the argument that heralded the nightmares: her mother ordered her to lose ten pounds, because the dress she's sewing her for prom requires a slimmer waist.

“You know, I used to have these terrible split ends—I chewed my hair when I was nervous. And I had zits all over." She touches her chin, then her forehead. "If it wasn't for my mom, I would've looked like a monster.” 

Chrissy recalls getting ready for the Snow Ball, the middle-school dance. She had closed her eyes, praying to God for clear skin and self-control, while her mother dotted Cover Girl on her pimples, advising her to avoid French Fries and pizza if the girls stopped at the diner on the way home. “Don’t add to your sins by showing them off,” she warned, and Chrissy had nodded, swallowing her yelp when the curling iron burnt her nape.

Regular applications of Stridex and Queen Helene calmed Chrissy’s acne: her complexion is perfect now. And her strawberry blonde hair is healthy, too, since she cut Sandy Olsson-bangs and curled her ponytail; she twirls the spiral whenever she’s tempted to tear at the ends. But just as Chrissy was beginning to like how she looked, the needle on the scale started moving to the right, and her mother demanded she adhere to the “reducing diet” she read about in Women’s Day: skinless chicken, iceberg lettuce and aspartame dressing. It could not return Chrissy to her pre-pubescent size, in part because she gains five pounds the week before her period. To fit into her heirloom church dresses, her mother has to force her into a bruising elastic girdle. 

So Chrissy skips lunch and throws up dinner. She runs on the track with the Tigers, and practices “Ready? OK!” pep until she can carry it off the field; she's learned to fake a smile while following her mother’s orders. Now, Laura Cunningham’s “path to perfection” is its own form of prayer: it can be as effortless as reciting grace before a meal, or as grueling as prostrating on skinned knees. 

Ms. Kelley is offering the usual assurances: that Chrissy is fine the way she is, and deserves to pick out her own prom dress, that losing ten pounds would be dangerous, and her mother’s perception of reality is distorted.

“I’m tired.” Chrissy sighs, rubbing her elbow, because the joint is sore and stiff. “Should I let Mindy take over as flyer, do you think?” She smiles feebly, half-joking. “I can’t fall off the pyramid—Tiffany’d never forgive me if I got blood on her uniform. She’d cut my ponytail off in revenge.”

The counselor takes her seriously. “Do you feel like you’ll be hurt tonight?”

“No, not really, but…maybe I skip the party after the game?” She folds her hands in her lap. “I just...I don’t want to let anybody down.”

“You’re not letting anybody down by taking care of yourself. You’re not going to be locked up just because you miss a basketball game, Chrissy! Dances, parties, sports...they're supposed to be fun!”

You’ve obviously never been a cheerleader, Chrissy thinks, smoothing the pleats of her skirt. If I skipped the championship, my mom would send me straight to Penhurst Asylum. You wouldn’t even have to tell her I was hearing things for her to think I’ve gone insane.

Everything Chrissy knows about asylums she learned from movies, so when she pictures herself at Penhurst, Julia Loften is braiding her hair, and Frances Farmer lights her first cigarette. Nurse Ratchet cuffs her to a gurney before her parents’ visit, but the image of them at her bedside comes from real life: Laura Cunningham’s voice breaks half-way through “I can’t bear to look at you,” like it did when Chrissy botched an arabesque at State, and her thin mouth twists into the scowl she wore when Chrissy asked for a second helping of custard on Thanksgiving. Philip Cunningham is silent, searching for his reflection in his cordovan loafers, which his wife polishes every Saturday night. As usual, he ignores his daughter’s tears entirely.

They’d keep it a secret, she is sure of it. They’d lie to the neighbors that Chrissy died in a car crash, like Grace Kelly. She wonders whether they’d tell her brother the truth, or wait until he grew up and had daughters of his own, so she could be a cautionary tale of what happens to gluttonous little girls. “Mind your grandmother, dears, or you’ll end up like Poor Aunt Chrissy.” 

Her boyfriend tends to be more indulgent than her mother—enough that she used to think, I’d rather be a Carver than a Cunningham. But Jason and his family have no patience for spiritual weakness; Debi’s aunt was catatonic after she had her first baby, and the Carvers accused her of opening her heart to the devil. When Chrissy imagines him at Penhurst, he is watching Pastor Jeffrey pray over her sedated body with Christian concern and disgust. He grips her hand, white-knuckled, and asks that unanswerable question, “What have you done? How did you lure Satan in?”

Ms. Kelley doesn’t believe in divine punishment, or even sin. She claims that the nightmares and the headaches are the body’s way of processing trauma. “The pain is natural,” she insists. “It’s like tearing a muscle because the trainer over-extended your stretch.” To Ms. Kelley, Chrissy’s nervous breakdown is no different from her twisted ankle, and counseling serves the same function as ice packs and Tiger Balm. She talks about friendship and privacy the way the pediatrician talks about vitamins and minerals, and while she does encourage Chrissy to visit places that make her feel safe, she’s never suggested a padded room. She is casual and matter-of-fact when she defines “bulimia” and “social anxiety” and “emotional abuse.”

Chrissy feels like she is learning a new language. The Cunninghams and Carvers would consider it dangerous, she knows; they'd add the DSM to their list of "Threats to American Values," between Fast Times at Ridgemont High and Spanish-speaking strangers at Melvald’s General Store.

Maybe it is a threat, she thinks. Because Chrissy is coming to hate the Cunninghams’ tidy white Colonial, and their sharp-steepled white church. They have become repositories of misery to her. And, if Ms. Kelley is to be believed, they are packed full of lies.

“Let’s make a goal for Spring Break,” the counselor suggests. “Put on an outfit that expresses how you feel. Go out with a friend, do something that makes you happy—even if your parents would say it was ‘bad for your reputation.’” She leans forward with a mischievous grin. “We can keep it a secret.” Then, more earnestly, “Listen to your body. Trust your conscience. I don’t care whether you’re a ‘good girl,’ however your mother defines it.” Here, she adds air quotes so dramatic that Chrissy laughs. “You’re a kind, thoughtful person, Chrissy Cunningham.”

The bell rings, and Ms. Kelley closes her thin file. The counselor promised that no one else will ever read what’s inside. But Chrissy knows they’ll be able to tell she’s in trouble, once the folder's fat with details of her terror and her sorrow. She’s never had to worry about anything like that before: until the nightmares started, her permanent record was pristine.

Chrissy is a competent cheer captain, although she’s never won a trophy at State, and she's a “pleasure to have in class,” despite her middling grades, because she’s polite and punctual. She was “Class Sweetheart” in the yearbook, and Queen of every school dance since the Snow Ball. “Totally boring. Vanilla pudding,” according to Carol Perkins, after she found out her boyfriend voted for Chrissy in the swim team’s annual ranking of “Cherries I’d Most Like to Pop.” “There’s a million girls just like her, one in every stupid little town.”

Now, Chrissy is curdling.

She pulls on her white varsity sweatshirt, embroidered with her name. It's too big for her, but she likes oversized clothes. They make her feel protected: she’s a little girl again, wearing her dad’s Fair Isle sweater as a dress, giggling when he calls her “Sugar” and sneaks her an Oreo before dinner. 

“I’ll see you in a few days,” the counselor says, returning the file to the shelf marked “A-M.” 

I can’t wait that long, Chrissy thinks, just as she notices the thickest folder in the bunch. She doesn’t have to read the label to know who it belongs to. 

Edward Munson. 

Eddie has earned more F’s and demerits than all of Chrissy’s friends combined. This is his third year as a senior, because he’s disruptive, truant, antisocial, insolent, and idle—or so the teachers say. Chrissy winces whenever Mr. Saunders shouts at him in the hall—which is often—making sure everyone hears him calling Eddie names, though he chastises the Tigers in red-pen notes and whispers. But Eddie only laughs, shrugging off the x’s on his permanent record, treating detention like naptime.

After all, why would he care about Principal Higgins’ punishments? He risks prison bringing his lunchbox to school, stuffed with bags of weed and pills. It’s a miracle he’s never been caught, because he sells them at the picnic table in the woods behind the parking lot, shameless. Her friends have described the place with enough detail to make it obvious that they’re regular customers, but they roll their eyes whenever Eddie speaks up in class, and they cross the street to avoid him when they see him around town. His nickname is “the Freak.”

Still, Chrissy’s heard them say: “Munson’s got the cure.” And she’s wondered.

Chapter Text

The radio is already at full blast when Chance Ramos turns the key in the ignition, and the Tigers whoop to “Had the guts, got the glory.” “Cap, let’s go,” he shouts, while Tiffany refreshes her lipstick in the visor mirror, and Chrissy flinches at the honk of the horn. Flashing Fuschia, she thinks, dazed, shrinking from the glare of the headlights.

“You sure you don’t want to ride with me, babe?” Jason asks, his gaze fixed on his girlfriend. “You know I love being your chauffeur.”

With the light at his back, Jason’s blonde hair is a nimbus, and his eyes are a celestial blue. But his intentions are unholy: “I love being your chauffeur” is his euphemism for “I love parking behind the cornfield so you can blow me before the party.” It’s their post-game ritual, win or lose, because Jason claims he needs her most when he’s in a “warrior state”; his body is surging with adrenaline, and his soul brims with the joy of the “righteous pursuit of the swish.” 

No, she thinks. Not tonight. Maybe not ever again.

It’s been taking more effort to dam up her “no” since the nightmares began, and the urge to scream the word started following her into sleep. It’s especially hard on Thursdays, after her sessions with Ms. Kelley. Sometimes, they drain her, but tonight, she feels like she’s under a deluge, and the rain is acid.

It amazes Chrissy now that she ever looked forward to Jason’s detours. But it was heady, hearing her boyfriend gasp, “I think you’re the prettiest girl in the world”; she believed him, as long as the light was dim and his eyes were hooded. Besides, it only took ten minutes to earn at least that many “I love you”s. They sustained her when her mother snapped that she’d be a trial to any man.

Nothing’s better than being wanted, Chrissy told herself, scrubbing the stains he’d left on the backseat of his Jeep Cherokee. She giggled when Jason teased her, whistling like Happy from Snow White, leaning against the door like Jake Ryan from Sixteen Candles. She never asked him for help, figuring, if she wanted something done, she’d have to do it herself.

Chrissy has always been tidy, and she stocks her pink backpack so she’s ready for anything. “Like an old lady,” Jason had laughed, waxing nostalgic about his grandmother, who kept Werther’s and quarters in her pocketbook just for him. Chance mimed throwing up at the comparison, so Jason calls Chrissy “Girl Scout,” now, with condescending affection.

She’s got the school standards—Pink Pearl erasers, Ticonderoga pencils, a four-ink pen, a pack of Fruit Stripe—as well as a mini first aid kit with wet wipes, a toothbrush and Crest, and a tin of starry orange Bandaids. She keeps bobby pins in a magnetized needle case, along with elastics and Hawkins-green hair ribbons. And then there’s the glittery gold makeup bag, so she can fix her face after gym class, cheer practice, basketball games, her lunchtime purge, and any hour alone with her boyfriend. 

While she does her makeup, Jason leans his head back and shuts his eyes, as though the sight of her brushing blue powder on her lids is more obscene than the sight of her wiping off his come. That’s just how boys are, she used to tell herself, angling her compact to magnify her frosted-pink smile. They like to think we woke up like this. Her mother taught her that even long-married couples preserve the illusion of natural beauty. After twenty years together, Laura wakes up first, rushing to put on mascara so her husband won’t have to look at her stubby lashes, first thing in the morning. She only ever breaks out the clay masks and the curlers once he has left for work. He never shows much appreciation for the effort. And neither does Jason.

Now, Chrissy huffs, twirling her ponytail, as a bead of water slides from Jason’s temple to his chiseled jaw. It took longer to get ready tonight, because she had to cover her dark circles. Not that the other girls noticed: they were laughing at dirty jokes they think she doesn’t understand; even in the locker room, Chrissy plays innocent. “I know we’re not having, you know, real sex," Jason told her. "But those girls never shut up. They’d tell everyone.” She's come to realize that her boyfriend takes as much pride in her reputation as her mother does. 

I can’t fake it anymore, she thinks.   

“Sorry, baby, I’m riding with Molly. You know how upset she’s been since she broke up with Patrick. She needs me.” 

Jason sighs. “Well, that’s what I get for falling in love with an angel.” He pecks her cheek. “By the way, you did great tonight. I wish you’d cheered like that all season! Really pumped me up.” He claps twice, pauses, and claps once more, and Chrissy has to school her expression when she grasps his meaning.

She choreographed a special routine for the championship game, building the rhythm in triplets, because the squad agreed: three is the luckiest number; Chrissy herself tends to gather her thoughts in threes. But Jason, hearing a pause that didn’t exist between the second and third beats, translated them as 21, the digits of his jersey number.

Chrissy doesn’t bother to correct him. Instead, she gushes, “I’m so proud of you!” and touches his chest, steering him toward his SUV with barely perceptible pressure. “Go have fun with the boys! You deserve it! We’ll be right behind you, I promise.”

As he slow-walks backwards to his car, Jason presses his palm over his heart, and Chrissy blows him a kiss.

Then she spins on her heels, spotting Molly across the lot, beckoning her over to her Volkswagen Golf. In the shadow of the school, the green paint looks like bile, and her skin is amphibian-white: when Chrissy blinks, she sees a tentacle, undulating. She has to force herself to keep walking. But she calms down as soon as she’s close enough to hear her friend warbling, “Tenderness, where is the tenderness” in a thin soprano. 

Since Debi is riding shotgun, Chrissy climbs in the back; she can't see past her, because her bleach-blonde bangs are teased so high, they brush the ceiling. Molly turns around before Chrissy’s even buckled her seatbelt, resting her chin on the backrest of the driver's seat. “Did Mindy say whether her brother’s coming?” 

“What’s it matter to you?” Debi asks, snapping her gum while Chrissy shakes her head. Suspicion looks odd on her round face; usually, she’s Skipper, even when she’s making freshmen cry during cheer try-outs. “What, you’re going to fuck Danny Hopkins while your boyfriend is in the same house?”

“It’s my house, which means it’s my party, which means I can do whoever I want. If anybody has a problem with it, he can go to grody Benny’s and drink 40’s. Like a hobo. Besides, I’m done with Patrick McKinney. You know, he told me he can’t sleep over while my parents are in Cleveland? He said he's watching the game with Chance, can you believe it? As if I didn't know Chance was going to the Don Henley concert. We all know—Tiffany won't shut up about it." She huffs. "It's like I’m not even worth a decent lie anymore.”

“But he's obsessed with you. You barely came up for air at your birthday.”

“That’s when he started acting weird! I swear, he’s going crazy.”

Chrissy twists her hands in her lap, recalling the twins’ eighteenth, which the Tigers had celebrated alongside the dawn of 1986. Patrick had poured his girlfriend champagne, smiling indulgently while she slurred toast after toast: to him, to her friends, and—begrudgingly—to her brother Andy. To Fred Bensen, her lab partner, who let her cheat off his exam, and Mr. Jiménez, their chemistry teacher, who was too hungover from the faculty Christmas party to catch them. To Valium and peanut M&M’s. To Madonna and Urban Cowboy. To herself. 

Debi laughs, her teeth flashing white against her salon tan. “Please. You were so busy gazing soulfully into each other’s eyes-” She bats her lashes like a cartoon, “-you even missed ‘Pinball Chrissy’-”

Chrissy bites her lip, tonguing loose a flake of skin. Why can't you let that go? she wishes she could ask, resentful and mortified. Usually, she nurses Diet Coke at parties, but the birthday girl had urged her on until she was fizzing like the stolen Dom Perignon in her Solo cup. Bored with her friends’ conversation, and restless, slow-dancing with Jason, she’d done a handspring that ripped the bow off of her ivory dress.  

“-and she was hard to miss, once we put her in Day-glo.” 

Chrissy tastes metal. The squad had helped her change into Molly’s tie-dye camp t-shirt, which was baggy enough to hang like a dress over her underwear. But she’d flashed the crowd, somersaulting down the hall, and they'd shrieked with laughter, goading her to keep flipping—even after Chrissy knocked over an antique Cloissone vase.

“Yeah, well, I caught the end of the show. And I was the one who had to explain the mess to my parents," Molly says sourly.

Chrissy squeezes her eyes shut, swallowing an "I'm sorry." She's apologized a dozen times already; it would only irritate them now. Why did you say it was fine, if you're still mad? Why do you keep talking like I'm not even here? Don't you know how bad I feel?

Molly and Patrick had stumbled in while the junior varsity players were sweeping up the shards, collecting broken blossoms for Tiffany, who sprinkled petals over her boyfriend like confetti. They were staggering drunk, and a freshman yelped, cutting open his hand, but when Chrissy bent to help staunch the blood, Patrick had grabbed her elbow, advising her to stay out of the way. “You’ll just make it worse,” he said, so Chrissy fled to the coat closet.

She cried alone, pressed on all sides by minks reeking of napthalene, and when she gagged, there was a champagne-sweet tinge to the acid on her tongue. Her stomach was churning because she already knew what she was in for. A grounding. (“This is just like you, Christine. Careless with your things. Ungrateful for all my hard work, trying to make you pretty.”) A lecture (“This isn’t like you, babe. Running around half-naked, sloppy. You’re not that kind of girl.”)

“Come on, your mom was thrilled,” Debi scoffs. “Didn't your dad give her a blank check to redecorate?”

“Yeah, and then I had to deal with Laura Cunningham, coming over to look through House Beautiful and tell Mom she’s still got ‘Southside’ taste.” Tugging a lock of red hair, she pitches her voice higher to mimic her unsettlingly girlish diction. “‘Store those old portraits in the attic. Nobody wants to look at a dour little ginger over dinner. It’ll put them off their food.” Molly scowls, because both twins inherited their grandmother's stern brow and square jaw. “CC, your mom’s a bitch.”

Chrissy wishes she could snap, “Yeah, I’m aware. She’s mean to me, too.” But her friends have no patience for her complaining anymore. It frustrates them when she stutters, overwhelmed, or loses her nerve, mid-sentence, too proud to admit how dysfunctional her family is. Besides, it’s safer to stay quiet: she’s filled with equal parts guilt and pleasure, knowing she’s not her mother’s only target. She never wants them to find out that it comforts her, as much as she's offended on their behalf.

Her friend’s brow is furrowed, and she’s humming “Tainted Love.”

“Is that 105.3?” Chrissy asks.

“It’s my mixtape. You know, I didn't think you'd come with us. Figured you’d ride with Dream Date.”

“I wanted to spend time with you,” she replies, as the tape rolls to a stop. Chrissy shudders at the sudden chill.

Some dream date. She frowns. Jason didn’t listen when they talked the new routine at lunch. He never listens.

She licks her torn lip, recalling the kisses he demanded after gorging himself on onion rings, and the coffee he forbade her from drinking. She remembers crying in a fur pile, shivering with dread, while he was throwing up on the lawn after losing a game of Quarters. He wasn’t worried about what would happen in the morning. He knew nobody would be angry with him.

Chrissy looks out the window, toward the bright moon, but she sees a desert, blood-red and bruise-purple. “It’s for your own good.” “A godly husband has headship over his wife.” All those scoldings. And for what?

Because she let Tiffany lace her into a corset like a living mannequin: her friends got a kick out of “Prissy Chrissy” in lingerie and smudged liner, like a girl waking up high in a stranger’s bed. (“It’s just a joke,” Chrissy had whispered, when Jason confronted her with the Polaroids.) Because she took her brother to the Starcourt Mall to see Gremlins. (“I thought Gizmo was cute,” she sighed, while he tied the sleeves of his letterman jacket around her neck. “He’s like a cross between a bunny and a baby monkey.”) Because she’d moaned loudly when she came, and forgot to say sorry. Because she asked him to touch her that way again.

Because she followed Eddie Munson with her eyes.

By the time the girls arrive at the Andrews’ house, Chrissy’s got a tight grip on the strap of her backpack, and the buckle digs into her palm when she sees how crowded it is. There are even teenagers from other schools–including, to her surprise, the Lawrenceville Bears, who are coping with defeat by drinking their rivals’ liquor. A stranger hits her with his bomber jacket, slinging it over his shoulder, and Chrissy cries out when her hair ribbon snags on his button. Fumbling to tear it off, she’s trapped under Danny’s arm, assaulted by the citrus-spice of Drakkar Noir and boy-sweat, then knocked into a trio of drummers from the marching band.

She can see Molly in front of them, dancing to a synth beat layered over engines and drills. But Chrissy stiffens her spine, sensing that the girls are studying her slumped posture, her disheveled hair, and her chapped lips, whispering, “What’s so special about her, anyway?” 

She finds Jason lounging in the leather Chesterfield at the center of the room, surrounded by Tigers. When he pats the arm of the chair, Chrissy perches beside him, crossing her ankles.

She wishes she was in the bedroom upstairs, under the fluffy white blanket, dreaming of floating between the rooftops and the sun—no frost, no terror inside her, just summer lassitude and grace. A Wish Bear shooting star.

Except she can’t let herself sleep. If she wakes up crying about sewing machines and spiders, she’ll ruin the party. Jason will be offended if he finds out she told Ms. Kelley about her nightmares before she told him.

“I was just saying I missed you at lunch today,” he says, gently pinching her cheek. “My little secretary.” Unwilling to confess she needed counseling, Chrissy told him she was alphabetizing Ms. Kelley’s files—an act of charity, she lied, to welcome the newest member of the staff to town. It was easy to convince Jason that it was her duty as head cheerleader. In Hawkins, Chrissy is considered school spirit made flesh. 

Jason caresses the third finger of her left hand, and she has to force herself to stay still. Once, Chrissy cherished the gesture, a private devotion, like a ring that was engraved on the inside—the wedding band she dreamed of as a little girl, with its secret "Forever." Now, it only makes her feel guilty. When he talks about their future–their house, here in Hawkins, a white Colonial on Breakwater Lane—all Chrissy hears is breaking planks. He’s building a stairway, and she is two floors below him, spell-bound by diligent termites. She should tell him the truth, that their American dream has a rotting foundation. She knows she should. But she never seems to muster up the nerve.

Andy adds a can to the Budweiser tower on the coffee table. “Nah, it was good thinking, leaving early. She’d've lost her appetite." All the boys know Chrissy is a picky eater; they're too happy devouring her leftovers to question why. “The Freak was ranting about that Satanic shit again.”

“Why do you even let him in the house?” Jason frowns.  At church, the older women compliment his serious mien, swearing he looks like a noble fairy tale prince, or a captain of industry, or Pat Boone, or Paul Newman, or "a Kennedy, except our Jason would have the right sort of politics."

“Reefer Rick’s in jail, man. Munson’s got the black market cornered. I’m not risking my only connection this close to graduation.” He smirks, touching the rim of the baseball cap covering his messy brown curls. “Once we’ve cleaned out his supply, he can play pack mule. Trailer trash’ll do anything for a buck.”

Chrissy shifts in her seat, tempted to roll her eyes. The Tigers are bizarrely fixated on Eddie and his friends, who belong to a mysterious school club called Hellfire. Rumor has it that Hellfire Club is actually a Church of Satan congregation, or a cult like the People’s Temple. The English teacher even tried to get it disbanded, but despite Mrs. O’Donnell’s best efforts, the club has doubled in size this year, after Eddie recruited a brood of awkward freshmen.

The athletes are making them suffer for it. Jason claims it’s for their own good. “They need to learn there are consequences to sinning like that," he said. "It’s better to learn when you’re young, when you can still be saved.” Eddie is considered a lost cause. 

“I heard the lispy kid who follows him around was born missing bones,” Andy continues. “So the Freak carved his teeth out of animal skulls. Bats or something.”

“They’re resin,” Chrissy corrects softly, hiding her crooked incisors behind her hand. Her mother had campaigned to get her fitted for veneers, until Chrissy’s grandmother pointed out she’d inherited her smile from generations of Cunninghams far more beautiful than Laura could ever be.

“It’s not Dustin’s fault how he was born,” Lucas Sinclair says, and Chrissy smiles at him. The freshman is more than a head taller than she is, thanks to his three-inch flattop, but he seems like a kid to her, because he's deferential to the older boys. He must be feeling brave tonight, since his three-pointer won us the game. 

“Dustin’s nice,” Chrissy confirms. “He helped me carry my bags once, at Melvald's.” Dustin had bumped into her in the craft aisle, dropping a packet of googly eyes to catch the six-pack of Gatorade sliding from her grip. She’d braced herself for leering or gawking, the reaction she usually gets when she walks through town alone. (“Boys will be boys,” or so everybody keeps saying.) Instead, he’d chattered about the card he was making for his girlfriend, listening intently when Chrissy advised him to trade the loose glitter—a guaranteed mess—for metallic marker, and to trace the VHS cover of The Neverending Story if he couldn't draw Falkor freehand.

“Sweetheart, you think everyone’s nice,” Jason laughs, and Chrissy focuses on Pat Benatar’s whistle, cutting through the din.

“I bet that’s why he joined Hellfire,” Andy says. “He thinks the Devil can fix his weird gnome body.”

Chrissy wishes she could sever the boys’ conversation entirely, slice their awareness of the Hellfire Club out of their brains. I should stop them, she thinks, but she doesn’t know how, and she’s too tired to fight.

It’s the same excuse she gave herself this morning, when Andy shoved the boy against a locker. Chance kicked his backpack at the radiator, sniggering at the crunch of metal meeting plastic, and Patrick stood guard at the end of the hall. Jason had wrapped his arm around her shoulders, leading her away, nudging her cheek so she would face him instead. And dutiful Chrissy had smiled.

She hops off the arm of the chair, startling when she bumps into Patrick, who is stock-still on the sofa. Has he been there this whole time? He is staring out the window without blinking, so she peers outside, too, but none of the shadows are moving: it’s an ordinary lawn, with manicured grass, a fenced flower garden, and a neat line of hawthorns marking the border.

Unsettled, Chrissy whispers his name. But Patrick ignores her—like he’s ignoring Debi, climbing over the ottoman to nab a beer from Andy’s tower, and Chance, groping Tiffany next to him. He doesn't shy away from her braid, which is brushing his shoulder, or flinch at the jab of Debi's elbow. And he hasn't glanced at his ex-girlfriend once.

“I need a shot,” Tiffany announces, flicking her boyfriend’s long nose when he tries to pull her back into his lap. The couple appear as well-matched as Chrissy and Jason—both tall, sleek and tan, with shining black hair and eyes. Tiffany snaps her fingers so the girls follow her to the kitchen, and Chrissy trails after them with Molly squeezing her wrist.

But the girls’ favorite vodka is down to the dregs, and they’re out of diet soda. “I’ll send the Freak to get some more,” Tiffany decides. Then, tongue in cheek, “Maybe he’ll do it for a kiss. He’s kind of cute, don’t you think? Could be fun, seeing Chance beat him to a pulp. Like a boxing match.” She untwists her braid and shakes out her hair, and she looks forbiddingly beautiful, with plum blush emphasizing the drama of her cheekbones, and mascara exaggerating her enormous almond eyes. Chrissy catches her Scrunchie before it hits the tile, then peeks around the doorframe in trepidation, watching her strut into the dining room.

Her jaw drops when she sees the spread on the table: there are Raw rolling papers, Stoker’s chew, packs of Marlboros and Virginia Slims, sandwich bags of pills and marijuana, and button bags of powder. Chrissy smiles when she catches sight of the yellow Bic lighters, the kind sold at the gas station counter. Someone has arranged them in a semi-circle, like the rays of a cartoon sun.

She’s shocked to see drugs, laid out in the open. Eddie has come to parties before, when her friends needed more than they could reasonably expect him to carry at school, but he’s usually in and out as quickly as a pizza boy. They even rush him at Benny’s, though he has as much right to be there as anybody else; the burger joint was condemned after Benny’s murder, so they're all trespassers. As far as Chrissy knows, Eddie’s never set foot in a Loch Nora mansion; Tiffany won’t let him step over the property line, as if the Kentucky bluegrass would brown under his soles.

But tonight, Eddie is seated at the head of the table, ignoring the jocks and the preps who watch him with varying degrees of fear and disgust. To Chrissy, he looks intimidating, pale as a vampire, with dark curls and darker eyes. He’s counting cash, swift as a cardsharp. Light slides across his heavy pewter rings. 

At school, Eddie irritates his deskmates by shaking his leg, drumming his textbook, and flipping his pen until it flies across the room, but Chrissy’s never seen him move with such purpose before. He pauses when Tiffany waves a fifty in his face, returning her coy smile with a nod.

Leaning closer, her friend knocks over the stack of bills, and Chrissy expects him to lash out, since he’ll have to restart the count. But it’s only when Tiffany whispers in his ear that he turns vicious; whatever he whispers in return has her flouncing away. He knows she's stirring up trouble, Chrissy realizes, her shoulders tensing.

Eddie relaxes, concentrating on rolling a joint for a pigeon-toed freshman. She ashes on the whitework tablecloth, inches from the sterling silver tray, and her boyfriend spills her beer on the lavender carpet, but Eddie doesn’t bother to look over, let alone help them mop up.

The other girls hurry to console Tiffany, but Chrissy stays behind. She’s distracted, hearing the chords of her middle school favorite. Eddie must recognize the song, too: by the time Tommy Tutone is chanting Jenny's number, he's screwed up his face like a toddler throwing a Lego, and Chrissy smiles. He tilts his chair back to squint at the crystal chandelier—her mother's selection—balancing precariously on two legs. Rolling his eyes, he lands on all four.

Mindy, the cheerleader most likely to succeed her as captain, appears at her shoulder, crunching cheddar Ruffles. She offers Chrissy a chip that she knows she will refuse.

“I like your earrings,” Chrissy says. 

The junior moves her box braids so she can fully appreciate her Lucite hoops, which match the orange megaphone on their shells. Then she sniggers. “God, look at Munson. What’s he wash that hair with, lye?”

The truth is, Chrissy loves Eddie’s frizzy curls. She loves his leather jacket, which reminds her of the greasers in The Outsiders—a movie she saw twice in the theaters.  She loves the chain looped through the cuff, in place of a lost button. She loves his denim vest, which he patched with a Dio t-shirt. She loves the pins on his lapel—devil-red and black, of course, printed with words she’s never been close enough to make out. She loves his brutal rings, and the guitar pic he wears as a necklace, which dangles beside a mysterious tattoo. She loves his creased Reeboks.

And Chrissy loves the design on his Hellfire Club shirt: the demon, the mace, and the fiery sword. They remind her of Revelations—her favorite book in the Bible, once she grew out of her belief in the afterlife (That’s a secret only her grandmother knows.) Now, Chrissy appreciates the strangeness, and the chaos. The serpent, the pale horse, and the seven-headed dragon. The angels who command fire, and the angels with eyes on all sides. The crumbling mountains, and the emerald rainbows. They’re safer than the real world, she thinks. The hell of her nightmares is Hawkins.

Once, in History class, she watched Eddie pick at the edges of a tear in his jeans, and by the time the bell rang, his knee was bare. She realized that his nervous tic is destruction: Like recognizes like, she thought, because hers is destruction, too.

But it’s her body that Chrissy’s compelled to hurt. To starve and burn with acid. To prick with tweezers and metal files. To bite and claw and chew. Eddie only cuts his clothes, and then he stitches them back together. He makes himself bleed to transform his skin into art.

What’s it like to show off the stuff you ruined? To not be afraid? Her own clothes are mended as soon as her mother notices a loose stitch, and donated to the church's charity when the prints fall out of fashion. Chrissy scrubs her sneakers white with a toothbrush every Saturday, even the soles. Her jewelry is delicate, and always 24 karat gold: she wears no rings, except for Jason's invisible one.

Chrissy doesn’t want her friend to catch her ogling Eddie Munson, and scrambles for something distracting to say. But there’s no reason to worry: Mindy's spotted Lucas and Patrick, chatting with the captain of the opposing team. “Hey, Superstar!” she shouts, jogging over to the duo of Black boys.

Lucas smiles shyly at the epithet, and Patrick is grinning, too, like a proud older brother. It’s the happiest he’s looked since the Survivor sing-a-long.

Chrissy has a flash of memory: swimming at the pool last summer, before the fire at the Starcourt Mall killed the lifeguards and it had to close. Patrick had jumped in the water, still dressed in his tank top and shorts, while the other boys were stripping on the deck.

They all whooped when Jason shouted, “Shirts and skins! Let's play chicken." Molly bounced on her toes and cannonballed in, kicking her feet, gleeful, when her boyfriend hoisted her up onto his shoulders. At the brush of her heels, Patrick doubled over like she’d busted a rib, and she giggled as she toppled, thinking he was teasing.

When Chance tossed him a thermos of bourbon, Patrick gulped it down, wincing. He shimmied the way he always does after missing a free-throw. There was something familiar in his expression–something soft and sad in his brown eyes, despite his close-mouthed smile. So when he climbed out of the pool, Chrissy bent down to spare him the effort of opening the cooler. Handing him a Poland Spring, she asked, "Are you alright?" 

Patrick had nodded, struggling to unscrew the lid, and she wanted to ask him again, to make sure. But if she lingered, she risked drawing Jason’s attention, and her boyfriend disapproves of her talking to other boys—even his fellow Tigers, who he swears are his brothers; according to Jason, it's impossible for men and women to be just friends. If Patrick was in trouble, Jason and Molly would help, she told herself, adjusting the strap of her pink one-piece, then pinching the fat on her hip. And he wouldn't want me in his business anyway.

So when Jason called her name, Chrissy jumped into the pool.

She trembles now, like she did when she hit the water, the shock of cold pebbling her skin.

She doesn’t know Patrick, she realizes. Not deeply. She only knows how he acts at parties and what people say about him. She wonders how much his teammates know. Since they haven’t noticed that Chrissy is losing her mind, it’s a fair assumption that they’re totally oblivious. What else are we missing?

Chrissy wills her eyes to stay open. She focuses on the boys, laughing, and the eager thrum of a guitar. She watches Eddie Munson, flipping a yellow lighter, smiling to himself like the crowd doesn’t matter at all. 

Chapter Text

The beat is spiraling around her body, from her ankles to her hips, tighter and tighter. But Chrissy’s boyfriend is widening his stance with every choral “Temptation,” bragging about his hook shot. Jason is at both sides and behind her, gripping her waist, and sweat drips down his second face when he kisses her temple—Chrissy avoids her own eye in the mirror, because it’s easier to look at him.

The Tigers have dismantled the beer castle, and Andy is slurring, challenging the Lawrenceville captain to a race; he’s eager to show off the Porsche 911 he got for his birthday, and has already ordered Fred, the yearbook editor, to mark down his senior quote as “I got the need, the need for speed.”

His rival scoffs. “I don’t waste time on rigged games, and that’s all you people play. What’d your daddy buy to get you on varsity?”

“Watch it,” Jason says, letting go of her to grab Andy’s ringer collar. “There’re girls around.” When Chrissy’s within hitting distance, he keeps the peace, styling himself as a Sheriff—not the rough-necked Hawkins’ Sheriff, Hopper, who died in the mall fire, or his successor, dour Powell, but “The Law” in an old Western flick. Still, she backs away from them, bumping into something solid.

“I’m sorry!” Chrissy says. Then she flushes, because it’s only a radio. Checking surreptitiously to see if anyone else heard her, she makes eye contact with Lucas. “Um, sorry, I thought…”

He grins. “Maybe it appreciates manners, you never know. My little sister used to make me say ‘please’ and ‘thank you” to her EZ Bake oven.” He winces, embarrassed, until she replies, “Like The Brave Little Toaster.” 

The diaphragm of the speaker breathes out four “hey’s” and a drum fill, and Chrissy shifts so that it presses against her bare leg. 

“Is it always like this?” Lucas motions across the room, where Andy and Jason are shouting about their favorite Rambo scenes, and Chance is smirking at Tiffany and Molly as if they shotgun weed to titillate him.

“This year? Yeah. It’s gotten wilder since the fire. People say—Jason says—the way to feel better is to live a good life, like they would’ve wanted.” Chrissy sighs. “I guess that means drinking for thirty.” She’s startled by the irony in her own voice.

Then a horn riff grates the air behind her knees, and Lucas flinches, gulping down his beer. She regrets mentioning the fire. When he sways, Chrissy steadies the new deco vase before he can knock it over. “Hey, I was going to grab a soda, look for somewhere quieter to sit. Want to come with?” 

Then Andy yells, “Sinclair, you’re six behind! Don’t be a pussy!” and Lucas puffs out his chest like only a fourteen-year-old boy can. 

“Thanks, Chrissy, but I’m good.” He crushes the Budweiser in one hand, and she watches uneasily as he pops the tab on another. But she doesn’t intervene, afraid of denting his pride; she’s learned that can be dangerous, with high school boys. 

A man is singing about “soft and fuzzy sweaters, too magical to touch,” and Chrissy’s cheer shell prickles like it’s barbed.

•••

By now, word’s spread that the kitchen’s out of stock, so the room is empty, and her friends’ conversation is muffled by the wall. Their voices rise and fall, an eerie hum; Chrissy breaks out in goosebumps. When glass clinks behind her, she spins, her Keds squeaking on the tile, and wishes she had a weapon. But all she’s got is a handful of strawberries.

“Whoa, hey, hey, hey, hey…sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Eddie says, setting down his backpack, which is half-unzipped to reveal the neck of a bottle. He’s careful not to make another sound.  

Chrissy frets over what he must think of her, jumpy as a rabbit, and traces the steel-gray veins in the marble with her eyes. She regrets her silence when Eddie mutters, “Hey, just let me unpack and I’m gone.” He’s looking to the side, as though his gaze was the thing she’d been frightened of. 

“No, I don’t want you to go," she says softly. 

To her friends, Eddie’s a predator, or a vermin, or a beast of burden—depending on their mood. She wonders if he ever thinks of himself that way. While Chrissy has never been feared or loathed, she knows what it’s like to be used, and there are moments when she worries she’s more of an appliance than a girl. 

Then again, Chrissy does the work for love, or praise. Eddie gets paid cash to run errands—and sometimes not even money can entice him. 

He knows how to say no, she thinks jealously, as he drops the tote on the counter. Unlike me. It’s printed with an American flag, rippling over “In God We Trust,” so she doubts that it belongs to him; Eddie won’t even recite the Pledge of Allegiance at school—he calls himself a conscientious objector, and sleeps straight through homeroom. 

She watches him turn the kitchen into a makeshift bar. “Can I help?” 

“Nope. But thanks.” He’s humming, bobbing his head to a tune she doesn’t recognize.

“How did you get this stuff so fast?” Chrissy asks shyly. “Are you twenty-one?” Then she bites her lip, nervous he’ll take it as an insult, since their classmates ridicule him for being the oldest senior at Hawkins High.

But Eddie only grins, good-natured. “The places I go don’t card.” She’s never seen his smile before—not this one, anyway. Not close-up. “I’ll be twenty-one the 13th of December,” he adds, while she’s marveling at his dimple. 

“Oh, a Sagittarius! Fire sign, that makes total sense.” Then she blushes; Chrissy hadn’t meant to say that out loud. 

“Why’s that?” When she hesitates, Eddie puts his hands together, pleading, “Come on, Cunningham, don’t make me look it up at the library. Weldon's ruthless.”

Chrissy giggles, imagining the spectacle he must’ve made to ruffle the librarian. She knows Eddie can out-yell the squad, because she can hear him from across the cafeteria, peppering speeches about dungeons, dragons, and barbarians with “fucks” and “goddamns.” When he and his friends are especially rowdy, Chrissy angles her body to block Jason’s view of the Hellfire table, whispering flirtations to distract him. 

Miss Weldon approves of Chrissy, who’s been trained to sit quietly for hours with perfect posture, like an illustration from the Wendy Ward Charm School Handbook (Laura had completed the fashion and etiquette course at the Montgomery Ward department store.) Chrissy never dog-ears pages or makes notes in the margins of the books, and she returns them to their proper place on the shelf, according to the Dewey Decimal. 

So Miss Weldon orders books from other libraries for her without complaint. She permits her to take home the reference texts. And she promised, “I won’t tell your mother,” when Chrissy started requesting unChristian titles a few weeks ago; having long-ago lost faith in the power of the “Our Father,” but not yet aware of clinical psychology, Chrissy was searching for a way to ward off her nightmares. The librarian brought her compendiums of folk traditions, fortune-telling guides, pictures of apotropaic charms, and journals of comparative religions, and even included the New Age self-help books that she swore led her to her “authentic self."

“Ok, ok, but it’s silly, so don’t make fun of me, please?" Chrissy clasps her hands under her chin, relaxing when he nods. "So...the ancient Greeks thought you could read a person’s future in the pattern the stars made, the day they were born. Sagittarius was in the sky on your birthday—he’s the centaur constellation, the one shooting the bow and arrow. And Sagittarians are adventurous and...” Her lips quirk. “Loud.”

“A centaur! Metal,” Eddie decides. “What’re you?”

“My birthday’s June thirteenth, so I’m a Gemini–that’s the twins. They could turn into St. Elmo’s fire, that blue glow-y spark during storms? And they protected sailors. They’re even in the Bible.”

“I know that one!” Eddie waves his arms. “Not the Greek stuff, I hated sixth grade Social Studies: Zeus turns into a bull, Zeus turns into a bird, Zeus turns into gold…learn to take no for an answer, man.”  He shakes his head, tapping the bat on the Bacardi label. “But I was reading this book of really twisted myths—inspiration for D&D, you know?” 

She doesn’t, but she’s too endeared by his enthusiasm to interrupt him.

“—and in Babylon? Those twins were guardians of the underworld!” He points to the bludgeon on his shirt. “They were armed to the teeth, with horns, and axes, and maces.” Leaning forward, he teases, “Always knew you were scary, Chrissy Cunningham.”

“Me?” she breathes, delighted. 

He grins. “Terrifying.”

It’s startling, how soft he looks now, compared to when he left for the liquor store. Clearing a path to the door, he shoved a felt H with his shoulder, and jabbed his elbow into an embroidered alligator. Chrissy has never moved that way, letting her body say “or else.” She longs to.

”You know, you’re not what I thought you’d be like,” she confesses.

“You thought I’d be mean and scary, too?” He pulls a lock of curly hair over his face, looking bashful.

She nods, blushing. 

Eddie claps. “So. I owe you congratulations, right? Balls made it through the laundry basket tonight, all thanks to your, you know—“ He does an awkward impersonation of her pom-pom shake, and she giggles. “—cheer thing.” Pointing at the vodka, he asks, “Toast?”

Chrissy shakes her head, gesturing at the strawberries and the cup of Dannon. “I was just getting a snack.” She figured nonfat yogurt would help her resist temptation, if she was going to linger in the kitchen. 

“Need help with anything?” Eddie drums the counter. “Slicing? Dicing? I’m handy with a knife...Not in a Michael Myers way, just. Generally, you know. Good with my hands.” She laughs, and he puts his palm over his heart. “You’re safe here, I swear.” Before she has the chance to tip-toe, reaching for the wooden cutting board on the high hook, Eddie grabs it for her.

Then, snapping the loose spoke of a Longaburger basket, he muses, “This is how the other half lives, huh?” He lifts plastic grapes from the bowl of decorative fruit, posing like Bacchus in a baroque painting. Chrissy shrugs with a helpless smile; she’s never understood that trend, either.  “You know, I always thought heaven would be full of stuff like this. Fake perfect.” He smiles mischievously. “Guess I’ll never know.” Chrissy recalls that Billy Joel line, about laughing with sinners and crying with saints. 

She mixes the strawberries into her yogurt, and Eddie tosses one his mouth like an eager puppy. In the distance, The Go-Go’s declare, “The whole world’s out of sync,” but Eddie is smiling like there’s nothing to be afraid of, so Chrissy admits, “I don’t really like parties.”

The truth is, Chrissy is tired of being the responsible one, doing the rounds. Besides one (disastrous) New Year’s Eve, that’s been her role. Most of her friends are keg veterans, not kids like Lucas, and well-aware of their own limits, but they rarely heed them. So Chrissy volunteers to be the designated driver, and the braider-on-call when a girl needs to throw up. When a Bear tapped the aquarium glass, goading the betta fish, Chrissy distracted him, oohing and aahing over his class ring until he let the red frill rest behind its blade of kelp. When a girl found her boyfriend naked with a Lawrenceville stranger, Chrissy wiped her black tears, hugged her, and swore, “You’re too pretty for him anyway.” She straightened the oil paintings and wooden crosses that had been jostled by the kissing couple, wondering what it would be like, to be brazen enough to nip a boy’s neck before they’d even made it behind a door. 

Sure, she enjoys taking care of her friends—and even their houses—but lately, she’s the one who wants coddling. At the very least, she'd appreciate a thank you. The last time they went to Benny’s, while she was cowering from the flickering lights of her first migraine, she overheard Debi complain, “Ugh, it’s so hard to chill out, with Chrissy like a judgy little angel on my shoulder.” As if Chrissy hadn’t sacrificed her favorite Capezios, when Debi was too drunk to walk in stilettos, and unplugged the phone before she could call Billy Hargrove, because she'd sworn that she'd "absolutely die" if she ever spoke to him again.

“You’ve got good taste,” Eddie says. "The jock strap’s parties are boooring."

She wonders what kind of parties Eddie goes to, and whether he ever throws his own. Do the boys dress like he does, in leather jackets and patched denim? Do the girls wear spandex miniskirts and studded belts? Do they drink in basements or dive bars? Chrissy pictures dim light, thick smoke, ash in glass bottles. A duct taped couch, holes in the plaster. From the speakers: guitars, swirling, then cutting; fast bass; men shouting and howling and shrieking and growling. The music Eddie plays in his van after school, with the windows down and the barn doors open, while he waits for his brood of freshmen. 

But Chrissy doesn’t have a chance to question him, because Lucas staggers in, heaving a sigh. He heads straight to the sink, splashing water on his face, and sputters when he notices Eddie.

“Um…hey, man,” he says, his voice cracking like a middle schooler’s. 

Eddie’s brows pull together.

“I’m just. You know.” Lucas's s’s are thick, and he swallows convulsively.

Eddie snorts, then rifles through his backpack until he finds a Slim Jim, Hess Station fare that Chrissy’s never tasted. “Drink water,” he orders, tossing it to him.

Lucas hasn’t noticed Chrissy yet. He’s gnawing on the jerky, sullen. “What’d’you care? I thought I was ‘corroded by conformity.’ ‘A traitor to Hellfire.’ ‘A disgrace to the title of Ranger for abandoning the Party to a lich.’”

She gasps. He's in Hellfire?! How'd he keep it a secret for so long?  Then: I don’t want Lucas to be like me. Sick from the truth roiling in her stomach.

“Not that I know what a lich is,” he stutters when he spots her. She doesn't blame him. She's nervous, too. Jason would be upset with him for lying, but he’d be even more upset if he found her here. Yet Chrissy can’t bring herself to leave, now that her mother’s needles have stopped piercing. 

Eddie is shaking his head like a disappointed teacher. “Chrissy won’t tell anyone you're a freak,” he says.

Chrissy smiles earnestly, making an x over her heart with her finger; she's not sure why he trusts her, though she's flattered. He’s right: she is a vault.

As soon as she read the chapter on “The Gemini Woman” in Sun Signs, Chrissy clocked astrology as a game, not a science. Unlike Chrissy, the Gemini woman is chatty and impulsive. The only traits that Chrissy shares with her are the flaws: she’s indecisive, and she’s prone to deceit—she tells white lies, and lies by omission. There are times when Chrissy feels like two girls in one body. 

By now, Eddie must know that her public face is a mask—she’s spoken more openly to him than she has to anyone else all week, besides Ms. Kelley—and she would expect someone as bold as he is to scorn her for it. But Eddie is smiling at her as though silence can be heroic, instead of reviling her for being too cowardly to stand up to her friends. 

He turns back to Lucas, glaring. “You’re still a traitor—and don’t think you’re off the hook with the rest of the Party, either. I’m only taking pity on you now so you won’t faint in front of the Queen of Hawkins High.” Lucas looks glumly at his Nikes, and Eddie winks at Chrissy before she has a chance to register the title. Pointing at Lucas, he continues, “I was out there all night, standing guard, fending off enemies on all sides, and the minute I leave you unprotected, you need a Constitution save.” He lightly smacks the back of his head, making him groan. 

“You set up there to sell,” he counters, rubbing his eyes.

“Well, I’ve got to make a living! I’m burning rubber as soon as I have that diploma in my hand, I need gas and motel money.” 

“Oooh, where are you going?” Chrissy asks. She's never been out of the state.

“New York. LA. San Francisco. London…Anywhere with a thrash scene,” Eddie answers. “Anywhere but here.”

Lucas burps. “Ugh, I can’t believe I have to drink more.”

“Say no. You don’t have to change yourself for them, Sinclair.” Then, with a theatrical shudder, Eddie cries, “I sound like a DARE officer!” He rubs his pec as if to check for a badge, then examines his arms like he’s expecting them to be clad in Sheriff khaki. “What have you done to me?”

“Next time the boys bother you, tell them you’re keeping me company,” Chrissy suggests, laughing. “I’ll save you a soda, they can have the Four Bells and the Absolut.”

“You got a ride home?” Eddie asks him. 

“I was supposed to go with Patrick, but I can’t find him anywhere. I’ve got to get back by eleven or I’m dead.”

Chrissy bounces on her toes. “Maybe he’s making up with Molly.” 

Eddie sighs, put-upon. “My van’s parked behind that gazebo. Go on—but don’t get lost in the woods, little sheepie.” 

Lucas salutes, sneaking out the door. 

“Can I get a ride, too?” Chrissy asks impulsively. Then she steps backwards, worried he’ll think she’s treating him like a draft horse, and looks down. “I’m sorry, that’s probably really weird. I’m sure you have better things to do.”

“No, no, no, no problem! I’d be happy to!” He puts his shoulders back, tilting up his chin. “Never let it be said that Eddie Munson abandons a lady in need. We’ll go wherever you want to.”

Chrissy beams, and he returns her giddy smile.

Chapter Text

Chrissy looks both ways for Tigers, then pulls up her hood, wishing, for the millionth time, that her hair was a common shade. None of the teenagers lingering outside notice her. They're distracted by the red gleam of the Audi Quattro on the lawn; they shriek when the engine revs, and sing along with the radio. They're lying, “We ain’t too pretty, we ain’t too proud”; their voices push Chrissy's fear aside, to make room for familiar piano.

She moves toward the pagoda gazebo, which is enclosed with white pickets like every property in Loch Nora. Chrissy used to play there with her friends. They trimmed their Easter bonnets with leaves and clover, tied their mothers' gaudiest scarves into capes, and gathered around Chrissy’s tea set, a plastic replica of Royal Albert china. But they only took a sip before the cups hit the floor, invisible tea seeping through the petals cut into their Mary Janes. “We’re under attack!” Molly cried, brandishing her brother’s BB gun, while Tiffany did a high kick and declared, “Vive la Resistance!” Chrissy swooned, crushing the brim of her straw hat into a picket, because her dream fiancé, David Cassidy, was holding the Luger. She dodged the bullets by sliding to the ground and staying there, greenery scattered around her head. (Back then, they never missed a viewing of The Sound of Music; to this day, summerhouses remind her of handsome Nazis.)

Eddie’s van rests in the shadow of the pagoda. It’s battered black, with a white stripe on its side, and, without the distraction of loud rock and louder boys, she recognizes it’s a ‘71 Chevrolet, the same model as the Mystery Machine. She smiles. 

Eddie is brushing crumbs off the passenger seat with the black bandana he sometimes ties around his head at school, which is printed with skulls and chains. But he stands as soon as he spots Chrissy, and inclines his head like a footman. “Your Highness,” he says.

She lets him guide her in. She's used to it. Jason opens doors for her, too, and pulls out her chair, and shields her with his umbrella. It always makes her feel like she owes him something. It's different with Eddie, whose over-the-top kindness is a parody of rote decency; all he seems to expect from her is a laugh.

He takes her hand, and she bites her lip, wondering if he's disgusted. Even Jason, who dated three cheerleaders before settling down, was startled, the first time she touched him, and her mother often laments that the prim day gloves of her childhood are out of mode. Chrissy has to keep her nails short, like a boy's, so they don’t collect dirt and chalk during stag splits, or bile when she’s sticking her finger down her throat. Worse, her mounts are rough, despite filing them with a pumice stone and wearing mittens full of Pond's to sleep. Other girls show off their taped wrists, flex their biceps, and flip up their skirts so the squad can measure time by their bruises, but Chrissy tugs at her sleeves, hiding the evidence of how hard she's working. If Eddie notices, he makes no mention of it.

Instead, he idly strokes the arc around her thumb as he lets her go. Chrissy touches the line there. Her lifeline, the occult books say. It's long and clear.

Climbing behind the wheel, Eddie waves at the mess. “Sorry about…uh...”

“My girlf—my friend, Max—calls the van ‘The Skunk,’” Lucas reveals, and Chrissy’s nose twitches, because there’s got to be a decade's worth of Marlboro and marijuana smoke embedded in the fabric. She peers around the backrest. The freshman is sprawled on a bare mattress, using a flannel shirt as a pillow, his ankles crossed over a crate. He's surrounded by cassettes, spiral notebooks, and loose leaf paper. Chrissy spots a pencil sketch of a kraken, and Eddie’s essay on the radium girls, which she recognizes by its burned margins—he’d told an unamused Mr. Jiménez, “A dragon ate my homework.”

Grabbing an empty Dr. Pepper from the cup holder, Eddie tosses it over his shoulder, where it rolls harmlessly under the seat, though Lucas squawks in outrage anyway. Eddie laughs, and Chrissy shakes her head fondly. Since her party lipstick is long-gone, she applies her Dr. Pepper Lip Smackers, indulging the urge to smack her lips like the model in the Bonne Bell commercial, and is gratified by Eddie's grin.

“Did you find Patrick?” Lucas asks Chrissy.

“No, but don’t worry, he’ll know you caught a ride with me.”

“But you don’t have your car…” 

“I told a couple of kids in your class to pass the message along. They’re all too drunk to ask questions.” 

She chose her targets carefully, settling on boys who’d been floating at the edges of the JV swimmers' crew for months, and would be eager to please; they blush around senior girls, and fluff their bangs to cover their acne, which she pretends not to see. Stepping into the cold, she heard one marvel, “I can’t believe she talked to me.” 

“Didn’t she tell you to ‘shut it’ at the assembly?"

“That doesn’t count! She could’ve been talking to anybody!”

Like her friends, Chrissy rarely wastes her manners on freshmen, and her only memory of the assembly is being pressed between strangers with clammy skin and nasally voices. She sits in guilty silence while Eddie brags about the victory of someone called Lady Applejack.

“Applejack…that’s a My Little Pony, right?” Chrissy asks. While she was volunteering at the church's afterschool program, they watched Rescue at Midnight Castle, and the little girls were disconsolate when Applejack was turned into a dragon. She imagines the Hellfire boys crying with them over the descent of eternal night upon Ponyland, and tucks her chin to hide her smile.

“No, she’s a chaotic good half-elf rogue with a poison-soaked kukri,” Eddie says firmly, as if he's speaking ordinary English, instead of a language that would suit Indiana Jones in Wonderland.

Chrissy is finally close enough to see the engravings on his rings: there’s a cross with skulls at each right angle, a skull with beastly fangs, a pig's head, and a filigree band with an obsidian at its center. If Chrissy wore the pig, the points of its ears would reach the freckle above her second knuckle. She was right, earlier: they could do real damage.

But Eddie’s been handling her as though he's wearing the kid gloves. And now he’s drumming the steering wheel, making certain Lucas is safely inside his humble blue house before he turns to her and asks, "Back to your castle? Loch Nora, right?”

Oh, no. Chrissy had been so eager to escape the party, she’d forgotten the alternative was worse. Wait...if Eddie knew I lived near Molly, why’d he drop Lucas off first?. Maple Street is fifteen minutes out of his way, at least. That thought gives her the courage to ask, “Where are you going, after this?” 

“Back to my castle.”

“Do you have plans, or chores, or are you meeting someone or—?”

He snorts. "Yeah, I've got big plans. Pork rinds, sweet leaf, and the new Metallica.” He peers at her. “Did you…would you want to come over?”

When she nods, blushing in pleasure, his drumming speeds up, faster than the song. 

“That sounds nice," she says. "And…I’d like to, could I try—“ He has to lean closer to hear her whisper. “—the marijuana? If that’s okay. I have money, I mean. I can pay.” 

He shakes his head. "No way." When she shrinks in her seat, he clarifies, "No charge. We'll just hang out."

“I’ve never done it before,” she confesses, twisting her hands in her lap. "I might be bad at it."

“Have you seen the caliber of the stoners around here?" he teases. "I heard even threepeat seniors master it.”

Before she can respond, he slaps the dash twice, turning up the dial to better hear a man growl, "Double stakes or split!" It ought to be menacing. But Eddie's shaking his curls, goofy and jubilant, so Chrissy giggles, and wiggles her ponytail to the beat. 

Then a light flashes behind them, and, Eddie, who never seemed worried about tickets when he was careening into the school lot, slows to the posted limit.

“Figured you wouldn’t want to get caught with me,” he explains, with a self-deprecating quirk of his lips. “The only one out this late is Callahan.” 

“He’s a total creep!” she blurts out, surprising herself. Usually, she keeps that sort of thing quiet, afraid of being dismissed as “oversensitive” and ”uptight,” or lectured on respecting the “honor” of the law enforcement profession, a model of “patriotic sacrifice.” In Chrissy’s opinion, Officer Callahan is not very professional. And she doesn’t feel safer when the police are around. She might as well be surrounded by basketball players.

So Chrissy lets herself complain. She tells Eddie that he patrols Skull Rock on Saturday nights, illuminating topless teenage girls with his Mag-Lite, and pretends to check the parking meter across from Dance Magic so he can ogle them stretching at the barre. The first time he caught them partying at Benny’s, he’d palled around with the senior boys like he was eighteen again, and even accepted a beer. He called Tiffany “a brick house” and confided that he never passed Billy’s Camaro without taking a peek in the backseat, because he usually had a bombshell in there with him.

Chance toasted his girlfriend’s cleavage for keeping them out of trouble. Not that they’d ever go to jail for the obligatory crimes of the high school athlete: trespassing at Benny’s and defacing it with spray paint (GO TIGERS! 86 CHAMPS! WINNERS ONLY!), loitering at the mall, drinking their parents’ liquor, or joyriding in their parents’ cars. The district judge was a Tiger himself, and his wife’s photograph still hangs in the locker room, alongside the other cheer captains of yore; her pincurls are perfect, but she was surprisingly plain. They’re happy to make exceptions. 

Eddie’s frowning, with worry and disgust. "He, uh…he never bothered you that way, did he?” When she shakes her head, he lets out a breath, accelerating, since they're alone on the road again.

“So...you don’t like Officer Callahan either?” 

Eddie snorts. “He was my nemesis, when I was twelve. He'd just graduated, so he had something to prove, I guess. Wanted to be the next Elliott Ness. But I was real slippery.” He laughs, shrugging, and admits, “Ok, maybe not. Truth is, Callahan's an Elmer Fudd.” 

"Twelve!? You were little! Why were they bothering you?"

He turns into Forest Hills Trailer Park, counting on his fingers. “Let’s see, let’s see…I drove my old man’s truck down Main Street. Stole a t-shirt from Melvald’s, and the stop sign at the corner of Maple and Maurine. Egged and TPed the Harrington house." Then the piece de resistance: “I swiped Callahan’s handcuffs.”

Chrissy bursts into shocked laughter, and she's rocking in her seat while Eddie parks the van, grinning. He tells her, “Stay put,” jauntily swinging his keychain, so she takes the opportunity to examine the place through the window. Although she's lived in Hawkins her whole life, she's never visited Forest Hills before. It’s nothing like Breakwater Lane.

There are campers, trailers, sedans, bicycles, lawn chairs, and card tables, but no property lines to speak of. She can't tell who owns what; none of the yard furniture coordinates with the curtains or the shutters. 

Then Chrissy sees a shadowy humanoid shape, hovering at the end of the street, the concrete rippling at its feet. It bends toward her. Her lungs burn. 

When Eddie opens the door, she forces herself to inhale, trying to recall some Dennis the Menace adventure from her own childhood, hoping to make Eddie laugh. But all she can remember is the aftermath. The white depressions in her knees, like grains of rice, and the red slashes on her thighs. The porcelain shards of Miss Gumdrop’s cheek, scattered over Marilla Bunny’s cotton insides. Her own face in the mirror, her eyes glowing that eerie blue; her mother sat her down at the vanity, knowing her tears would dry once she saw how bloodshot and blotchy the weeping made her.

There are suds filling her mouth, and Chrissy can taste Ivory. She can feel the shag carpet, the flat of the sewing gauge, and the sharp round of a pink nail. She hears a clicking lock, and a slamming door, and the clacking of high heels on maple. Then there’s her mother's voice, listing every synonym for “wrong.” And Chrissy’s own silent girlhood refrain: careful, careful, careful.

“You ok?” Eddie asks, keeping hold of her hand, and Chrissy jolts. The monster is only a coat and coveralls, drying on the line.

So she nods, smiling weakly.

“You know, this isn’t the first time we’ve hung out,” he informs her with a nudge.

Her brow furrows. 

“You really don’t remember?”

“I'm sorry," she says softly.

“That's okay.” Eddie puts his hand over his heart, pantomiming being stabbed, and collapses on the grass. “I wouldn't remember me either, Chrissy!” he declares, leaping to his feet again. Then he tosses his curls like Brooke Shields, advertising Wella. “Do I have stuff in my hair?”  

“I'm sorry,” she cries again, but she’s giggling now.

“Middle school. Talent show. I was with my band?” He rubs the back of his head, and a leaf flutters to the concrete.

Middle school. Talent show. Chrissy remembers. She had been fluttering her pom poms to soothe her nerves. "Your face will stick that way," her mother warned her, tapping the line between Chrissy's eyebrows, her own wrinkles deepening with displeasure. 

But her face smoothed again when Molly and Tiffany arrived, because they were trailed by their own mothers, who gushed over Laura's sewing (since the school had no official squad, she made the blue striped skirts herself, and designed the paw print pattern on their shells.). While she preened, Chrissy angled herself toward the mural of a Siberian husky. She imagined herself wrapped in sealskin, clutching a vial of antitoxin, cheering the dog pulling the bobsled through the snow. Just when she expected the painting to start howling, she heard a clatter, and spun to see the next act setting up a drum kit.

A boy was center stage, rubbing the back of his head, where a careless buzz had left a bald patch. Under the fluorescent lights, his hair had a green cast, like the bruise under his eye. Although his t-shirt was brand-new (Chrissy wonders now whether it was the one he’d stolen), his pants were frayed, and her mother called him "grubby." Mrs. Byers called him "fragile," noting his spindly limbs and narrow shoulders, and wondered whether he was being fed. But with his guitar in his hands, the boy looked unbreakable to Chrissy. He closed his eyes in ecstatic concentration. 

Chrissy widened hers, leaning forward to read the words printed in duct tape on the bass drum. Her friends were squealing something that got lost in the racket. With their mouths still open, it looked like they were speaking the riff, and Chrissy giggled, bouncing on her toes. She fluttered her pom poms again, shaking out her stage fright to the tune of the boys' wild, awkward, ramshackle song.

“Corroded Coffin!” she shouts.

“You do remember!” He pumps his fist. 

“Oh my gosh! With a name like that, how could I forget?” She shakes her head, amazed. “You looked so…”

“Different? Yeah, my hair was buzzed," He tugs the neckline of his shirt to show off a demon’s head with flowing hair, “and I didn't have these sweet tattoos yet.”

She's bouncing on her toes while he opens the door to the Munson trailer, thinking about desperation, and hope. Eddie bows again, and welcomes her in.

Chapter Text

“Do you still play guitar?” Chrissy asks as Eddie flips the light switch.

The bulb flickers, and she braces herself for another flash of madness. But it never comes. When Eddie jiggles the cord in the brass base of the lamp, the light settles, and Chrissy huffs a laugh of sharp relief. He gestures at the sofa, so she takes a seat; her spine is straight, inches from the back cushions. 

“I still play,” he says, walking backwards to the kitchen, dodging an overturned laundry basket without breaking her gaze. “Corroded Coffin even has a regular gig now, Tuesdays, at The Hideout. We get a crowd-” He counts on his fingers. “-of about five drunks.” She giggles, and Eddie smiles, crooked. “It’s not exactly the Garden, but you’ve got to start somewhere, right? You should come see us.”

“I’ve never been to a rock concert before.” It goes without saying that Chrissy’s never been to The Hideout, a dive bar regularly featured in the police blotter. 

“Oh, we’ve got to fix that.” Eddie’s earnest and eager, rocking on his heels. “For your first? We’ll pull out all the stops. We’ll even take requests.”

“You wouldn't want to play any of the songs I like,” she sighs. She wishes she could think of an edgy title to impress him, but the only names that come to mind are on the top 40. They'd repulse Hawkins High School’s loudest synthesizer-derider. 

“Try me.”

Smiling sheepishly, she tells him, “I like Billy Joel? And, um, The Go-Gos. And Pat Benatar, and Blondie. And some old stuff, too, from the ‘60s, like The Shangri-Las.”

Eddie groans, cringes, and covers his ears, as Chrissy expected. It’s hard to be offended, though, because he’s peeking through half-closed eyelids to make sure she’s entertained. 

“I bet I’d like all kinds of music! It’s just…I don’t know very much. The girls listen to 105.3, and we don’t have MTV or VH1 at home.” She wrinkles her nose. Her parents prefer The Lawrence Welk Show.

Eddie rubs his hands together. “Well, you’ve come to the right place, if you’re looking for an education. We can start at the beginning: Black Sabbath. There’d be no metal without them.” He’s practically skipping to the cassette player, and she grins. While he’s sorting through his tapes, though, she gets nervous.

After all, not long ago, she was spending Thursday nights with her family, enduring the Welk singers’ tepid rendition of “Love Will Keep Us Together.” Her father dozed in his recliner, startling himself awake with his own snores, while she and her mother shared the sofa, “warding off the dangers of idle hands” by stitching. Her mom said, “Your French knots are perfect, Chrissy,” admiring the blue and pink hydrangeas blooming within her embroidery hoop, then tsked at the TV. “This show’s gone downhill since I was young. You should’ve heard The Lennon Sisters' ‘Wrap Your Troubles in Dreams.’ They were lovely.”

Chrissy would hate for Eddie to get the idea that she’s anything like her mother. Or Mrs. Carver, who convinced their congregation to sign the Parents Music Resource Center’s censorship petition. Or the Sunday School teacher, Mrs. Henry, who led the kids in a recitation of the Antirock Pledge. Or Pastor Jeffrey, who commands his parishioners to turn toward “pure, honest, lovely things,” and burn their records in a ritual of devotion. It never made sense to Chrissy. Vinyl doesn’t incinerate, like paper. It only wilts, and leeches poison. Why would the apostle Paul want them to choke on toxic smoke? But when she asked Mrs. Henry, she'd barely gotten the question out before she was scolded to be quiet.

Hearing a cough, and then another, she looks up, and she meets Eddie’s eyes just as the speakers shudder a sludgy riff. When he lowers the volume, she wonders if he can sense how overwhelmed she is. But he can’t seem to stop himself from humming, and, when he's rummaging through cabinets and drawers, the squeaks of slides and hinges are on beat. 

“The Andrews almost cleaned me out, but I’ve got a few grams around here…uh…somewhere.” He opens a Royal Dansk shortbread tin, shoving aside rubber bands, triple A’s, and twine.

“Do you live here by yourself?” Chrissy asks, thinking of her diary, wrapped in the dust jacket of Modern Woodworking, and her Twinkies, hidden in a shoebox in the trunk of her car.

“With my uncle Wayne.” 

In Chrissy's opinion, he’s taking his independence for granted. Unless his uncle doesn’t care, because he sells drugs too. That seems unlikely, though: she’s never heard anyone accuse Wayne Munson of a crime, despite their town’s preoccupation with apples and their trees. Or maybe Eddie hates his uncle. Maybe he’s reminding him that he can do whatever he wants, no matter what the house rules are.

Then she frowns, admitting to herself that she’s being unfair to him. Eddie's not spiteful. That's Chrissy's fantasy. Taunting her mother with confetti frosting smeared across her sneering mouth. Brandishing a flaming seam ripper. In her other fist, a gleaming threat: the shank of a golden key. Even in her imagination, the rebellion’s crushed quickly. She’s locked up again in her bedroom, neat as a pin, with a bleeding, bitten tongue. 

Locating the drugs in a kitchen drawer, Eddie pumps his fist in triumph, and Chrissy pulls her sleeves over her hands. “Libations?” he asks, reaching across the counter for a bottle of Thunderbird. Then he picks out a mug shaped like a carp, its tail curving into a handle.

“No, thanks." Getting high seems risky enough on its own.

“Yeah, Wayne works nights at the plant,” he continues. Sardonically, he adds, "Bringing home the big bucks." She wonders if he’s feeling self-conscious, too. 

While he’s mixing Kool-Aid powder with fortified wine, Chrissy surveys the trailer. It’s relentlessly brown: the walls, rugs, curtains, and furniture belong to that earthy palette that went out in the ‘70’s. And it’s nearly as untidy as Eddie’s van, with dirty dishes abandoned on the sills and side tables. Chrissy resists the temptation to stack the mail beside a wooden bowl of— are those shotgun shells? 

Noticing the direction of her gaze, Eddie rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry, it’s the maid’s week off.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine. It’s um, cozy.”

Chrissy had worried she’d be out of place here, but Eddie clashes with the decor as much as she does. She can’t picture him wearing the trucker hats his uncle hung on the wall like her mother hangs Sears portraits and cross-stitched Proverbs. And it’s impossible to imagine Eddie staying still long enough to catch a fish with the pole in the corner. But he’s at ease here like Chrissy’s never been at the Cunningham house, for all that it was designed to flatter her and her mother’s dainty blondeness.

He sits down beside her, balancing a barrel juice precariously on his mug, and nods for her to take the drink.

“We give these to the kids at church,” she laughs. That’s how she knows each Little Hugs is a forgivable five calories. Thanking him, she punctures the foil. 

“Henderson–-Dustin Henderson-–he’s always forgetting them in my van. His mom still packs his lunches.” Taking a swig of his own drink, he says, “You know...he wouldn’t shut up about how you helped him out with that card. It was really cool of you.”

“I was happy to!” She rests her hand over her heart. “It’s sweet, he’s such a little romantic.” A new song begins, as if on cue, a horsehair bow summoning a medievalesque melody. To Chrissy, it sounds like it could be the score to Lancelot’s banishment.

“Sure is, sure is…if the girlfriend’s real.”

She gasps, “Of course she’s real!”

“Hey, inventing an out-of-state date is a time-honored tradition among outcasts.” 

“Did you have a fake girlfriend?” 

Eddie shrugs coyly, centering the filter on the rolling paper.

“You did!” 

He laughs. “Ok, ok, in my defense! I didn’t do it on purpose. I was in seventh grade, and I’d just gotten my guitar. All the greats name their instruments, so…I called her Sally, after the girl from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. I guess I talked about her too much. The guys got the wrong idea.” 

Chrissy giggles, covering her mouth. She’s never met a boy who was as willing to make himself the butt of the joke as Eddie Munson. She can’t help but compare him to Jason, who gave Debi the silent treatment for weeks after she teased him about their “chicken-eel” first kiss. He pretended he was offended for Chrissy’s sake, as if she’d ever be jealous of something that happened on the middle school playground, but Chrissy knew he was only lashing out because his pride was dented.

“Alright, Cunningham, you ready?” Eddie asks, and she turns toward him, finding the joint is already lit. 

“Pull the smoke into your mouth, slowly," he instructs. "And then into your lungs. You don’t have to hold your breath really long, but go slow on your exhale, too.” He demonstrates, angling away from her to breathe out a pungent plume. 

Chrissy furrows her brow, determined to be as graceful as he is. She wishes that she’d practiced inhaling earlier, and regrets refusing to try Tiffany’s Virginia Slims, but she'd been unable to bear the fake mint taste or Jason's disgust.

Now, despite her best efforts, Chrissy coughs and wheezes. Wiping her tears, miserable and mortified, she smears her mascara.

Eddie doesn’t mock her, though. He slides a glass of water in her direction, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder while she soothes her throat. “Easy,” he says. “Take your time.”

•••

Chrissy rubs the disc florets on the velour, studying the pattern in the couch fabric. The flowers have round petals, like daisies, but they’re salmon pink. “That makes sense, “ she says, considering Mr. Munson’s stack of Field & Stream’s. She rolls over, looking around the room for his tackle box, because she wants to see the feather lures, bright as jewels, safe and tidy in their little square compartments. She wants to brush her cheek with fluff. 

Blood rushes to her head. Eddie catches her before she slides to the floor. 

“I’m ok,” she reassures him. “I promise, I’m really ok. I shouldn't be. I should be seeing spiders by now, you know?” 

His smile is quizzical.

“I’m sorry,” she sighs. "Nevermind." But she’s too languid to be truly sorry, and she doesn’t want to worry about her nightmares anymore.

Chrissy's mouth is tingling, and there’s glowing blue sugar on her tongue. She's finally warm. 

“Like this one?" Eddie teases, pulling down the collar of his shirt, angling so she can appreciate the spider inked on his clavicle. 

She mimics him, tilting her head, momentarily distracted by the line of his jaw. “Your spider’s very nice,” Chrissy decides. Then she extends her arms and legs, wiggling her fingers, and he laughs through a cloud of smoke.

“Never even hurt a fly.” 

“How many tattoos do you have?”

Patting his left tricep, he says, “I've got a wyvern here.” At her blank look, he clarifies, “A dragon, with a poison tail.” Then he pushes up his sleeves to reveal a colony of bats, and a skeletal beast with fangs, horns, and talons, dangling from marionette strings held by a disembodied hand. 

Tattoos are rare in Hawkins-–and not only because tattooing is illegal in Indiana, except when done by a medical doctor. Mrs. Henry calls them marks of corruption and disease, and Mr. Carver says they’re useful, if only because “they let us know who to stay away from”; he still blames the line cook with the Harley Davidson tattoo for Benny’s shooting, and Benny himself, for scoffing at his warning. So Chrissy’s never had the chance to indulge her curiosity about them.

Except once. No Christian patriot was going to stop her from talking to the tattooed military men at the Bicentennial Parade. And she had the perfect excuse to ignore her mother’s “stranger danger”s, because she was there to earn her “Honor Our Veterans” Girl Scouts badge. In matching green pinafores and Peter Pan blouses, she and Nancy Wheeler looked sweet and bright, but they marched through the park as serious as soldiers in dress blues. Chrissy’s pigtail braids were pinned up to show off every patch on her sash. 

Nancy led the interviews, scribbling their war stories in her green notepad while Chrissy offered them flags from her stars-and-stripes bouquet. When she spotted the hula girl on an old man’s bicep, he flexed the muscle to make her dance and Chrissy giggle, explaining that the tattoo commemorated his month stationed in Hawaii. His teenage son rolled up his slacks to show her his ankle, where a snake was beheaded by a dagger. He’d just returned from Vietnam, where pythons dangled from the trees. “We call them two-steppers,” he’d whispered. “They’re monsters. If they bite you, you’ve got two steps before you’re dead.” (Later, Chrissy checked the Encyclopedia Britannica, learning the bamboo pit viper only attacks in self-defense, and its venom is rarely lethal.)

“Do they mean anything?” she asks Eddie. “You know how sailors get swallows, to mark five thousand miles at sea? Like the Trail badge I got, for hiking with my Girl Scout troop.”

Eddie bursts into delighted laughter. “Uh, no, they’re not awards for anything. I just like spooky shit. So that's what you do when you’re not cheering? Frolic through the woods like an elf-maiden?”

She screws up her face. “No. I mean, I like nature—swimming, gardening, picnics, that kind of thing. But the woods around here are creepy, don't you think?"

She used to pretend she was friends with every flower in the forest, and cardinals and bluebirds had tied the bows in her hair. But the only woodland creatures who visited Chrissy while she was hiking were the bloodsuckers: when they got back to the Wheelers’, she found ticks on her neck, and Nancy had to slap her to stop her screaming. Usually, Chrissy gags, remembering. But now it strikes her as ridiculously funny, like a Bugs Bunny skit.

"They've gotten creepier," she continues. "I don’t understand why people think Skull Rock is romantic.”

“We used to camp out by Merrill Wright's pumpkin patch on the Equinox," Eddie says. "It was a bonding thing, for Hellfire.” She smiles, picturing little boys’ Halloween games: telling ghost stories around a fire, cutting their palms to share blood, and howling at the harvest moon. “But all the pumpkins rotted that year. And there was that pack of wolves..." He shakes his head. “Yeah, I don’t fuck around in those woods anymore.” He bangs the wall, as if to reassure her that it’s durable gypsum.

“Safe and sound,” Chrissy says, willing it to be true. 

Then she glides her fingertips along Eddie’s collarbone, fluttering them over the spider. She doesn’t hesitate, and he doesn’t flinch. Nothing’s daring anymore, she thinks. “It’s just like regular skin,” she notes with surprise. “The color must be embedded so, so deep. Did it hurt?” 

“Kind of? But it kind of feels good, too. It’s an endorphin rush.” She cocks her head, and he shrugs. “It’s hard to explain. You’ve got to try it yourself.” 

Chrissy blushes. “That’d be crazy.” As far as she knows, there are only two types of women who get tattoos: sideshow performers and actresses in pornographic movies. “I wouldn’t know what to pick, anyway. Do you design yours?” 

"I sketch the basics. Kneecaps Bobby—he’s a bartender at The Hideout—he’s the one who makes them pretty. He used to hang out at The Badlands, Roy Cooper’s shop in Gary, and he picked up the old man's best tricks. Well, that's what he says, anyway. He’s got a nice set-up in his basement.”

“Don’t the police bother them?” 

“Nah, Hopper never cared enough to raid Bobby’s place. And Gary’s the murder capital. It keeps the pigs out there busy.” 

Eddie tosses Chrissy a peanut butter cup, and she bites into it, shameless, because food's never tasted better. It's even more satisfying than binging after a week-long fast, when every cell on her tongue is sparking with ecstasy. Her moan now is obscene.

The dishes scattered around the room weren’t dirty and forgotten, after all. They contained snacks: Reese’s in the Garfield mug, peanuts in the Woodstock, and Mr. Goodbars in the “Virginia is for Lovers.” Chrissy is sampling them all. No matter how many she eats, she never seems to get any fuller. It's like she's feeding her appetite without corrupting her body.

“That tattoo shop is wild,” Eddie continues, going on to describe the strange, sinister murals on its garish yellow storefront. The brag–or warning: “Land of Shoot ‘Em Up.” The painted revolver, pointing at passersby. The skull and the crossbones. The blue panther, its ears flat with impotent fury. "There’s a gym, and a film studio, and a zoo. Guys lift weights next to Bengal tigers.”

Chrissy wrinkles her nose. “Boys. You’re all the same. That sounds like something Andy’d lie about.”

He laughs. “Yeah, alright.”

“I’ve never seen a tiger in real life. The squad skipped the Jungle Tour to go to the Dolphin Show.” Watching their trained acrobatics, she'd been tempted to jump in the water and join them, thinking, I can relate. “You didn’t come on the class trip, did you, Eddie?”

“I ducked out early to check out some music stores, talk up Corroded Coffin.” He shakes his head. “Way better use of my time than watching Harrington and Haven toss their Wayfarers into the gorilla enclosure. The monkey never even took the bait.

“I feel bad for them,” he admits. “Stupid humans, deciding where they live, what they eat. Roy Boy Cooper built those tiger cages out of the metal from John Dillinger’s jail cell. I don’t understand why anybody'd want to own a piece of another man’s prison.”

“But Dillinger escaped,” Chrissy points out, licking chocolate off her fingers. “Isn’t that tempting fate?”

Eddie grins, his eyes unfocused. “Maybe they’ll break out, too. Hey, you want another hit?” 

“Yeah, actually.” It’s easier now—maybe because she knows how nice she’ll feel, in a minute. Sure, the chemical peace is brief, but, for the first time in a long time, she's certain of her future.

While Chrissy puffs diligently at the joint, Eddie ponders what would happen if the big cats got free, and she finds herself responding with the sort of fanciful nonsense she's only ever shared with the kids she babysits. Although she pretends the silly stories are the price she pays for naptime, the truth is, they comfort Chrissy, too.

So she makes the painted skulls rattle their clavicles. “They’re dancing to Cab Calloway,” she informs Eddie, “like the skeletons in Minnie the Moocher.” (He gamely agrees, although he’s obviously unfamiliar with the Betty Boop catalog.) Chrissy unloads the gun. She sends the tigers pouncing through the door, jostling the panther who’s spent years frozen in concrete.

Eddie picks up where she leaves off, sketching the lawless steel town ruins, and Chrissy rests her head on his shoulder. Shutting her eyes, she envisions the shotshells on the sidewalk, amidst the broken glass, and a red sky, peeking through the mist. Here and now, it no longer horrifies her.

“Do they ever make it home?” she asks, wistful.

“They find an old auto factory,” he answers, “and turn it into a fortress.” He says they build ramparts out of Fordite, using the paint slag’s stripes as camouflage, and when she sighs, “That’s a pretty story," he dimples with pleasure.

Chrissy can feel the deep bass, thrumming in her marrow, adding layers to her compact bone. Fear belongs to my other body, she decides.

So she grabs Eddie’s hand and unbuckles the band of his Casio, ignoring his bemused grunt. She flips the watch over to hide its face. But when she tries to buckle it again, her fingers are too clumsy.

With a laugh, Eddie takes over, letting her press the numbers against his skin. “Chrissy Cunningham,” he marvels, “you are a freak.”

Chapter Text

“Chrissy, would you come here, please?” 

Chrissy follows her mother’s voice to the living room, where she’s polishing silver and watching the twelve o’clock news. An anchor with a round bob and a square blazer is reporting, “-cause of death unknown, yet-”

Laura sounds stern, but she can’t possibly know what Chrissy did last night. Eddie drove her home on the back streets, and he parked on the corner, behind the Havens’ evergreen—not that her family would’ve been awake after midnight, anyway, let alone patrolling Loch Nora. Tossing her cheer uniform in the tub, Chrissy rinsed off the smoke and crumbs; she even managed to shampoo her hair, hypnotized by the heaviness of the steam, the sheen of the peach porcelain, and the cadence of the water. Over breakfast, she bored her family with a composite of slumber parties past: painting Molly’s nails Tijuana Bronze and swooning over Pretty in Pink. (While they ate waffles, she sipped tea, doing penance for the peanut butter cups, wishing she didn’t take comfort in her mother’s approving smile.)

I did everything right, she thinks, letting herself feel smug about her rebellion. After all, for the first time this year, Chrissy got a full night’s sleep, and a gentle awakening. She’s still a little hazy, drawn to the patch of light on the sofa cushion, which is the perfect size for her to curl up like a kitten.

“-Hawkins High School principal’s statement-”  

“Chrissy, a boy died at your school last night,” her mother says. “God rest his soul. Fred Benson.”

The anchor’s artificial sorrow shifts into artificial zeal, quoting Coach Ramsay on the Pacers’ victory, and Chrissy collapses onto the loveseat. It’s not fair, she thinks, that her newfound peace is already ruined. Her resentment swiftly settles into shame, and she covers her face with her hands. 

“I’m sorry,” her mother sighs, gently touching her wrist, then pressing Chrissy's hands between her own. Her skin is cool and dry, and her nails are perfect ovals. “Did you know him well?” When Chrissy shakes her head, she looks relieved. “He must’ve been up to some kind of trouble,” she decides. “Loitering at school, after dark.”

“He and Nancy stay late, sometimes, to work on the newspaper.” Chrissy’s voice is faint. “I saw him there. After the game.”

“Well…” She huffs. “Which one was he again? The boy with the scar?” 

Grim Reaper finally got his due, Chrissy thinks, with a shaky exhale. Fred had barely escaped the scythe when they were sophomores, crawling out of his mangled car with a cut and bruises while his friend's body burned. The crash wasn’t his fault—he hit a tree, swerving away from a wolf—and there was no saving Harry, whose neck had snapped on impact. Yet the Andersons barred him from Harry’s funeral. They needed someone to blame.

Until then, Fred was just another scrawny kid with glasses for Chrissy's friends to ignore. Except, of course, when Jason wanted a puff piece about the Tigers in the Hawkins High Gazette, or Molly needed to copy homework. Chrissy was polite, when she noticed him. But after the crash, Fred drew pitying, horrified stares, trudging through the halls like Frankenstein’s monster, his cheek stitched with black thread. The Tigers tried to be kinder. Chrissy complimented his new, even bigger glasses. She made sure he got full marks on the History final, lying to the teacher that he’d collected the eighteenth-century satirical cartoons for their Marie Antoinette poster. She brought him “brain food”: a slice of her mother’s famous coffee cake. Jason picked him for their team in gym class, and the Tigers guarded him from the dodgeball. But as Fred’s wound healed, they stopped seeing it as the mark of a survivor. His scar was an unpleasant reminder of how random misfortune can be. And his twitchiness started to annoy them ("He should be over it by now," Molly said), which made Chrissy feel even more awkward and helpless. It was a relief when he retreated into his nerdy pursuits, and she and her friends could look away.

It chills her now, imagining that the Reaper might have been looming over him all that time. When she passed him in the hall, with a wave and a hello, was she stepping over the billowing train of the Reaper's robe, oblivious? That’s not real, she reminds herself.

“We’ll make a Bundt cake,” her mother declares. “I hope it’s a nice service.” She tsks. “Not like the poor Holloways.”

Heather Holloway and her parents died in the Starcourt Mall fire. In total, Hawkins lost thirty-four people, that day. With mourners filling every church in town—and the synagogue, too—the florist ran out of white bouquets. Rather than come to the Holloways’ graves empty-handed, their neighbors pretended blush roses were ivory, and Chrissy's mother, who’d driven the length of five counties for calla lilies, was appalled by their "disrespect."

It seemed like there was a funeral every day that summer. After a while, they started to blend together. Framed portraits of the dead, in graduation robes or wedding dresses or military uniforms or christening gowns. Prayer cards, printed with bald eagles or wood crosses or gold “In Loving Memory”’s. From the pulpit: “God is our refuge and strength,” or “For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed” or “Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?” or “Do not let your heart be troubled.” At the reception: an egg salad or a tater tot casserole or a rhubarb pie, with “God never promised a life without pain” as a garnish. In the cemetery: “Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there” recited to a headstone without a coffin, because the bodies were ash, indistinguishable from sherpa throws, soft pretzels, and paperbacks. A widow or a father or a childhood friend, keening or stoic, swearing they’d lost “a rock” or “a beacon of light” or “a font of wisdom.” 

And Chrissy, crying. She always cries, even when the grief does not belong to her. And Jason always pulls her close, embracing her until his mother whispers, “Let that girl sit properly” and she slides back onto the pew. She cried hardest for the heroes. Sheriff Hopper, who carried his daughter out of the flames (“ Adopted daughter,” Chrissy’s mom specified, as if it cheapened their bond; in Chrissy’s opinion, it made their love more special, because he’d chosen to love her, for herself, without blood-tie obligation.) And Billy Hargrove, who saved his little sister (“I wouldn’t have expected it from that trailer park hoodlum,” her mother said, stacking the cash the Tigers had raised to fund his burial.) Sometimes, Chrissy still gets teary-eyed over Heather.

They were friends, in simple terms. They cheered together, and they sunbathed together at the lakeshore and the pool. They went to all the same parties, and Heather twirled her whenever the radio played “Only the Good Die Young,” knowing Billy Joel was her favorite. She helped her perfect her pike, and persuaded Carol to stop teasing her for being a virgin. When Chrissy was a sophomore, she let her tag along shopping with the senior cheerleaders, and it was Chrissy who picked out the red satin halter that Heather wore to prom.

But they never shared secrets. So Heather never knew how much Chrissy envied her, after Jason drunkenly confessed to ogling her on the lifeguard tower; every time Heather tossed her dark curls, Chrissy lamented that her own fair hair was insipid. She even bought white Wayfarers, just like Heather’s. But she only wore them in public after she was dead. 

Debi’s jealousy was more vicious. As soon as Heather started dating Billy, the week before they died, the juniors on the squad convened at the Food Court to sneer at her tacky costume jewelry, her broad shoulders and boyish hips, and her tendency to over-enunciate k’s when she was angry. Chrissy had hummed in agreement, even though she didn’t mean it, thinking, All this for Billy? Really?

She wrinkles her nose, remembering Billy’s smarmy greeting: “Hey, doll” and a smirk, even when Chrissy shrank from him. After his fourth keg stand, he used to kick the speakers until they put on Motley Crue. The headlights made his tan glow as he lifted Debi onto the hood of his Camaro; his sweat gleamed in the sunshine when they visited him at the pool, later, and his gaze skipped over Debi like she was an Adirondack chair. At his funeral, she styled herself as the glamorous widow, in a tight lace sheath and a hat with a veil. Chrissy’s dress had a high collar and knee-length pleats, as if he'd still be leering. “Was Billy always selfless, deep down?” she’d wondered, sniffling. Did something change him?” No one had a good answer. She asked herself, If I'd been there, would I have been that brave?

Watching her friends descend into frenzy, all tears and hair-trigger tempers, Chrissy asked herself what their grief was made of. How much of it is love? How much is guilt? How much is resentment, and regret? The fights they’ll never finish, and the stolen revenge. The lies they have to tell, because it’s a sin to speak ill of the dead: “He was so sweet,” “We were best friends." A clenched fist, hidden forever in a pocket. A punch that has to find another target.

They're all afraid they'll die young, and be remembered badly. Eighteen years of life can be summed up in five adjectives and four PG-rated anecdotes, and sometimes, Chrissy thinks they might as well scrawl their obits on the crowded inside cover of her yearbook: a line about a joke or an adventure, capped off with an insincere, “I’ll never forget.”  

She squeezes her eyes shut. When she opens them again, she sees Jimmy, a pale sliver of a boy with a strawberry blonde cowlick, peeking around the door frame. I’m sorry, she thinks. She had sixteen years of suburban mundanity before the deaths and disappearances began, while her brother's childhood has been defined by them. Tragedy’s been sprouting along the borders of their town like weeds, and she wishes she knew how to protect him from getting tangled within it. 

He looks especially vulnerable today, in a shirt dotted with horseshoes and cowboy hats, two sizes too big for him. It was a gift from Mrs. Carver, who ordered him to grow into it as if he could sprout up through sheer will. To Chrissy, it sounded ominous, considering her own son is five-foot-eight, and he can't even tack on an inch in conversation, like the other boys do, because it's immortalized in the book of basketball stats. Has Jason ever been afraid of his mom's tape measure? She doesn't want that for Jimmy, and worries it was a mistake to paint the height chart on his bedroom wall.

She hugs her brother, ignoring his groan and eyeroll, because he’s clutching her just as tightly. “I’m going out,” Chrissy says. I can't stay here.

She doesn’t want to scare him with her own fear. Her heart is pounding, and the hairs on her nape are standing up.

“Be back before dark,” their mother says. It's a plea, not an order.

Chrissy nods, knowing every parent in Hawkins will be fretting tonight when the news anchors ask, “It’s ten pm, do you know where your children are?”

Then their mom turns to Jimmy. “Go tidy up your room. It's a pigsty.” 

He slumps, heading upstairs, and Chrissy scoffs under her breath, “Predictable." Whenever Laura gets anxious, the house is suddenly unclean. 

And she must be near hysterics, because she's letting Chrissy leave, dressed in a pale blue Dance Magic sweatshirt and white Soffe pants, instead of halting her with a passive aggressive comment about forgetting her gym bag. Rushing to the car, Chrissy doesn't even register what she's wearing until she's past the evergreen.

And she's made it all the way to Family Video before she realizes she’s shivering, and Toto’s “Africa" is on the radio. She sings along, having memorized the lyrics freshman year; it was on the soundtrack to every kegger, because it was Steve Harrington’s favorite, and he ruled the school, back then: Captain of the swim team, “Class Heartthrob,” “Best Hair,” and the Keg King until Billy moved to Hawkins. Now, he’s a cashier at the video store, futilely flirting with the same girls who'd swooned over him in high school. It’s been two years since his graduation. He’s a townie. 

Everything’s different, Chrissy thinks, like she has every morning of 1986. At the stop sign, she turns left, toward the bad part of town.

•••

It’s rude to show up before calling first. But then, Eddie didn’t seem to mind last night that Chrissy was an awful guest—at least according to Emily Post and the Ladies Who Lunch, translated by Laura Cunningham (“Good neighbors don’t impose” and “don’t be such a little pest.”) He didn’t say a word about her bloodshot eyes, her mascara tracks, or her limp ponytail. Chrissy smooths her hair, anyway, securing her French braid in its scrunchie, straightening the hood of her aqua ski coat. Just in time, too. The door swings open.

“May I help you, darlin’?” a stranger asks, rubbing his eyes. He's bald, with a scraggly gray mustache and goatee, and he must be at least a decade older than her parents, or else weathered by hard living. He’s wearing blue striped poplin pajamas, and his feet are bare.

“Hello, sir, I’m Chrissy Cunningham. Is Eddie in?” 

“Ed, get out here! You've got a visitor!” he shouts over his shoulder, startling her with his Southern twang. He invites her inside with a sweep of his arm, a subtler version of Eddie’s welcome. “I’m Eddie’s uncle,” he says. “You can call me Wayne.” It's no surprise to her that his handshake is firm.

Eddie turns the corner, shaking his wet hair like a Portuguese sheepdog, and she has to bite back a giggle. “Uh, hey, Chrissy,” he says, stopping so abruptly that his uncle snorts. Tugging at the drenched collar of his Metallica t-shirt, he throws a glare in Wayne's direction, which only makes his uncle snicker as he sits down on his Murphy bed.

Chrissy recalls too late that Eddie’s uncle works nights. “I’m so sorry to bother you,” she tells them, smiling when both Munsons dismiss her apology. Then she lowers her voice to ask Eddie, “I wondered if, maybe…if you wanted to hang out? Go out, I mean.” 

“You want to smoke again,” he says bluntly.

Any other day, Chrissy might let him believe that her motives are mercenary; it’d be easier on her pride, even if it was harder on her reputation, and he clearly doesn't care either way. Instead, she stutters the truth.

“No! Well, yes, if you want to. But I came by in case you wanted company." She squares her shoulders, willing herself not to blush. “Because I could really use some.”

Chrissy hopes that she doesn’t have to beg. How could she even begin to explain why she's here?

(Another) kid our age is dead. I’m sad, I’m on the edge of crazy. You and your drugs made me feel sane. 

You’re silly. I want to be silly too. 

I like your eyes. They're round and dark, like chocolate buttons.

You scare away all the people I don’t want near me right now. But you don’t scare me.

The only place I could go dressed like this is the gym. I’d break a bone if I tried to lift more weight. I’d break the mirrors. 

I hate my house. Sometimes, I hate my mother.

Jason's going to lead a prayer for Fred Benson, I just know it. But God’s not listening. He doesn’t care about teenagers. If there is a god, he doesn’t care about Hawkins at all. 

Eddie spares her, though: he's already lacing up his Reeboks. Stuffing a pack of Marlboro Reds in the pocket of his leather jacket, he ushers Chrissy outside before she’s even finished saying goodbye to his uncle. “We could get some grub, then park the van down by the quarry,” he suggests, smiling.

Chrissy nods eagerly, thankful she doesn’t have to pick a destination. She'd spend the entire outing panicked that she made the wrong decision, worrying he was too polite to admit it was boring, or berate her for wasting his afternoon.

“This is life or death, Max!” she hears, and rolls down the van window to see Lucas, speaking urgently to Billy's little sister.

Chrissy recognizes her ginger hair, which used to blow out the window of his Camaro. Although the freshman is petite, and wholesomely pretty, with freckles and pigtail braids, she doesn’t look sweet. Her eyes are slits: she’s an alley cat with a pulled tail. “Not. My. Problem,” she snaps, just like her brother used to.

But her blue eyes go round with incredulity when she catches sight of Chrissy and Eddie. “Is that the cheerleader, with the freak?” 

“Mind your own business, Red!” Eddie calls over the squeal of the tires. He extends his middle finger, laughing when Chrissy gasps, laughing harder when Max flips him off in return. "What a glower that kid's got," he says, shaking his head. From Eddie, it sounds like a compliment.

With a sheepish smile, Chrissy waves goodbye, and Max's frown smooths into something almost friendly. She waves back, elbowing Lucas until he jolts to attention and does the same.

The sky is clear above them, a vast azure expanse, and Chrissy wonders if it will rain at the funeral. The last thing she hears before Eddie slides a tape into the deck is “It’s a code red!”

Chapter Text

“What’re you hungry for?” Eddie asks.

His voice is accompanied by his dashboard drumming, and Chrissy smiles at the sound; it’s already endearingly familiar. “Whatever you want,” she answers. After all, she has no intention of eating.

“McDonald’s, then. What’s your order?”

“Maybe we could share Chicken McNuggets? I usually split them with my little brother.” Chrissy laughs. “Well, he steals them. He plays pretend he’s the Hamburglar.”

Her brother’s mischief is her favorite method of portion control. Of course, Jimmy doesn’t mean to deprive her—he’s been convinced that her appetite is naturally low, instead of ruthlessly suppressed. All his life, their mother has served her meals on quarter plates. It’s no wonder he calls them “Chrissy-plates.”

The rules that define her existence, keeping her small, have never applied to her brother. “Jimmy’s a growing boy,” their mother explains, spooning seconds onto his standard dinner plate, applauding as he races his fleet of Happy Meal Hot Wheels. Chrissy tells herself to be thankful he’s been spared, and she is. But it gets lonely, being the only one at the table who’s starving. 

“Sounds like a fun kid.”

“Everybody loves him,” she informs Eddie proudly. “He’s the star of the Little League team.” 

“Oh, another jock.” 

Although Eddie’s tone is carefully neutral, it makes her uneasy, because Eddie’s never been impressed by the students who exploit their athleticism for popularity. She and her brother’s rare grace—a genetic quirk, like Dustin Henderson’s skeleton—has helped them dodge the consequences of their social blunders as much as it’s protected them on the field.

“God gave you a gift, that means he wants you to use it” is their father’s maxim. He repeats it whenever she balks: when she’s approaching the stage at the fair, where the teenage lovelies were lined up like prize steer, or the door to the church basement, where little girls waited for her to teach them sewing. “Don’t forget: there’s all kinds of currency. It’s not just about money,” he says, an entreaty from a man who’s never believed his own skills were worth a dime. She tries to take the words to heart. The truth is, she’s grateful Jimmy inherited those same gifts. He would never know the humiliation of being picked last in gym class, and he had an excuse to spend his time outside, away from their oppressive house. But she understands why Eddie would sympathize with the clumsy kids; some of the Hellfire boys look like they run fifteen minute miles, and have to stop at one pull-up during the presidential fitness exam.

"He's a troublemaker, too," she tells Eddie, wanting him to understand that Jimmy is more than a letterman-in-training—and she’s more than her uniform, too. "He's grounded right now for trampling Mrs. Ramos's blue-ribbon garden, chasing Chance's little brother, after Trevor stabbed a frog with a sewing needle to scare some of the girls. They weren't squeamish at all, actually, but Richie—Haven, you know, Tommy's brother—started crying, and then Trevor called him a 'queer.’” She shakes her head. "Little kids can be really mean,” she says, as if cruelty is something any of them have grown out of. “But Jimmy's sweet. He tackled him into the tulips!”

Dabbing mercurochrome on the cuts he’d earned, scrapping with the older boy, Chrissy had told her brother, “You’re tougher than me." She bought him an Optimus Prime action figure as a reward.

(Mrs. Ramos loudly accused Jimmy of being an ‘Eddie Haskell,’ questioning Laura Cunningham’s ability to manage her children in front of the ladies at the country club. In return, Chrissy’s mother informed them that the eldest Ramos daughter, a senior at Smith, had a shaved head and a “roommate” who could pass for a welder, in her men’s tees and Dungarees. The rumors got Mrs. Ramos barred from the next Ladies’ Lunch—until Chrissy’s mother set them straight, so she’d come back, humbled. Chrissy, meanwhile, reminisced about baking cookies for Spirit Boxes, because she wanted the matrons to picture Jimmy, the squad’s diligent helper, mixing the frosting, with his adorable face streaked with sugar. And when she complimented Tiffany’s Valentine’s Day camisole, she mentioned that it looked familiar, so Tiffany would recall that Trevor had stolen the matching lace bra off of Chance’s bedknob while she was napping, and brought it to school for Show ‘n’ Tell. Chrissy knew her friend would call him a brat in earshot of their parents, and the conversation would turn to the Ramos’ failures instead of the Cunninghams’. It was her way of protecting him; if he developed a reputation as ill-bred, their mother would punish him brutally and publicly, to prove to their neighbors that she ruled the family. Chrissy was more than thankful that their machinations worked. She was smug.)

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Chrissy asks. Although freshmen trail Eddie through the Hawkins High halls, she’d never imagined him as fraternal until last night, watching him banter with Lucas. She must have paid more attention to Jason’s cult-talk than she realized.

Now, she isn’t surprised when Eddie begins, “Well, I’ve got my Hellfire sheep to take care of. But no siblings, as far as I know. Of course, the old man could’ve had a few more ‘happy accidents’ after me.” With a crooked smile, he says, “When my mom was pregnant, she had to chase him down. She said she’d give me a family if it was the last thing she did. She hitchhiked all the way to Spartanburg, where he was leeching off of Wayne.”

Eddie stops in front of the drive-through window, winking at the old lady who is gawking at his colony of bats. He screws up his face when Chrissy requests a Diet Coke, and shakes his head when she reaches for her wallet.

“Let me pay!” she says. But he only smiles, handing her the drink, and her next words, It’s not like this is a date, die on her tongue.

So Chrissy takes a sip, savoring the chemical fizz, then slots her Coke in one of the cup holders. She grabs Eddie's billfold off the dashboard while he’s distracted with the bags, and stuffs a ten in the pocket, careful not to scratch the already-peeling leather.

“Thief! Pickpocket!” Eddie shouts, laughing, when he notices his wallet in her lap. 

But when she repeats, “I’m paying,” with uncharacteristic firmness, he accepts it back.

The truth is, Chrissy does feel like a thief—like she stole the drugs her friends pay for, like she’s stealing Eddie’s time. She doesn’t think she deserves them, any more than she deserves the peace he’s offering, without conditions. 

Especially when she spots a familiar Pontiac Fiero behind them in line, and reflexively hides her face. It’s one thing for the freshmen to catch her in Eddie Munson’s van: Lucas would never spill, afraid of mutually assured destruction, and no one who matters to her friends would believe anything Max said. But Tiffany? She’d absolutely flip! The news would be passed around the congregation with the collection plate.

Chrissy fiddles with the zipper of her jacket, sliding it up and down and up and down, and peeks out the window.

“You still with me, Cunningham?” Eddie asks.

“It’s just...Tiffany. I didn’t know she liked fast food.” 

Her friend is obsessed with nutrition, incessantly quoting headlines on the dangers of saturated fat and MSG. She forces her mother to alter their family recipes, trading refried black beans for pintos in broth, and scooping the yolks out of the huevos rancheros. She’s the first to arrive at the gym and the last to leave, and she does aerobics every day, even when the squad is fatigued from practice. Yet she’s eagerly accepting three bulging paper bags and a chocolate shake from the cashier. Chrissy wonders what she suffers to burn those calories, and if her tactics resemble hers. 

Then she turns toward Eddie. “I’m here,” she tells him, and he speeds up, the van lurching and shuddering like the county fair’s ramshackle roller coaster. She giggles, gripping the seat.

For now, she’s protected from the jocks’ and preps’ stares, from their shock and their anger, their disappointment and their schadenfreude. It’s just me and Eddie, she thinks, as he parks at the end of the road, unrepentantly blocking the path to the lushest patch of grass facing west. There’s no one else in sight.

“We can lay out until we get too cold,” he says, picking up the field blanket and flannel balled up on the mattress, and Chrissy shakes them out, hoping the clean spring air will dispel the smoke smell.

Then Eddie rifles through a duffel until he finds a quilt, which he tosses over Chrissy’s legs. Unfolding it, she discovers a neat white square of tulips, stars, and compass roses, those classic American hex signs, surrounded by a patchwork of paisley, checkerboard daisies, and crushed velvet.

“This is homemade,” she notes, running a finger along the uneven chain stitch.

“Yeah, my mom did it.”

While Eddie gently slides a paperback into the duffel pocket—the spine is creased, the pages yellow, and it’s dog-eared twice as thick as it ought to be—Chrissy lines the cartons up like a buffet. Breathing in the forbidden fragrance of fry grease, she silently orders her stomach, Don’t growl. Don't you dare growl.

The weather’s warming up, and the sky’s still clear. But, gazing at the reservoir, she remembers that a little boy’s corpse was fished out of it, not long ago. The landscape is suddenly too bleak to bear—the rocks ominously sharp, the water eerily motionless.

She closes her eyes and says, “Fred Benson’s dead.”

“Jesus. How?”

“I don’t know. It happened last night, at school.” 

“Jesus,” he repeats. “I’m really sorry.” 

He doesn’t ask, Were you two close? Maybe he knows better, although Chrissy doubts he's been paying attention to who she hangs out with; she assumes his eyes pass over her, just another girl in the streak. But maybe he understands that it doesn’t really matter. It still hurts.

Picking at an errant weed, she says, “I hope he didn’t suffer. What could’ve killed him?”

Eddie shrugs. It could be anything. Benny was shot, and the little boy drowned. Harry died in the car crash. Their shy classmate, Barbara Holland, Nancy's shadow, vanished. Mr. Newby, the manager at the Radio Shack, who helped Chrissy pick out her turquoise radio and her transparent telephone, had been mauled so brutally, the funeral was closed-casket. And then, there was the fire.

Chrissy whispers, “Have you…I’ve heard…people say…Hawkins is cursed.”

“Of course it is-"

She turns to face him, brow furrowed. 

“-the whole country is. ‘Make America great again’? Highballs, twin sets, exploding rockets? It’s a time loop to the McCarthy Age.”

Right as Chrissy is shaking her head, smiling indulgently and wondering, Is Eddie never serious? he sobers. “My dad moved to Marshalltown, just before he got pinched. Lots of shootings there. ODs, girls gone missing. When bad shit happens in Gary, it’s inevitable, right? Doesn’t even make the news. But when bad shit happens in Hawkins, it’s black magic.” He scoffs, tapping his skull ring. “People die. Things don’t make sense. This isn’t fucking… Leave it to Beaver .”

Chrissy realizes she’d expected him to reference a horror flick, or make up his own spooky script, laughing and waving his arms like a B-movie monster. Instead, he’s matter-of-fact—just this side of bitter—reminding her how little his life resembles a 1950’s sitcom.

He thinks mine does—or that I want it to. 

As Chrissy is opening her mouth to object, he adds, “Besides, people have been telling me I’m cursed my whole life. Bad blood. Dad’s parents were grifters—Grandpa died in Angola. And Mom, well. She was a Miller." He raises his chin, preening theatrically. "Joke’s on them. ‘86? It’s my year. Everything’s coming up Eddie, you’ll see."

Chrissy smiles, hiding her shock, because the Millers are notorious in Hawkins. They were a founding family, along with the Cunninghams and Carvers; they’d been well-respected, once upon a time. Then they lost their fortune in the stock market crash, and the patriarch shot himself on the church steps. 

“They all died before I was born,” Eddie says. “But my mom told me stories.”

Chrissy’s heard a few. A Miller brained her husband with a cast-iron skillet, then fed his corpse to the hogs. A Miller swore there was “a portal to the netherworld” in his chicken coop. A Miller rejected proposals from the town’s most eligible bachelors, choosing to become a recluse instead, and let her beauty go to waste. A Miller peered through the front window of Melvald’s, shouting excitedly about the patrons’ huge “Blythe doll” eyes, until an officer dragged her away for disturbing the peace—Eddie’s mother, most likely. “Sometimes madness gallops in a family,” Grandmother used to say. “Haven’t you ever seen Arsenic & Old Lace?”

But Eddie doesn’t sound embarrassed at all. He’s smiling.

So Chrissy asks, “What’s your favorite?”

“Alright,” he begins, leaning close. “So my mom, she loved the nighttime even more than I do. She could go days without sleep. When I was a kid, I’d wake up for school and she’d have painted the Pacific on the wall, or built a castle in the living room out of sheets and couch cushions and paper towel rolls and Frosted Flakes boxes. It made her parents crazy—when she was a teenager, my grandma locked her in her bedroom so she’d stop making such ‘a racket.’ But my great-aunt, who was kind of a Boo Radley type, always broke her out. They’d drive around at three in the morning unlatching cowpens and writing weird messages on store windows in lipstick.”

He takes a sloppy bite of his cheeseburger, and Chrissy exhales, reassured by his confidence, and fascinated by his unselfconscious gluttony.

I might as well tell him, she thinks, nibbling a chicken nugget. It’s certain now that he’s heard worse. So she confesses. “I think I’m losing my mind.” When Eddie peers at her, uncomprehending, she says, “Do you ever feel like that, like you’re going crazy?”

Right away, she regrets her honesty, and wraps her arms around her knees. Chrissy’s bracing herself. What’s coming? A barrage of questions about her symptoms, and their possible cause? A pummeling list of commands, couched as suggestions? A yoke, to shepherd her to holy sanity? A stiletto jab of mockery? The pinch of a stilted “aww, I’m sorry, CC,” and then a change of subject? Her words ignored completely, like the whining of a silly, spoiled little girl?  

But Eddie’s nothing like Ms. Kelley, Chrissy’s parents, her boyfriend, or her friends. He grins.

“Yeah.” He nudges her knee with his. “I feel like I’m losing my mind right now, picnicking with the queen.”

She wrinkles her nose, blushing. “Why do you keep calling me that? Aren’t you morally opposed to that stuff?” Eddie has certainly disdained the high school hierarchy loudly enough in the cafeteria. 

“Chrissy, you rode the mayor’s float in a fancy dress and a crown. You were literally the Homecoming Queen, a few months ago.”

“It’s not like I earned it. Really, my mom deserves the title. She put together my outfit for the Miss Hawkins Fair competition.”

Laura sewed her gown (a white confection, McCall 9625), styled her hair (loose, feathered curls), and applied her makeup (Pampered Peach lips and black mascara). She chose her walk (a glide, on white kitten heels), her seat (the Princess Di slant), and her expression (a close-mouthed smile, and wide, happy eyes). The Homecoming title was Jason’s doing; he was always meant to be King, and everybody treats them like a set, as perfectly matched as cake toppers. I’m not the queen. I’m the consort.

She thinks of maidens in towers, endlessly spinning, and the demure silence that allows them to survive. She thinks of kisses, payment for rescue. She thinks of Princess Diana at the White House, in her midnight velvet dress and her sapphire-pearl choker—the giddy joy she must've felt, twirling across the ballroom with John Travolta, and the disappointment she must have hidden, returning to her sour, old, rat-faced prince. 

Looking down at Eddie’s puppet tattoo, Chrissy muses that the only thing she’s ever truly earned is her position as head cheerleader. But I never won the trophy, she thinks sadly.

“Do they let you keep the crowns?” Eddie asks.

Chrissy shakes her head, recalling the pinch of the teeth, and the scratches they left on her scalp. Under the spotlight, the rhinestones had fallen into her bodice, and later, when she undressed, they scattered amidst the satin ruffles abandoned on her bedroom floor. She’d collected every tiny jewel, storing them in her beaded kiss-lock coin purse, a souvenir of her grandmother's trip to New York. Chrissy had planned to drop them in the lake like pennies in a well. But before she could, her mother found them, and threw them out.

“That crown’s $3.99, from the Halloween display at Melvald’s,” she informs Eddie, and he falls backward, clutching his chest in a parody of shock. “Mrs. Perkins spray painted it gold and glued on plastic gems.” Chrissy’s smile turns mischievous. “If you want, we can get you one.” She taps her chin. “Hmm, you could be King of, of-” She tries to think of a title he’d approve of. “-Spookiness?”

He laughs. “Yeah, alright. Not so far off from Prince of Darkness.” At her blank look, he explains, “Ozzy again. Lead singer of the band we listened to last night. Also known as The Madman.” He stands. “That reminds me, we need a soundtrack.” 

While he climbs into the driver’s seat to slide a tape in the deck, Chrissy shoves aside the fast food cartons. She throws the quilt over her shoulders like a shawl, and an acoustic flourish spins out of the speakers. It’s a pirouette of sound, but she already knows it won’t last, and she smiles when the electric guitar begins its pounding rhythm, like she expected.

“This is the new Metallica,” Eddie says, pushing open the barn doors and swinging his lunchbox like a little boy.

He unlocks it with the tiny silver key hooked to his wallet and retrieves a joint, which he has Chrissy hold while he searches for his Zippo. She gives it back to him, not confident enough to spark it herself. And then they share, smoking together in easy silence, except for the sound of "Battery" and the chirping of a bird, building a nest in the gnarled tree.

Their sneakers bump as they kick their legs, and his curls brush her cheek as he nods along to the music. The motion is oddly gentle, despite the singer’s shouting about “pain monopoly” and “ritual misery.” The truth is, Chrissy doesn’t love the heavier songs. But she loves how they make her feel: like she’s getting away with something. And she basks in Eddie’s open joy. He’s eager to teach her what he’s learned from liner notes and interviews in Creem, and she listens intently as he tells her how “Welcome Home” was inspired by the movie One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, and H.P. Lovecraft’s “The Shadow of Innsmouth” is referenced in “The Things That Should Not Be.” Eddie rambles about Kthulu, a green winged monster with a tentacled head, then intones, “He waits dreaming.” 

Chrissy curls up under the blanket, pressing her cheek against the velvet, and lets herself drift in a happy haze. She’s relieved to be wearing cotton fleece instead of itchy acrylic, which she only endured after the basketball game because Jason insisted they wear their uniforms to the victory party, a display of “Tiger Pride.” Nevermind that Chrissy’s captain, too, and ought to decide for the girls, at least, who rushed to her with their complaints. (Molly lamented that she looks sickly in white, and Mindy pouted, “It’s an injustice to the frumps! They need me to model trends for them.”)

“This is so cozy,” Chrissy sighs, during Eddie’s poetic but obscure ode to Lars Ulrich.

She pulls out her Scrunchie and places it in her lap, admiring the way the blue Swiss dots complement the quiver of coral arrows on the quilt block. Then she unravels her braid, combing out her waves with her fingers, blushing and giggling at Eddie’s enthralled expression.

“Thanks for coming out with me,” she says. Turning to face him, feeling bold, she asks, “Why did you?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, because, you know. You’re interesting.”

Chrissy’s mouth drops open in gleeful surprise. She’s never heard that word applied to her before.

“So are you,” she tells him. “But you probably know that.”

He laughs. “Have mercy, Chrissy! Flattery works on me.”

“Well, I’m grateful!” She looks down, but she’s pensive, not embarrassed. “I really needed a break.”

“Yeah, you seemed like-” Eddie pauses. But instead of finishing the sentence, he furrows his brow until a deep vertical line appears over the bridge of his nose, and sticks out his lower lip, affecting a girlish pout. “Like this.”

She gasps. “Is that supposed to be me?” When he nods, Chrissy covers her face, laughing, “You look like Penelope Pussycat.”

He raises his hands, palms out. “Hey, all I’m saying is, it was obvious you could use a smoke.” His smile goes crooked. “And I’m always happy to provide.”

Chrissy touches his shoulder so he turns toward the horizon, ”It’s golden hour!”she explains, feeling as fuzzy as the light. She taps her chin. "I think it’s going to go…pink.” Shifting closer, she sighs, “That’s my very favorite. When it’s pink. Like a pink strawberry milkshake.” 

The music ought to clash with the pastels reflected on the surface of the water, the rock making angry waves when its lobbed in. But the beat is like the rugged granite that’s protecting both the reservoir and the trees.

“Can we stay?” she pleads, clasping her hands together under her chin. “Just until twilight.” 

Eddie nods, smiling with affection. Then he finds the last French fry, stuck to the corner of the carton, and takes a bite. “You know what tastes really good? Fries dipped in milkshake. We should get some on the way home.” He jolts. “Wait, I’m not supposed to finish it, right? Oh, man. Apologies, apologies.” Clumsy and earnest, he offers her the half-eaten stick.

Chrissy giggles until she snorts, and doesn’t even cover her mouth, or say sorry.

Chapter Text

Punishment’s miles and hours away, Chrissy thinks, because Eddie’s taking the long road to the Dairy Queen. She watches Hawkins through the window, smudgy and fogged by her breath, and she's tempted to draw a smile.

Outside, the crocuses are collecting their dew. The moon is waxing. A tire is hanging from an oak tree, and a bicycle leans against its trunk; Chrissy imagines the champions in the wheel spokes, waiting to roll, guzzling Gatorade, popping gum, and sneaking cigarettes. On the gravel, there’s a ‘59 Impala, gleaming turquoise in the starlight—it’s the kind of car she's only ever seen in old Technicolor movies, and photographs of Havana. 

I’ve been so good, up till now, she reminds herself. She only had one chicken nugget, and two fries.

Chrissy balances her diet like her father does his checkbook, or a Catholic does his sin. Thanks to years of practice, the math is simple, even when she’s high. It's harder to follow Eddie's equations, as he explains Dungeons and Dragons statistics, bouncing in his seat. He says wisdom, strength, and character are decided by many-sided dice, then finds a die in the glove box and offers it to her.

Cradling it in her palm, Chrissy runs her finger along the plastic edges, pressing down on an engraved number whenever James Hetfield hits a high B. The number one is scratched. Someone will have to paint it over. While Eddie orders their shakes, Chrissy tries to remember whether she’s got any red paint left in her craft drawer, throwing the die in the air and catching it in her fist. 

Smoking has soothed the itch of her endless internal accounting, and the sting of the scratches she’s left on her waist and her hips. So Chrissy can appreciate something else. That math is boring. She kicks her feet, petulant as Veruca Salt, the way she never lets herself be, and thinks, boring, boring, boring! She can hear her mother’s hopeful recitation, that sweet soprano sigh: “32 inches-20 inches-33 inches.” And then it’s her teacher’s droning, “x3+y3+z3=k.”

“Did you have Mr. Robinson for Pre-Algebra?” Chrissy asks, accepting the paper cup.

Eddie groans. “I’ve had him Twice. And he makes me sit in the front row. Gareth—you know Gareth, right, he plays drums in my band—he says Robinson’s voice works faster than Placidyl, so he falls asleep, and then I’m stuck there with nobody to talk to and nothing to do...I told Higgins, ‘Until you’ve been tortured by a monotone for forty-five minutes, you don’t get to judge me for skipping.’ It’s got to violate the Geneva Convention, I swear to God.”

Chrissy giggles, spinning her striped straw. “I’m lucky he let me sit in the back. I taught myself origami in that class. I can make a frog, a heart, a crane, an elephant…actually…I was going to write you a note, to schedule a deal. I was going to fold it into a butterfly. It’s cute! The wings flap when you pull its tail.” 

She thought it would entertain a fidgeter like Eddie. And she’d wanted to differentiate herself from the others, who tear scraps from the margins of their composition books, and use “Freak” as a salutation.

The messages Chrissy gets are keepsake-worthy, except for a couple of penis sketches from boys who’d never dare to make vulgar propositions in person. After she led her first rally as captain, the squad passed heart-shaped notepads around school, and ordered their classmates to write her congratulations. By last period, Chrissy’s locker looked like a box of Sweethearts candy. She took the notes home and tucked them in a lopsided vase she carved herself; she pours them onto the floor of her bedroom when she needs hard proof people wish her well. She wants everyone to know what it’s like to look down at the spot where they once kneeled, crying, and see kindness. Especially Eddie, who’s gotten so much less than he deserves.

“Cool, you’ll have to teach me how to make some,” he says, startling her, because Chrissy thinks of origami as a girl’s hobby, like beading and Bedazzling. Then he reveals, “My bedsheets have butterflies on them, actually,” and she gasps in delight. He shrugs. “Hand-me-downs. Hey, why didn’t you ever end up giving me the note?”

She shrugs. “I thought it’d be easier to talk at the party.” The truth is, Chrissy couldn’t bear to approach his locker, knowing she’d have to wait until the halls were empty. She was afraid to be alone, in the metal-linoleum quiet.  “And it all worked out.”

“Sure did. It would’ve been nice to have something to look forward to in Chemistry, though.” He does an impression of Mr. Jiménez, capturing the Eeyore droop in the teacher’s sighs, and the wiggle of his caterpillar brows. When Chrissy laughs, he goes on to mimic Mr. Saunders’ cattle rattle, and Principal Higgins’ foghorn bellow, “Ladieees and gentleman, compose yourselves!”

Once her giggles settle, she takes a fortifying sip of her milkshake. “I um, was wondering if I could ask you a question,” she begins. 

“Shoot.”

“It’s just…you read a lot. You can do probability in your head. You play music.” Her mouth curves, teasing. “You’re clearly not afraid of public speaking. You’re smart, Eddie. I’m glad you’re still here, because I’m glad we got to meet. But-”

“Why haven’t I graduated? That what you’re getting at?”

She nods. “I’m sorry, I just meant-”

“Nah, I understand. It’s not like it’s a secret I’m a fuck up. But sometimes the teachers hassle me for no fucking reason. I use the word ‘concur’ in a paper, and O’Donnell sends me to Higgins’ office. And Saunders needs to learn about the separation of church and state. He's been holding a grudge since the unit on the Reformation, when I pointed out how stupid both sides were being, since Jesus is about as real as the Tooth Fairy–except instead of earning money, you’ve got to hand your paycheck over. And I could come up with a better story than a virgin birth. The book’s full of plot holes.”

Eddie’s eyes are full of mischief: he relishes the sound of Chrissy’s indignant gasp, and the sight of her jaw dropping in shock at his blasphemy. But when he says, “The first try was ‘83. Probably better I flunked out,” he smiles, and there’s no humor in it. “My old man's sentence was supposed to be up in May, so he was planning a joint graduation party at Foxy’s—that’s Foxy with three x’s.” He shakes his head while Chrissy cools her blush with her cup. “Should’ve known. He never was right about much.”

In 1983, Chrissy was a sophomore, and barely aware of Eddie Munson. She was distracted, busy with school, church, dance, cheerleading, babysitting, and partying, and she kept her head down, around the older boys. When Steve and Tommy called Eddie names, the underclassmen laughed along, but they agreed with Chrissy when she reminded them, “That’s senior business.” After all, the sophomores shared no classes with him, not even a lunch period, and Hellfire Club was hardly worth their notice; it was only four members, who didn’t even wear a uniform. So her friends’ resentment came second-hand. Their grievance was the sight of Eddie, strutting around like he had nothing to be ashamed of, despite his weird band tees, run-down car, and his tattoos.

Besides, they’d found their own targets, kids their own age. Easier targets, being younger and smaller; even Andy and Chance hesitated to go toe-to-toe with Eddie, back then. Eddie ignored them, too, unless they were hassling a member of his club, or interrupting his speeches. Once, Jason commanded him to stop tearing the campaign fliers off the corkboard in the hall, insulting the integrity of the class presidential election. Eddie had jerked his chin at Steve. "Run back to your babysitter, kid," he said. "I don't have time for tantrums." When Jason sputtered, red-faced with indignation, and resentment that he had to tilt his head back to meet the senior's eyes, Eddie had laughed, then dismissed him; Chrissy had ducked behind a door, knowing Jason wouldn't want her to hear it. Still, it was only after Eddie's father was arrested that her boyfriend truly started to hate him.

Chrissy never met Albert Munson. Even now, she couldn’t pick him out of a lineup. But she remembers exactly where she was when she learned he’d killed his cellmate during a riot: she was rocking in a Shaker chair beside the Carvers’ cold fireplace. Not far from here, she notes, as they pass yet another picket fence. 

She’d only been dating Jason for two weeks. They’d only kissed once. She was desperate to impress his family–especially his favorite uncle, whom she was meeting for the first time, because he lived an hour west. Chrissy smiled at him as sweetly as she could manage from her spot beside his grandmother; the old woman's dementia was too advanced for conversation, but her gaze lingered long enough on Chrissy’s knees for her to panic that her blue eyelet dress was immodest. So she was distracted, tugging her skirt down, when Mr. Carver announced that Eddie’s father would spend the rest of his life in jail.

She joined Jason and his family in a prayer for his victim, and thanked God no guards were hurt in the brawl. She made polite noises of agreement when they asserted that the criminal’s death was a boon to the country. After all, the logic was familiar: her parents had already explained that prison is a training ground, an advanced education in terror, and felons are eager to show their neighbors what they’ve learned when they come home.

But it all felt distant from Chrissy. Back then, there was no violence in Hawkins—at least, none that she’d ever witnessed: it happened behind closed doors, or on the bad side of town. Her mother told her, “It’s none of our business,” so when the Cunninghams ran into Mrs. Byers in the makeup aisle, Chrissy pretended her powder concealed her black eye, and avoided looking down at her basket of gauze and ibuprofen. It was easier for Chrissy to picture a drive-by or a defenestration than a prison riot; those, at least, she’d seen on Colombo and Miami Vice. 

Then the eldest Mr. Carver declared, with gruesome satisfaction, “This is justice. Munson didn’t pay nearly enough for what he did to me," and Chrissy jolted to attention in time to learn exactly why Eddie’s father had been arrested in the first place: he’d stolen cars, including a brand-new Jeep Wagoneer belonging to Jason’s uncle. 

Chrissy never considered Eddie's suffering at all.

He must’ve been lonely. She pictures him filling up at the Gas ‘n’ Go, leaning against his van, overhearing a stranger in a beamer say the loss of his father was a win for Hawkins. Trailing Reefer Rick to bars and keggers, biting his tongue when his customers fake concern: “Careful Hopper doesn’t catch you. You’ll end up sharing a cell with dear ol’ dad.” Lying in bed, alone, on what should’ve been his graduation day, hating that he’d rather be sitting in a booth at the strip club, watching his father flirt with topless girls just out of high school. She leans closer to Eddie, and wishes she could turn back the clock. She’d show up at his door with a chicken casserole. And then she’d ask him to tell her a story, so he could imagine he was somewhere else, somewhere beautiful, surrounded by heroes who would laud him for being a hero.

I have so much to make up for, she thinks. But Eddie’s not railing at her for ignoring him. He sounds a little defensive, though, as he leans in, urging her to understand.

“I know people think it’s weird I keep coming back. But Wayne had to drop out, get a job, support the family. And my mom, she liked school—I think she was kind of a bookworm, actually. I ruined it: she got knocked up her sophomore year. I owe it to them to finish.” He frowns for an instant, then shakes it off, grinning, puppyish and eager. “I am army-crawling my way toward a D in Ms. O'Donnell's. But if I don't blow her final, I'm going to walk that stage next month, I'm going to look Principal Higgins dead in the eye, I'm going to flip him the bird, and I’m going to snatch that diploma.”

“I believe you,” Chrissy says earnestly, smiling at him. Then she sighs. “I’d help you study, but my grades aren’t so great this year. I’ve got a D in Woodshop. I’m barely holding on.”

“I’ve got an A in Woodshop, if you need pointers.”

“Yes! I would love that!"

"All we need are C's. We don't have to be perfect. It’s not like Hawkins High School is employing intellectual giants, anyway; if there's anything we really want to learn, we can teach ourselves later. That's what I do, anyway.” Pumping his fist, Eddie swears, “Chrissy, we’re going to make it."

She basks in the warmth of Eddie’s confidence. He’s more convincing than her boyfriend, who tried to reassure her when he caught her crying over her D+ in Spanish. But then, Jason’s certainty seems rooted in the idea that Loch Nora girls are not burnouts; among their set, finishing high school is considered as inevitable as getting married and having children. Does Jason believe in her? Or does he believe in the type of girl she is supposed to be? She wonders, How would it feel, to be sure?

“I’m guessing you’ve got a fancy graduation gala planned.”

Her mouth twists. “Yeah. A group thing. The Andrews are hosting a barbecue.”

Chrissy had promised to go shopping with Molly, picking out napkins and balloons, and to help Mindy put together a soundtrack; it had to be modern enough to entertain their friends but mild enough to placate her mother and Mrs. Carver. She’s supposed to festoon the gazebo with green and orange streamers, sweating under the hot sun, listening to Molly pray that the weather holds, safe on the grass below her. Chrissy will fend off freckles, clutching a bouquet of tulips to her chest, and when the scent of beef and charcoal fills her nostrils, she'll pick at a cucumber salad, and "mmm" in fake satisfaction. She’ll smile while her parents’ friends ask her about her plans, and smile while Jason answers for her. She’ll pretend that the future doesn’t feel like a threat.

That’s what she agreed to, anyway.

“But, like I said before,” she sighs. “I don’t really like parties.”

“If you need a break, after, maybe we can do something.” Eddie suddenly looks shy, and it makes her blush. “We can smoke. Or, you know. Whatever.”

She clasps her hands under her chin. “If you’re sure it’s not going to be a bother!” 

When she tries to picture an Eddie Munson graduation party, she draws a blank. But she's excited to find out what he comes up with.

“Definitely not,” Eddie laughs. “Actually...I’m not doing anything over break. Just a Hellfire one-shot next Friday. Whenever you want to hang out, I’m around.”

She’s sobered up, but Chrissy’s still giddy. She knocks back the rest of her strawberry shake, then commands him to write down his phone number.

•••

If only the joy had followed her home. As soon as Chrissy opens the front door, she hears the instrumental “A Mighty Fortress for Our God”; her parents are subjecting her brother to an old tape of Davey and Goliath. Peeking in the den, she immediately recognizes the scene: Davey is running away to the circus, where he’ll discover that watering elephants is lonely, tedious work, and he’d rather be mowing his parents’ lawn. She wrinkles her nose, perplexed that she ever liked this show, let alone thought that claymation dog was cute. His eyes seem too human, full of existential dread. He looks like J. Robert. Oppenheimer. The little clay figures are creepy, all of a sudden, far more unnerving than Eddie's demon tattoos.

“I’m going to bed,” she calls, surprised her family has yet to turn away from the TV; usually, they’re attuned to the sound of Chrissy's footsteps, and the click of the lock. “Sweet dreams!”

Maybe they want to escape as much as I do. Jimmy ignores her. And the stiltedness of her parents “good night” only reminds her that Fred is gone. 

In her bedroom, surrounded by pink satin, mirror glass, and silence, Chrissy is her old self again. The ballerina in the music box, after the lid has dropped. She flexes her toes in the carpet, remembering the agony of the stretch when her teacher bent her arches, making sure Chrissy’s feet were right for ballet, even if they were wrong for everything else. In her en-suite, she slides her bare heel on the tile.

Then she kneels. The milkshake comes up quick and easy. Chrissy stays quiet, because she’s mastered discretion. And she’s mostly inured to the violence she’s doing to her body: she ignores the lava burn of bile, traveling over her larynx and tongue, and the soreness of her stomach from the unnatural contractions. It’s harder, though, to pretend her eyes are fine. She can feel the vessels slithering like vines, even after they rupture. Still, Chrissy twirls slowly in front of the mirror, as if she is prettily hollow. She’s like the porcelain ladies on her shelf, caught mid-waltz with their hems in their hands.

She paces while she brushes her teeth, paying special attention to her overlapping incisor. If she had known it would come in crooked, and anger her mom, she wouldn’t have been so excited to get rid of her baby tooth. She’d been paid a shiny half-dollar for it, though; Nancy made sure she lost it while she was sleeping over at the Wheelers’, since Chrissy’s parents refused to let the Tooth Fairy visit. She picked apart the bracelet that earned her an Arts ‘n’ Crafts badge, then tied the periwinkle string to Chrissy’s tooth, looping the other end around the doorknob. There was a slam. Then, a fresh start.

Afterwards, Chrissy held a cotton ball to her gum, and offered the bag to Nancy, suggesting she glue clouds to the roof of their shoebox castle. They were building a home for their Barbies, because Chrissy was forbidden to play with the Cunninghams' antique dollhouse, a white Colonial with a flag-red door and shutters. Nancy said it was drab, anyway. There were no shutters on their shoebox, only smiley face buttons where the windows ought to be.

Now, Chrissy puts on her comfiest nightgown, the billowing cotton her mom sewed her for Christmas. The reflection of her pale silhouette is fuzzy at the edges, thanks to her cherub night-light. She looks like she belongs in a crumbling English manor. She should be wandering the halls, her candelabra flickering, until a gust of wind snuffs out the flame, and a hand fists her frilly collar, dragging her into the attic rooms where she’ll spend the rest of her life.

Chrissy shakes her head, determined, as she climbs into bed. She stares at the Monarchs on her curtains. It’s 1986. It’s my year. I’m going to believe it. Then she shuts her eyes and imagines she’s scoring sunsets.

Chapter Text

“-as long as anyone with hot blood can-” 

Chrissy sings and shimmies, out of range of the mirror. Since “Worst Comes to Worst,” woke her up, a reassurance from her alarm clock radio, she’s been listening to An Innocent Man on repeat.

It’s been better, Chrissy thinks, flinging scarves across her bed, but it’s been worse. It takes another verse for her to find what she’s looking for: a square of white silk, printed with gold links of chain. She folds it into a band and wraps it around her head, tying a bow, then fluffs the mess of curls in her ponytail.

Later, crossing the street to Devlins’ Luncheonette, Chrissy spots Jason’s mother, peering through the window. When Mrs. Carver steps back, adjusting the bag on her elbow, she collides with Robin Buckley, the trumpeter in the high school marching band. Robin flails like she’s slipping on a banana peel, then steadies herself on Mrs. Carver’s shoulder. Oblivious to her glare, she picks up the groceries, babbling apologies for the dent in the milk carton, while the matron re-pins a pearl wreath to her left breast. Although they move like different species, they’re similarly tall and lean, and they both greet Chrissy with bright white smiles. 

Robin continues on, loping to the library, but Jason’s mother waits for her in front of the restaurant. “Lunch with your cheerleaders, Christine?” 

She nods.  

“This place will go bankrupt before long. I’m sure Mr. Devlin was trying to be kind, leaving his wife the business, but like I told you, Chrissy, women are meant for the home.”

She’d said it like she was giving Chrissy a gift, while Jason was opening the big envelope from Notre Dame. To Mrs. Carver, it’s the recipe for happiness—the apron, the minivan, “yes, dears” at the ready.

Mrs. Carver pities women who’ve chosen other lives, like the career women, the childless, the spinsters, and the divorcees. She advised Mrs. Byers stay with the husband who beat her, promising he'd gentle, with the right kind of moral guidance, and reminded her that boys raised by single mothers end up jobless and addicted to crack cocaine. But Chrissy saw Mrs. Byers at Melvald’s, holding hands with Mr. Newby, who stared at her, misty-eyed with adoration. Her eldest son Jonathon is dating Nancy, their class’s “Most Likely to Succeed,” who'll surely drag him to success alongside her.

"Poor Mr. Devlin, God rest his soul," Mrs. Carver continues. "He must have been so disappointed that she denied him children. What a lonely, unfulfilling life she leads."

Chrissy nods again, although she disagrees. Mrs. Devlin laughs loudly and often, and her husband never sounded resentful in Chrissy's hearing, joking that he already had a baby—Grace O’Malley, his tortoiseshell cat. He said the key to a happy life is a happy wife, and a steady stream of union men in his pub. He told Chrissy he felt sorry for the men who drink to forget their families, accusing their wives of dashing their hopes like fumbling Hoosiers. "Don’t trust a man who calls his wife a ball-and-chain," he warned her. "Nobody forced him to get married."  

She can’t imagine Jason in a pub, whining about her to a no-name drifter. But she can’t imagine him saying, “Happy wife, happy life,” either. She doubts he’d trust her to run his business, after he was dead. And although he says, “I love you, babe,” into the mic at pep rallies, has he ever watched her with worshipful eyes? Chrissy tries to remember.

“The decor is certainly ugly,” Mrs. Carver declares, pursing her mouth. She resembles her son, except that her skin’s porcelain, not tan, and her lips are thinner. Chrissy swallows a sigh and looks through the window, immediately identifying what made her frown: the new addition to the gallery wall is a series of photographs of Ziegfeld Follies.

The showgirls are wearing winged helmets, and peacock feather bustles, and wire hoop skirts shaped like the sickle moon; Chrissy’s favorite is dressed as a Gothic cathedral, balancing a spire on top of her head. It’s no surprise that Jason’s mother disapproves of them. She considers the bare midriff to be obscene; when the Marsden High cheerleaders’ shells revealed an inch of skin, mid-cartwheel, she reported them to the principal. And Jason’s parents call costumes “sheer foolishness,” except on Reformation Day, when the Calvinist kids play-act medieval princesses and monks. (Chrissy loves Halloween—all the Cunninghams do, which is why the Carvers aborted their campaign to ban it—but she makes sure to stop at the Reformation Festival on October 31st, to giggle at the unfortunate toddlers dressed up like Martin Luther.) 

Mrs. Devlin redecorates often, but there are vestiges of what the place once was, before her husband died in the fire. A Falstaff decal above the soda fountain. Tables scarred by errant knives. And the jukebox features Merle Haggard, though his records have gone dusty; when Mrs. Devlin is missing her husband, she prefers Patsy Cline. While the schoolgirls are here, she plays Top 40.

Chrissy can hear Casey Kasem introducing Joan Jett through the glass. She catches Mrs. Devlin's eye. The old woman winks at Mrs. Carver, whose mouth goes flat, and then waves to Chrissy, who bites her lip to keep in her giggle, thinking she’d be proud of her for making friends with Eddie, someone even more irreverent than she is.

It’s a comforting thought. She’s going to have to lie to the squad about him, to keep the peace.

“I’m sorry, it’s been so nice talking to you, but I should go in before the girls give up on me.” Chrissy schools her expression into one of regret until her boyfriend’s mother lets her leave, praising her for valuing punctuality.

As she walks through the door, the keyboard notes of “Borderline” tinkle like a welcome bell, and Mrs. Devlin gestures at her headband.

“One of your grandmother’s?”

Chrissy kisses the air near her cheek. “She left me the whole collection.” In fact, she inherited all of her fine clothes and jewelry, as well as a modest trust to fund the college education she won't be getting.

“Well, Evelyn wanted you to have nice things.” Quirking her overlined lips, she adds, “Better you than Laura.” 

Grabbing the menu, she leads Chrissy to the corner booth, where her friends are sharing a basket of muffins. It’s the squad’s regular table, which Chrissy selected because it faces a portrait of the cat in pirate regalia, and she likes to imagine her sailing the high seas.

“Thanks to your grandmother, Hawkins’ factory girls were the prettiest in the Midwest. She donated scarves during the war to keep our curls away from the gears.” She bats her lashes and fluffs her short platinum curls. “She got me green, to match my eyes. I looked like Veronica Lake.” 

Chrissy’s heard the story before—it’s the reason she signed up for Woodshop, hoping to recapture the joy of childhood “Rosie the Riveter” games. But she lets Mrs. Devlin reminisce. She nods to Mr. Thacher, the owner of the Tire Shop, who grunts a hello through a mouth full of porridge, and waves to Mr. Clark, her sixth-grade science teacher, who beams. When she notices the Perkins' baby is teetering on the edge of a tantrum, she makes silly faces until he shrieks in delight, and Mr. Wright heaves a thank you. 

“May I please have a coffee?” Chrissy asks, once they’ve arrived at the table. 

She has to pull up a chair, because Molly has taken her usual seat. To cover the mortifying sound of wood grating linoleum, she pitches her voice louder when she greets them. She compliments Mindy’s lilac jumpsuit, Debi’s fluorescent studs, Tiffany’s Madras blouse, and Molly’s cameo charm bracelet, and when they declare her slouchy boots are “perfection,” she obliges them with an abbreviated battement.

Plucking at her cuff, Chrissy decides to give her sweater one more chance. It was her new favorite–the knit is soft, and she thought the boatneck flattered her–but this is the fourth time she’s worn it, and no one’s said a word. After a fifth, she’ll know it’s out. 

“What did I miss?” she asks. 

“Andy’s being a dick again,” Tiffany starts.

“I told him to stop strutting around like he made the winning shot,” Molly continues, “and Dad yelled at me. Apparently, I’m not ‘respectful’ enough of ‘real sports.’”

“Oh, please,” Debi scoffs. “They could never do what we do.”

“That’s right!” Chrissy replies, indignant. “You stuck every landing! And Jason told me we’d never looked better than we did Thursday night.” Even Eddie thinks cheer’s cool.

“Yeah, totally.” But Molly’s shoulders are slumped, so Chrissy reaches for her hand. She knows exactly how she feels. 

Ms. Kelley has described Chrissy’s mind as a sidewalk, pitted with her mother’s words. She says they’ve got to re-pave it, and smear new cruelties with a pushbroom before the concrete can dry—otherwise, it takes a jackhammer to excavate them. 

She has to act fast. She presses Molly’s palms together until the redhead submits to a clap, the ladies on her bracelet nodding with the motion. When she tilts her chin, the other girls flurry encouragement, and Tiffany whistles loud enough to draw the eye of Officer Callahan, who is sitting at the bar with egg salad in his mustache. 

“You’re so corny, CC,” Molly groans, but she’s straightening in her seat, so Chrissy lets go, satisfied, and sips her coffee. 

“Let’s buy her that bubble bath she likes,” she whispers to Mindy. “Maybe deck out her locker, even if the season’s over.”

It’s her duty as captain to make sure the squad takes care of each other as well as they take care of the boys. Rewarding hard work with favors, she stocks little organza bags, jelly bracelets, Lip Smackers variety packs, and Scrunchies, and buys candy for the ones who don’t need to diet—Chrissy remembers what they hoarded in their pillowcases on Halloween. She jots affirmations down on strips of paper ribbon, a wrapper the girls call the “Chrissy Fortune," and schedules mixtape-making parties.

At the start of the school year, Chrissy cut megaphones out of cardboard to decorate their lockers, writing their names in her finest curlicue script. Since Tiffany’s pop art lines shout pep, she ordered her to do the drawing: a Miami sunset for Debi, complete with a flamingo, an alpine mountain for Molly, her skis crossed at its peak, and, for Mindy, a keyboard playing lightning bolts, on stage at Radio City. Chrissy surprised Tiffany with her own delicate rendition of the Chicago skyline, dripping with paint. 

For their captain, the squad drew a border of carnations with petals like pom poms, and the number one, sparkling gold. 

Now, she questions their intentions. Does everyone expect her to peak in high school, like the girl in ‘Glory Days’? Do they think she’s going to be stuck here forever?

Mindy raises a brow. “We’re still doing that stuff? I thought you were over it.”

“What do you mean?” 

“We’ll just take her out for margaritas at that spot in Marsden, like we did after she dumped Patrick. Thank God Carol’s cousin bartends now, so we don’t have to bother with fake IDs.”

“Oh , I…I wasn’t there. I didn’t even know she got a job.” Chrissy’s voice is weak.

“We didn’t think you’d want to come,” she replies curtly. “Not that you would’ve answered if we called to invite you. When’s the last time you picked up the phone after eight? I mean, I get it. You’re doing your own thing. But you only hang out when we make plans at school. Or when you’re following Jason.” Under her breath, she adds, “And you’re no fun anymore.”

She’s right, Chrissy thinks, shocked. Counting backward, she realizes that the last time she organized a celebration was before Christmas. And she’s been turning off the ringer of her phone in the evenings, since Ms. Kelley told her that chatting before bed was too stimulating; she recommended Chrissy wind down with a book instead, so she’s re-reading Anne of Green Gables. 

Now, her friends are laughing at new jokes, referencing the revelry she skipped to get a good night’s sleep. When Tiffany stands, sliding past her to the restroom, Chrissy gasps, because there’s a cameo pinned to her collar.

In middle school, when their classmates were splitting Best Friend hearts, her clique called matching jewelry “kid stuff.” Chrissy said they should play up their uniqueness, because they were a rainbow, not a string of paper dolls. But, in truth, she was trying to protect their feelings, and prevent a fight. All the girls coveted the other half of Chrissy’s heart. She'd been secretly proud of that.

“Is that Nancy Wheeler?” Mindy asks, craning around Chrissy to look out the window. “What’s she doing with the band geek?”

Chrissy sets down her coffee, following her gaze. Sure enough, Nancy and Robin are on the library steps, deep in conversation. 

“She makes no sense to me at all,” she continues. “Like, she could just be normal, if she wanted to be.”

Nancy’s loop-de-loop around the social ladder used to perplex Chrissy, too. She was a bookworm, then the girlfriend of the Keg King, until she dumped him to date a loner, skipping keggers to write for the school newspaper. She ought to be popular: she’s slender, neat, and pretty, and she’s from a respected family. That’s why Chrissy’s mother let them spend so much time together in elementary school.

The friendship didn’t last. Although Chrissy liked novels, and flipped through the Encyclopedia Britannica while her parents watched 60 Minutes, she was never as smart as Nancy. It was no surprise when Nancy started gravitating towards Barbara Holland, the teacher’s pet: they read ahead in their textbooks, preened when they were called on to correct a classmate’s mistake, and wrote mystery stories about side characters in Nancy Drew.

When Chrissy’s mother found her under the covers with a flashlight, giggling because Diana Barry was drunk on raspberry cordial, she decided she could do better. She warned her, “You’ll ruin your eyes, and men don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses.” When she met Barbara, she said, “Be careful not to pick up any of her bad habits, or you'll end up shopping at Lane Bryant.” And when the Principal asked Nancy to give a speech at Field Day, calling her a “model student,” Chrissy’s mother huffed, “Nobody likes a know-it-all.

By then, Chrissy had advanced in ballet, and quit Girl Scouts so she’d have time for gymnastics. The dancers were circling her in the cafeteria, and slowly, they pushed Nancy to the end of the bench. 

It was easier with them, the girls who would become the squad. Chrissy didn’t have to check the encyclopedia to understand their jokes, and they never used a five-syllable word when one syllable would do. She didn’t have to pretend she’d aced a test so she had an excuse to skip a “flash-card party.” She didn’t have to explain away the odd seams on her church dress; Nancy was the only one who ever noticed her waist-cincher. While Nancy and Barbara stood on the sidelines, obviously bored, the squad begged Chrissy to teach them how to do a back handspring on a trampoline, and a rond de jambe en l'air. They saved her a seat at the head of the table.

It’s supposed to be easy, isn’t it?

“I still can’t get over the fact that Nancy dumped Steve Harrington for Byers,” Molly is sneering. “The downgrade of all downgrades. Remember how he used to carry that Pentex around everywhere? I swear, he used to hide under the bleachers to take pictures up our skirts.” 

"I don't know...she and Jonathon seem really happy together," Chrissy says.

“Nancy and Steve wouldn’t have lasted anyway,” Debi points out. “Total mismatch. Even Tommy said so.” 

Chrissy frowns. Tommy said a lot of things–that Nancy was an interloper, and later, after she started hanging out with Jonathon, a slut. He told them not to bother chatting with Steve’s fling, when they could be having fun at the party. While it's true that Nancy’s conversation paired poorly with the cheap beer--she mused on the ethics of using confidential informants, quoted Germaine Greer, and asked them, “Have you picked a major yet?”--Chrissy was sober enough to appreciate her cleverness, and tempted to talk to her. 

But she still felt guilty about the way she’d treated her in middle school, and it made her shy, when they were alone together. She told herself that Nancy and Steve’s break-up restored the natural order.

“Think about it: she’s always had a pet loser, except when she was with Steve,” Molly points out. “Barbara, until she ran away. Then Jonathon. And since he moved to California, all she does is work with Fred. So…there’s an opening.”

“Stop it,” Chrissy interrupts. “Stop being mean.”

Tiffany nudges her aside until she bumps the wainscoting, then slaps the tabletop with both hands as she drops into her seat. “Guess what Callahan just told me? Nancy was with Fred on Thursday. She was the one who found the body!” She leans forward, whispering like Chrissy does when she’s teaching little kids how to summon Bloody Mary. “His arms, legs, and fingers were broken. His eyeballs were squished. There’s a psycho killer on the loose in Hawkins!”

Chrissy’s hands are shaking, and when she glances at Mindy, she’s blinking away tears. Molly swallows hard. And then she scoffs. 

“No way! Callahan made that up.” 

Debi nods firmly. “He totally thought you’d jump him.” She puts her hands over her heart, crying, “‘Oh, big, strong, policeman, please protect me!’” Then she twirls an invisible mustache, rasping, “‘Why, of course, fair damsel! We’ll be safe in my bedroom.”

Chrissy stares at the bottom of her mug. “I’m going to check on Nancy.” 

When she stands, Mindy plucks at her paper napkin, and Debi’s ears turn red. But they stay quiet.

“You do that,” Tiffany says. “Come right back and let us know if she’s got any good gossip.” 

“Sorry, I’m actually going to be pretty busy over break.” She meets Mindy’s gaze. Then she slides on her white Wayfarers. “You know, doing my own thing.” 

Chrissy doesn’t say goodbye. Instead, she pushes in her chair, letting the ugly squeal fill the silence.

Chapter Text

Chrissy calculates the angle of her wave before she raises her arm. She wants it to say, Hello and I’m sorry for your loss and Please let me help and, of course, Please like me. But she worries the gesture was too subtle when Nancy smiles back tightly, her gaze skipping past her to the squad, bright in the restaurant window, and then on to the Hawk Theater marquee. Chrissy pushes up her sunglasses, careful not to dishevel her headband, and hopes her eyes shine with her good intentions.

Because Nancy, Robin, and Chrissy all remember that morning, sophomore year, when the marquee advertised “All the Right Moves, featuring Nancy ‘The Slut’ Wheeler.” The graffiti was Tommy and Steve’s doing, after Nancy befriended Jonathon Byers; they accused her of having sex with him, although nobody else actually believed she’d cheat on Steve.

Chrissy’s circle of underclassmen was uneasy with the vandalism, once Jason pointed out that the culprits risked being kicked off the team for flagrantly violating the code of conduct–and offending proper folk, like his grandmother, who enjoys the matinee. “But we’re sophomores,” he reminded his girlfriend, “and they’re captains. This is senior business.”

The recollection strengthens her resolve, which is already surprisingly steady, considering she just broke all her dearest friendships apart. But then, Chrissy didn't have much chance to second-guess herself, surrounded by her neighbors, who stopped her before she could storm out in a fury. Mrs. Hagan thanked her for teaching Richie how to make sun prints, keeping him busy while she cleaned crayon off the wall. Coach Taylor praised her back tuck at the championship game. And Mrs. Devlin hugged her, declaring, “You’re a peach!”

She can predict what the guidance counselor would say: “Don’t forget, you’re worth more than your service. And you’re not decoration.” But Chrissy is comforted by the fact that people still like her, reminding herself, Eddie thinks I’m interesting–not just cute and nice, but interesting. 

“I’m really sorry to interrupt,” Chrissy starts, meeting Robin and Nancy at the top of the stairs. She clasps her hands in front of her. “I just wanted to say hi.”

“Hi, Chrissy.” Robin is shifting awkwardly on her Converse high-tops, and Nancy slides a magazine into her purse.

It’s The Weekly Watcher. Chrissy recognizes the alien on the cover because she used to hide in the stacks reading tabloids and Space Age pulp, breathing lignin, dust, and mahogany. She was enthralled by the bug-eyed creatures, speeding round Saturn’s ring like it was their highway. The mad scientists, beamed back by their time machines, riding wooly mammoths through the glaciers, proud as snow kings. The girls in bullet bras, going gun-crazy in the nick of time, as the monster climbed through their window, and then winking as they were cuffed, to be locked up with other bad girls.

“Your skirt is really pretty,” she tells Nancy, admiring the aqua and pink brushstrokes on the fabric. She refrains from mentioning her sweater vest (gray knit, too drab to match) and her denim jacket (too boxy.)

Robin is wearing a denim jacket, too, but it’s the sort of thing Jimmy would pick out. In fact, her entire outfit belongs in a fourth-grade boy’s closet: the sweater with the frayed stripe, the slacks that distort her figure. Even Robin’s blonde bob looks like it was cut over the kitchen sink by her mom. She looks comfortable, at least. And Chrissy likes the patches on her jacket—they remind her of her Girl Scout sash and Eddie’s vest. 

She gestures to the laurel wreath over Robin’s breast, and the taller girl blushes under her freckles. “Did you sew those on yourself? They’re great.” 

“Yeah, thanks!” She pokes the bull’s head on her lapel, then the miniature “Handle With Care” sign on her cuff. “Mom says I'm the bull and the china shop.”

She’s laughing, good-humored, but Chrissy’s mouth turns down. Squinting under the cold sun, she thinks, I'm the china.

“So. It’s been a while,” Nancy points out. “Was there a problem with the article?”

“Oh, no, it was perfect.” Chrissy smiles shyly. “You made me sound really confident.” Nancy had edited out her stuttering “um’s” and “sorry”s before publishing the interview in the Hawkins High Gazette, the first in a series on how cheerleading can make rivalries fun. “But I actually did want to-”

“You should write about the marching band." Robin cocks her head. “Does the cheer squad even hear the music? Sometimes, when you’re dancing, you guys look like you’re on an alternate mental plane. Like, the Jock Zone.”

“Um, sometimes we can get in our own heads, sure. At least, I do.” 

This is the longest conversation she and Robin have ever had, she realizes, twisting her hands. Besides hello/how are you/I’m good/see you later, and a joke or two about the English class canon—they all loathe The Scarlet Letter—the athletes and the marching band don't mix.

“What were you saying, Chrissy?” Nancy asks.

“Oh! Well-” She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m so, so sorry about Fred. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.” Nancy nods stiffly, so Chrissy rushes on. “Also…I had this idea. I thought, maybe we could set up a memorial, in the trophy case? We could frame his yearbook photo, and some of his favorite articles. Remember him through his own voice. Do you think he would’ve liked that?”

Nancy smiles, close-mouthed, looking like a porcelain doll. “Sure, I’ll look through the archives.”

“The trophy case?” Robin glances across the street, where the squad are now loitering on the sidewalk, joined by Chance. “Is this a Tigers thing? Are you really the right people to be doing this? Andy used to call him Frankenstein, you know. Fred tried to tell him, ‘Frankenstein was the scientist’ but, uh. That made it worse. And Molly was-”

“Robin!” Nancy whispers. “Can you not?”

Chrissy shrinks back. “It’s just me. I wanted to do something special for Fred. He loved Hawkins High. He worked so hard on the yearbook, to make sure we remembered the best parts of our time here. We should work hard to remember him.” She pauses. “We should've done more for Billy and Heather, and Jack, and Melissa.”

Robin’s posture is softer. But Nancy’s is brittle, and Chrissy worries, Was that too blunt?  Although there's no sign she's been crying, Nancy must be suffering–especially if Callahan was telling the truth, and she discovered Fred's body.

Chrissy has seen corpses, too. But they were posed on satin beds, dressed in their Sunday best, and their skin had been powdered until they only looked a little bit anemic. To picture what Nancy might’ve discovered in that hallway, Chrissy has to draw from her nightmares, where her father is mutilated into silence. She shuts her eyes, and Fred’s bones snap, bulging under his Thursday sweater vest and khakis. Fred is eyeless behind his cracked Coke bottle glasses. ( Did he know what was coming? Was he awake, for the torture, or dazed, assuming he was trapped in a dream? )

Did Nancy run, like I run from my monster? Is she still scared?

Chrissy doubts she would admit it, if she was. Nancy values poise—like the Cunninghams, who consider naked displays of emotion to be as scandalous as disrobing in public. On the playground, she ignored the other kids’ tantrums, explaining that it was kinder than drawing attention, turning them into objects of pity. At their slumber parties, although both she and Chrissy were afraid of the dark, it was Chrissy who finally begged her mom to plug in the night-light, to save Nancy’s pride. While the stained-glass cast a rainbow into the shadows, Chrissy made up a fairy tale about the unicorn prancing on the outlet, who reminded her of Jewel in The Last Battle. She said the wind was only dangerous when it whistled—that meant there were arrows in the air—but the unicorn would protect them, if a breeze pierced the window, because she was an expert fencer, knocking bolts aside with her golden horn. (Nancy sighed, “Go to sleep,” with fond exasperation.)

Of course Nancy would keep her grief to herself. And how can Chrissy judge her? She wonders what the squad would’ve done, if she’d confessed why she was dodging their calls. Maybe they would have forgiven me, she decides, but they’d still be mean to everybody else.

She furrows her brow. “I wish I’d been nicer to Fred. I hope I wasn’t ever mean, but. I could’ve been nicer.” Thinking of Eddie’s barbed jokes and soft smile, she corrects herself. “Kinder. I want to do better.” Chrissy tilts up her chin, deciding to reveal the truth. They’ll understand: they’re here together, out in the open. “I don't even have plans with the squad over break. I’m hanging out with Eddie Munson. Do you know him? Your brother’s in his club, right, Nancy?”

Nancy blinks. Robin's eyes widen. 

“It’s not like, romantic,” Chrissy rushes to clarify.

“Uh, ok. I guess that’s not so weird?” Robin squints, considering. “I mean, yeah, it’s definitely weird. But, you know, sometimes weird things go well together! The Talking Heads, covering Al Green. Milkshake and fries, maple and bacon. Steve puts ketchup on his popcorn—absolutely cuckoo combo.” She gasps. “Oh! Me and Steve.”

Nancy looks like she wishes she’d gone lighter on the Aquanet so she could hide her face with her hair. And Chrissy has to bite her lip, to keep in her giggles.

“Obviously, we’re platonic with a capital P,” Robin adds, glancing at Nancy. “But yeah, people used to rubberneck when they saw us together. I get it: he was the Homecoming King, I was a nobody. Mrs. Nelson called me Rachel all of freshman year.”

She’s rambling at top speed, barely taking a breath. She’s also loud, and getting louder; Chrissy checks to make sure no one is behind her.

Tentatively, she asks, “Can we keep the part about me and Eddie between us?”

“Your mom’s still a tyrant?”

Chrissy heaves a sigh. “A total Stalin.” She pauses, then admits in a whisper, “And Jason…Jason might-”

Robin winces. “Order the team to tear Munson to pieces?”

Chrissy looks down at the black dots on the concrete, tapping a bubblegum fossil with her toe. But she’s saved from having to reply by a Beemer’s urgent honking: it’s Steve, parking his shining burgundy sedan in front of the library. When he reaches across the seat to unlock the passenger door, he smiles soppily at Nancy, who doesn't acknowledge his adoration. Chrissy wonders whether she’s even noticed.

She seemed unaware of Fred’s crush, and the entire class knew he’d been pining. It can be hard to tell. She herself has a reputation for missing the obvious, when it comes to romance. According to Tiffany, Chrissy’d still be single, if Jason hadn’t gone after her with single-minded determination; he made sure her friends were aware of his intentions so they could promote the match.

“Shotgun!” Robin shouts, bounding over to the BMW. “Sorry, Nance—may I call you Nance? I’ve got longer legs. See you, Chrissy!”

Dustin rolls down the back window, sticking his arm out to wave. Then he raises his eyebrows at Robin, inquisitive, until she says, “We’ve got to go to Pennhurst.”

Chrissy furrows her brow, thinking that must have been a figure of speech. Then she jolts, because an Oldsmobile with wood siding has parked in front of Devlins’, and the speakers are blasting one of the songs Eddie played for her. “All’s fair for Damage, Inc!” James Hetfield growls, until Nancy screws up her face like a disgruntled kitten.

Standing on her tip-toes, Chrissy peers over her shoulder at the driver. It’s Jeff from Hellfire Club, a Black senior with warm, dark eyes. Another Hellfire member is in the passenger seat, the pale junior with floppy brown curls; he’d look like an Andrews cousin, if he was less scruffy. The music has drawn the attention of Officer Callahan, who is marching to the car with a pad in his hand, so Chrissy hops up and down, pointing, trying to warn them he’s coming. 

The pair continues headbanging, oblivious. She huffs, frustrated, when the cop threatens Jeff with a ticket for disturbing the peace.

Nancy touches her shoulder. “If you need a cover story, you can tell your mom you’re hanging out with me over break. And…if anybody comes looking for me, I'd appreciate if you tell them the same thing.” Her smile is rueful. “Adults really have no idea what’s going on, half the time.” It goes crooked with bitter resignation as the police officers hassle Jeff. “Some stuff, we just have to take care of ourselves.”

Chrissy’s always had friends to back up her lies. Hands over their hearts, they swear to her mother that their parties are girls-only, and they’re wholesome, clean, and sober. When Chrissy rushes off after meals, Debi and Mindy say she’s picking up erasers (“You know Mr. Saunders has got that bad back.”) or fixing a freshman’s makeup (“Her crush is in her next class, and that shade of blush made her look dead: no boy wants to feel like a necrophiliac.”) They've never mentioned the purging, but she knows they'd approve, if the alternative was Chrissy getting fat. But they'd never help her violate the code of behavior that holds their high school's hierarchy in place.

This is a different kind of acceptance. I can go anywhere. Do anything. With anyone I want. The world is unfurling around her.

Chrissy bounces on her toes. “Nancy Wheeler, you’re a lifesaver !”

Chapter Text

“Like Pastor Jeffrey always says: ‘If you babysit the youths, you get babies. If you lead the youths, you get leaders!’” Jason curls his hand into a fist, and the emerald chips in his cufflinks glint in the candlelight. 

Chrissy unfolds her napkin, setting it neatly on her lap. “I just hate to see kids trying to keep up with Chance and Andy.” She pauses. “I hate watching Chance and Andy try to keep up with each other. They don’t even look like they’re having fun, half the time.”

But then, it’s difficult for Chrissy to tell what the boys are feeling. She may smile when she wants to cry, but she’s never laughed like they do–proud to be defiant, proud to be ferocious. They laugh when they’re bleeding, and when they’re beating rivals bloody. They laugh when they’re giving a girl a once-over at a party, and when they're boasting about the one-night-stand to their friends; to Chrissy, it seems like they take more pleasure in the play-by-play, diagramming the girl’s body on a diner napkin the next morning, than they do in the actual sex. They laugh at nicknames Chrissy wouldn’t bestow on her worst enemy; she’s the only Tiger left who calls the husky swingman Tom, instead of “Beanbag.”

They’re not heartless, of course: they cry, too. Alone with Chrissy, when the party and the highs are winding down, they share their sorrows, and she tries to be consoling. After the Ramoses’ ragdoll cat went missing, her jeweled collar discovered in a pool of blood in the backyard, Chrissy reassured Chance that Mr. Butterscotch had lived a full and happy life, certain he was loved. When Mrs. Andrews found a lace garter in her husband’s office, proof he was having an affair with the housekeeper, Chrissy reminded Andy that he was too old to be the center of a custody battle. Catching Patrick picking at his acne, she wrote out her skincare routine, and reassured him Molly was attracted to him, regardless. Of course, Jason usually dragged her off, mid-conversation. And she and the boys kept their heart-to-hearts a secret. 

Her boyfriend has his own troubles. He dreads becoming a burden on his family, like his elder brother, Arthur, who’d had cerebral palsy, and died of pneumonia, age fifteen; Mrs. Carver swore it had been a privilege to be his mother, tested by the Lord, since her patience with him proved that she was faithful. He's terrified of Hell, and pores over the map his counselor gave him at Bible camp, trying to predict which judgment house he’ll live in if he succumbs to temptation. He longs to make his father proud, but rarely manages it, except when he's on the field or in the church pew: lately, Mr. Carver, who builds desks and rocking chairs as a hobby, is disappointed that his son is struggling in Woodshop, although Mr. Butler wrote a C on his report card so Jason could remain on the team. Chrissy used to love him best when he was vulnerable: it made it easier to make excuses for him when he was vulgar or fractious, snapping at her to be quiet, or snickering at jokes about “beef curtains."

She took comfort in the knowledge that her boyfriend would never reveal their backseat fumbling, or describe her labia loud enough for everyone at Benny’s to hear; if anyone dared to impugn her virtue, he’d punish them. She told herself, Jason’s nicer than the other boys.

Like me, Chrissy thinks now–the sweetest of a sour bunch.

“This is man stuff, babe,” Jason scoffs. “You wouldn’t get it. It’s like a rite of passage, drinking with the boys. But nobody dies on my watch. Sinclair is fine. They’re all fine. Blowing chunks is the worst of it. I told him, ‘The first hangover feels like being split in two, but you’ll live.’ And then I said-” 

Chrissy takes a sip of ice water, looking past him at the other restaurant patrons. After all, she’s heard this speech before: he’s given it to a dozen naive freshmen. Jason has a pep talk for every occasion; he collects quotes from Scripture and Bartlett’s to weave through his comeback stories, and recounts the triumphs of his childhood heroes, Dave Cowens and John Havliceck. It was one of the reasons she liked him so much in the first place. Because Chrissy believes in cheerleading—it’s not just a sport, it’s a way of life. It’s what we’re here for, she thinks. To lift each other up.

When she became captain, her boyfriend was happy to act as her guide–and Chrissy needed the help. “You’re the most talented athlete,” Coach Taylor said. “And all the girls like you. But the captain is a tiger. No more sweet little kitten, Cunningham. You owe it to your squad to show them power. You’ve got to shout.” So Jason taught her how to project her voice, and how to transform poise into determination. Chrissy was fearless in the air, and she made herself fearless on the court, even if her surety wavered outside the gymnasium. 

Jason agreed that she’d never be a disciplinarian, the way he was, because there was no place for a blunt “no” in girlworld, let alone the violence the basketball captains committed—stripping their friends naked and forcing them to run laps. (He had no idea that cheerleaders could be equally brutal: the Marsden High captain made her new girls sit naked on a washing machine and circled jiggling parts in permanent marker. Chrissy would rather be tortured herself than degrade her friends.) Instead, she ruled with shame; her sighs of disappointment stung like slaps, so their squad never goofed off at practice. Chrissy told them earnestly, “I want you to succeed for your own sake. To make yourself proud. I’ll be your friend, no matter what.”

The squad no longer reacts to her big, sad eyes; they found new ways to lift each other up, without her. Maybe the harsh way works better.

Chrissy doesn’t feel like a tiger. And she’s no champion.

“This is our legacy, babe,” her boyfriend says. “The class of ‘87, ‘88, ‘90…they’ll win because we taught them how. They’ll wave that trophy and they’ll say, ‘This goes out to ‘86.’ They’ll be leaders, and pass on what they learned from us.” He raises his glass, but Chrissy grabs his wrist before he can say cheers, whispering, “It’s bad luck to toast with water! Even the army thinks so.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replies, forbidding. “There’s no such thing as luck. 2 Peter 1:16.” 

Then he reaches across the table for her hand, squeezing as though he can transmit his urgency through touch, and she thinks, If our parents were here, we’d get in trouble for having our elbows on the table. But they’re alone, except for tuxedoed waitstaff and a few other couples, all at least twenty years their senior: no one here is paying attention to their manners. It’s rare that Jason and Chrissy have dates at Enzo’s, the finest restaurant in Hawkins–they save it for birthdays and anniversaries. Jason declared their championship win was a special occasion, worth putting on his sharpest blazer.

Chrissy feels painfully young.

Behind him, Judge Hayes and his wife are sharing a plate of bruschetta. They’re holding hands, too: Mrs. Hayes’ fingers are gnarled with arthritis, so her husband’s massaging the soreness out of her joints. He gazes into her eyes, tender, like he doesn’t mind that they are too close together. When Mrs. Hayes notices Chrissy watching, she grins, exposing her yellow teeth, and Chrissy smiles back.

She remembers when she daydreamed about a future like theirs. Jason would kiss her in the morning, despite her tangled hair and the swelling around her eyes, and he’d cuddle her at night, even though she cricketed her legs, and snored in the springtime.

“What are you staring at?” he asks.

“The Hayes are over there.”

Jason turns around to greet them with his own politician’s smile. “I always liked Mrs. Hayes.” He winks at Chrissy. “She has good taste.”

He’s referring to the pageant: the Hayes were on the panel that chose Miss Hawkins Fair. Jason had been so proud of her, that day, presenting her with a bouquet of blue carnations before she even stepped off the stage. “They remind me of your eyes,” he told her, though her grandmother always said Cunningham blue was love-in-the-mist. Still, she was touched, leaning close to breathe in their perfume. Of course, Jason wouldn’t let her hide behind the fluffy blossoms; gently, he tugged them away. Then he tucked a curl behind her ear, pulling her hair into a ponytail, and sighed, “Let them all see your face. It’d be cruel, not to let us look at you.”

“You look beautiful tonight,” he says, gesturing to her eyelet lace dress, which her mother had picked out, after she overheard Jason tell her he preferred her in soft shades of blue.

“Thanks.” 

The words no longer make her blush; Chrissy wishes they were as comforting as they used to be. Last year, the mere fact that he wanted to show her off was a validation. At slumber parties, during the squad’s customary recitation of their flaws, while Chrissy cried over her smile, her thighs, and the roll she felt under her navel, they told her, “You’re dating Jason Carver. He wouldn’t settle for a fat or ugly girl.” 

Then they consoled Tiffany, “Chance says you’re gorgeous. He doesn’t care about your snaggletooth.” But Chrissy heard him after the championship game, laughing, “Tiff’s an eight-point-five, but she’s got a mouth like a Hoover. Better than any ten I’ve ever fucked.”

Chrissy didn't ask, Do I get an extra point for being cheer captain? For being a Cunningham? For belonging to the Carvers’ church? Did he add a point when his mother said I’d be the perfect daughter? She wasn't ready to hear the answer.

The waiter is grating parmesan over their pasta, and Jason motions him away before Chrissy’s gotten her fill.

“It’s going to be really bland,” she warns him, because they forewent garlic, since he planned on kissing her later. 

“It’ll be fine. This is a quality place. They use the best ingredients.”

Chrissy sighs, recalling the first time they ate here together: when the waiter arrived with the shredder, they’d been giggling too hard to say when.

“Yeah, the cook’s really talented. Hey…remember when we came here on our anniversary? I really liked the pasta arrabbiata.”

Chrissy had pleaded with Jason to let her order, having just learned to roll her r's, and he was flattered on her behalf when the waiter told her, “You sound like a Roman Holiday.” He asked her to teach him, laughing as he tried to flutter his tongue behind his immaculate teeth, playing up his errors to make her giggle. His pride remained intact—he had no reason to attempt to excel at a foreign language, since the Carvers believe true Americans only speak English. But Chrissy had been charmed, thinking he was making a fool of himself to entertain her.

He looks at her blankly, then shrugs.

Once they finish their meal, Jason tucks a twenty under his glass, and Chrissy drops her napkin next to her full plate, reminding him, “We have to leave a tip.” He pretends he can’t hear her over Dean Martin's crooning, “Volare, oh-oh,” so she unzips her quilted purse, holding his gaze until he adds three bills to the stack.

To her dismay, they meet the Henrys on the way to the exit; they're waiting by the maitre d’ stand, and the Sunday School teacher is stuffing her purse with mints. “I’m glad you’re together,” she tells them, her expression dour; she resembles the daughter in the painting "American Gothic." “It’s dangerous out there. That poor boy, God bless him.”

With his hand on Chrissy’s lower back, Jason assures them, “I won’t let anything happen to my girl.” Leading her to his Jeep, he says, “Chance told me Fred got killed. They found his body in the hall by the drama room, where Hellfire hangs out. Maybe the killer got amped up by all that devil stuff.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“Come on, Chris. None of us really know what they’re doing in there.”

“They’re playing a silly game. I walked by during their meeting last week, on my way to the water fountain, and they sounded like you and the Tigers, at Benny's after a win.” Her smile is teasing. “Didn’t Pastor Jeffrey say demons howl and growl like wolves? Shriek like hyenas? Bang kettle drums with rib bones, and play fiddles with bows made out of tendons and hair? I definitely didn’t see or hear anything like that. Besides, Janitor Bill wouldn’t let anybody ransack the drama room to summon the angel of death.” 

“You shouldn’t joke about that. Well…we’ve still got fifteen minutes till curfew—we could, you know…”

“I’m sorry," she says. But Chrissy‘s thinking, nervous and thrilled. I’m done. I'm done. I'm done. I'm done. “I haven’t been sleeping well, what with Fred and…everything. I just want to get to bed.”

Jason groans. “Ok, fine. You’ll feel better tomorrow, after the pastor leads a prayer for him. We’ve got the rest of spring break to spend time together.”

He guides her into the car, then climbs in, turning on the radio, which is playing “Hit Me With Your Best Shot,” one of the squad’s favorite locker-room sing-a-long songs. He reaches to change the station, but Chrissy lowers the volume dial first, so he’ll hear her clearly when she lies, “Actually, I promised Nancy I’d keep her company over break. She’s still in shock. She needs old friends around her.”

“Two girls alone? That’s not safe.”

“Her family will be there. And Steve will probably stop by.”

He glances at her, askance. “Doesn’t she have a boyfriend? That creep Byers? And I thought Harrington was dating that band geek.”

“Nancy and Steve are just friends. It’s safety in numbers.”

She feels a tinge of guilt for using Nancy to deceive him and focuses on the looming evergreen instead of his face. It’s just to keep things calm until I end it. She has to wait until after church. It'll be excruciating enough, listening to him talk to the congregation about youth and death. She couldn't bear to be mentioned in his speech.

As Jason parks in front of her house, Chrissy smiles, close-mouthed. Because her mother is spying from the front window, she submits to a chaste kiss. 

Tomorrow, Chrissy decides. She starts to plan her escape.

Chapter Text

Tapping her nose with her pencil, Chrissy ponders, “Dear Jason.” She adds rays to the comma, and it’s a starburst. Then she shuts her eyes, the pencil clattering on her vanity, and admits, “I’m clueless."

Until now, she could reject boys with simple phrases: “Sorry, I’m not allowed to date,” and then, “Sorry, I’m taken." When the squad was around, she didn’t even have to speak; they scared off unworthy suitors with arched eyebrows and sniggers.

Chrissy’s always been a few steps behind them, chasing romance. In middle school, while the other girls were learning what boys like, she was focused on pleasing her mother, learning how to starve. Sure, she crossed her fingers during the delivery of Valentines, because Molly was praying for a love confession, but Chrissy was content to receive cards from her friends. At the Snow Ball, Debi hung on to Jason until the chaperone barked, “Leave room for the Holy Spirit”; Chrissy was comfortable a Bible’s-length apart from Chance. And she only wrote “Jason Carver” under the M in MASH because he was first on everyone else’s list.

No real boy will ever love me, Chrissy believed, circling the name “Matt Dillon.” She didn’t even bother to fantasize, because it hurt too much; she could imagine herself as a hummingbird, as seafoam, as a sorceress, but she couldn’t picture herself as a treasured bride. Romantic hunger was suppressed, like her other hungers. And then, without trying, Chrissy caught a boyfriend.

“It’ll take more work to keep him,” her friends told her, and she spent hours on the telephone, twisting the red cord around her finger, listening to their advice. They taught her how to twirl her hair like a flirt, instead of a neurotic, and they quizzed her on the anatomy of a kiss. They ordered her to wear the dangling heart earrings, the morning Jason asked her out–they knew what was coming before she did. If not for them, Chrissy doubts she would’ve dated anyone until her parents started matchmaking, and she had to prove she was a normal, aspiring housewife.

When she had them, she never needed a clue. Chrissy looks forlornly at her telephone. Turquoise screws, magenta springs, lime green plates in a shell of Lucite—when there’s no one left to call, its vibrant inner workings feel like a mockery.

But even if they were still on good terms, the squad would never help Chrissy dump the basketball captain. They’d try to talk her out of it, like the clique in Valley Girl. And if she ignored them, Tiffany would tattle to Chance, who’d warn Jason, who’d complain to his dad, who’d inform Chrissy’s mom, who’d shriek, “Don’t you dare ruin everything, you prideful, ungrateful girl!”

Through her bedroom door, Chrissy hears the shuffle of her mother’s woolen slippers, and a creak. She flexes her toes; in bare feet, she'd move faster. Then she puts on her headphones, pressing play on the mixtape she brings on the leisurely runs.

If only she had parents like Julie Richman's—ex-hippies who’d say things like, "follow your heart” and “no pressure.” They would definitely help her draft her letter. In a fit of childish longing, she pulls Emily Post’s Etiquette off the bookshelf, knocking over a stack of magazines.

The January issue of Seventeen falls open to the “Revealing” column—Chrissy dog-eared the page months ago, telling herself she was marking the ad for checkerboard Swatches, not the paragraph on breaking up with a high school boyfriend. She’d studied the article next to it, “How to Handle A Picky BF,” and even quoted it to Ms. Kelley, trying for nonchalance; the counselor told her to spend less time analyzing why Jason was judgmental, and more time figuring out why she valued his opinions over her own.

Chrissy wavers, wondering whether she ought to check in with Ms. Kelley, to make sure she’s on the right track. But she doesn’t want to wait until after Spring Break to start fresh. Besides, the teenage agony aunt’s advice makes sense to Chrissy: “meet one-on-one, don’t gossip, and don’t play the blame game.” She thinks Ms. Kelley would agree.

Debbie Harry sings, “Je pourrais être Sunday girl,” and Chrissy is happily off-key. 

...

Practicing her speech in her head, Chrissy barely hears a line of the preacher’s sermon—not that she cares, since he only spared a sentence for poor Fred. Instead, he’s attempting to rally the congregation for spiritual warfare, warning them that their true enemy is even more formidable than the killer who’s come to Hawkins.

“That man is merely the battleground,” he says, “like we’re all battlegrounds, where God and Satan fight for our souls. He’s weak: he commits these evil deeds because he’s submitting to defeat. And yes, the devil is cunning. Yes, he is. But his schemes are no match for a Christian soldier who’s donned the armor of the Lord! As Peter tells us, ‘Be sober, be vigilant-” 

Even if Chrissy still believed in the gospel, she’d be tempted to giggle and roll her eyes. From a man with a squeaky voice and a thick Fargo accent, Billy Graham evangelism sounds like parody. She's picturing an SNL skit by Dana Carvey when Jason reaches for her hand, assuming she needs to be reassured. He’s listening intently, leaning forward in his seat, oblivious to the fact that this is the last time he’ll ever touch her. 

Chrissy feels a pang of tenderness for him, sharp enough to cut away the resentment. After today, they might never speak again. He’ll say it’s wrong to stay friends, disrespectful to his new girlfriend—and he’ll surely have one by Prom.

Yet Jason and Chrissy will never be strangers. They know too much about each other, by now. She strokes the forked scar on his wrist. When she's old, driving her flying car over Hoosier Hill, she's sure she'll still be able to point to the trail where he broke it. She crosses her ankles, rubbing her own scars; they gross Jason out. 

Nancy’s little brother, Mike, split Chrissy’s leg open, swerving in a panic while he was learning how to ride a bike. Thanks to the stitches, it’s a row of dots and dashes. Chrissy used to entertain herself by adding extras, writing Morse Code messages in washable marker. After the final blessing, as people are filing out, she dits and dahs her toe against the pew. “What has God wrought,” the inaugural telegram, and “SOS,” and “I love you.”

Jason leads her down the aisle, saying goodbye to their neighbors so Chrissy doesn’t have to. He’s smiling at her parents, ruffling Jimmy’s hair. In her head, it’s Parent-Teacher Night, the year 2000, and she’s perusing the book report posters with her black-haired daughter. Pausing in front of Where the Red Fern Grows, Chrissy will tell her, “My first boyfriend got so mad Old Dan died, he threw the whole book in the trash! I wonder if he ever read to the ending...” 

And Jason will be in another state, watching his blonde son build a popsicle-stick pigpen, and he’ll remember Chrissy, who read Charlotte’s Web over and over again; she returns to the saddest chapter the week before her period, when weeping feels like relief. Will he tell his kids what he told me: “It’s stupid to be miserable on purpose”? Or will he understand, by then?

On the church steps, Jason gently slaps her cheek. “Chris!” he laughs. “Are you awake?”

She opens her eyes, solemn. “Can I take you home?” 

His yard is the perfect place to finish it. If he gets teary, he’ll be able to run to his bedroom without anyone witnessing his loss of control. If he feels insecure, he can draw strength from the ground—the acres of fescue he tends to himself, because his father says, “Only a Carver can take proper care of Carver land.” And Chrissy will have her Escort, parked outside the fence.

Since they usually leave with their families, he looks askance at her. Then his quizzical smile fades, and she wonders, Can he sense it? The moment is weighted with wistful melancholy, the kind that makes lovers touch foreheads as they sigh their farewells, swaying together to “The Way We Were,” and murmuring, “Be happy, darling. This is for the best.” 

Of course, that’s when Jason’s mouth curves into a leer. Oh no, she thinks, as she starts the car. He thinks they're going to 'detour.'

“What did you do last night, after you dropped me off?” she asks, desperate to distract him. 

He fiddles with the radio, settling on “Boys of Summer,” and her eyes widen. Oh, no.

“Me and Patrick watched American Ninja ,” he answers. “Won fifty bucks off him at poker. I didn’t keep the cash, though–I bought the pizza and beer. I’m not taking the guy’s money, right after his girl dumps him. Man, he’s moping around like he’s dying. He wasn’t even trying to win—and usually he’s such a tightwad, you know how cheap his dad is. I told him, ‘She’ll come crawling back. It’s not like Molly Andrews is going to find somebody better than the star center of the Hawkins Tigers.”

Oh, no. Chrissy feels like she’s in a farce. Well, it’s too late to hesitate, she tells herself, stepping onto the green expanse.

“Jason, we need to talk.” She tilts up her chin, but it’s difficult to maintain an imperious pose when he’s staring at her, uncomprehending. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but we’re not right for each other, and I think we should break up.”

What’s next? Insults? The rending of garments? 

Don't be scared. She forces herself to relax. It's just Jason. 

A year ago, Chrissy never would have thought of him as “just” anything: he was everybody’s dream, and she’d almost convinced herself that he was hers. A month ago, he was her nightmare: when her head was splitting, his embrace felt like a bed of nails. And Chrissy believed she was too weak to drag herself out of it.

Since getting high with Eddie, though, the terror’s been receding. After proper sleep, it’s easier to recognize the truth: Jason’s just a boy–something between the hero and the monster. He can’t crush me, she thinks, unless I stay still and let him do it.

Jason sighs, and Chrissy’s brow furrows in confusion: he sounds more annoyed than enraged or heart-broken.  “C'mon, babe. You know we're meant for each other. Ask anyone.” He stretches his arms as if to summon all of Hawkins. “Mrs. Henry said so, like, half-an-hour ago.”

Chrissy squints at him. “Yeah…because she thinks it would make a cute story if her ring-bearer married her flower-girl. It’s not like we were playing bride and groom at her wedding—we never played together at all. Jason…it doesn’t matter what happened ten years ago, or two years ago. It doesn’t matter what anybody else says. They don’t know what’s really going on.”

“And what’s really going on?” he asks, an edge in his voice.

Softly, she says, “We’re not happy. Even if we look happy to them, we’re not.” 

“I'm happy!” He rubs his temples. “Where is this coming from? This is crazy. You’re talking crazy. This isn’t right.” 

She fists her mint green skirt, wrinkling the picket-white stripes in frustration. "Wow, what an epiphany," she says, under her breath. What Jason took three months to figure out, Eddie discerned within six hours.

“You should talk to the pastor,” Jason continues.

She huffs. “He’s not going to change my mind. I’ve heard his homily already. ‘Women need to be cherished,’ ‘men need to be respected,’ ‘hold fast.’” She curls one ring finger around the other. “I tried to do what he said. It didn’t work.”

"I do cherish you.” 

I don’t respect you, she thinks.

"I cherish you, and I’ll protect you,” he vows. “Don’t you know that by now?” 

When he steps closer, Chrissy moves backward, careful not to crush the crocuses that are struggling to bloom. Her spine touches cold metal.

“You can’t protect me, Jason. No one can. Good people die. Things don’t make sense. But even if you could, even if I was perfectly safe…I want to feel safe, too—safe to be the real me. I don’t feel that way with you.” And I’m not wasting anymore time, wanting. 

”So you’re going to blow up your whole life?” He runs his hands through his hair in a rising temper. It immediately falls back in place, thanks to the Dippity-Do, so he starts tugging. “Because you’re sad, or scared, or, or….whatever you are? Is this about that murder? Bensen, he’s in God’s hands now. Like Heather, and the others. It’s ok.”

Finally, Chrissy abandons the rules. She projects her voice, like Jason taught her, though the words she speaks are hers. “I could die today—any of us could. And that’s sad, and it’s scary. But if I die today, I’ve got to know I tried. To be true to myself. To be happy, for all the kids who never got their happy endings.”

He sneers, and Chrissy shrinks against the door, squeezing her eyes shut. But when she opens them again, bracing herself for another strike, she notices that Jason’s eyes are filling with tears. She opens her mouth to apologize, noticing that the vein in his temple is throbbing.

“How could you do this to me?” he asks, loud enough to make her ears ring. His voice cracks like a falling beam. 

It shatters her sympathy and her nostalgia. I want to feel safe, Chrissy thinks. Then: I don’t have to stay for this.

She takes a deep breath. She exhales, slowly. Her key slides smoothly into the lock. “Jason, it’s done,” she murmurs.

Of course, he doesn’t hear her, between his shouting and the rumble of tires over the gravel; Mr. Carver is passing them in his pickup. Chrissy waves hello, congratulating herself on her timing, knowing Jason would never throw a tantrum in front of his dad. She hops into the driver’s seat.

...

Chrissy’s knocked off her feet before she reaches the trailer. She giggles, hitting the ground, kicking up dust, and the pitbull who is scrambling into her lap sneezes. There are paw prints on her coat, and the asphalt scuffs her shoes, but Chrissy is shrieking with delight.

“Clover, get back here!” Max calls. 

“It’s alright! He’s a sweetheart.” She scratches behind his ears, cooing, “Aren’t you, pup-pup? Yes, you are!”

“I’m trying to train him. Mr. Cooper’s useless at it.” Max shakes her head fondly, watching him roll into his back so Chrissy can rub the white patch on his belly. His tail is thumping a quick tempo against her scarred ankle. 

There’s a whistle, and both the girl and the dog jump to attention. They see Eddie, standing in the doorway with an acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder. “This Machine Slays Dragons,” it says, in white paint, another boast and warning. The pitbull doesn’t chase the sound, content to remain with Chrissy, who is stroking his back gently. So she stays kneeling.

“What’s new, Chrissy Cunningham?” Eddie asks, smiling. A blackbird flies over his head, then lands on a clothesline, skipping between pins. 

She is laughing when she tells him, beaming with pride: “I just blew up my whole life.”

Chapter Text

Eddie invites her onto the trailer’s porch. As always, Chrissy takes his hand, although they both know she could make the leap on her own. She grabs the olive blanket off the armchair, and once she’s settled beside Eddie on the couch, she lifts the hem in offering; he is wearing his ripped jeans again, and she worries that he’s cold. But he must be accustomed to it-like Chrissy used to be, before the chill harbingered visions, happily swishing her cheer skirt in the snow. He shakes his head and rests the guitar in his lap instead. 

“Are you going to play?” she asks hopefully, hands clasped under her chin. 

Max groans. “More Metallica? Spare me.” 

Frowning, Chrissy observes the sallowness of the freshman’s complexion, and the dark circles under her eyes, which rival her own. Her black sweatshirt dwarfs her, reaching her thighs, and Chrissy realizes with a pang that it must have belonged to Billy. But when she turns toward Eddie, she has to smile, because Max has screwed up her face in annoyance, adopting the jeering tone Chrissy usually associates with her little brother.

“Can’t you play real music?” she gripes. “It's been that stupid puppet song, over and over and over and-““

“That. Is . Music!” Eddie shouts. His scowl is downright feral, and he’s looming from the porch—Chrissy’s seen grown men flinch at that look. She might have, too, a week ago. Now, though, she giggles. 

Unruffled, Max slides on her headphones. "Kate Bush is music. David Bowie is music.” She pauses, pursing her lips. “I’ll accept Girlschool. Metallica’s…fine, I guess. Once in a while. Not sixteen times in a row.”

Chrissy perks up. “Oh, I’ve heard a few David Bowie songs! They’re fun to dance to!” 

“See? Even Chrissy Cunningham gets it.” Hooking the frayed leash to Clover’s collar, she leads the dog toward the tree line, to practice "come" and "stay."

Chrissy watches her go, her words echoing unpleasantly in her head. Even me?

Eddie nudges her shoulder, reassuring. “Kid doesn’t know you. You know more about real music than she does, anyway.”

She squints at him, biting back a smile—he is, without a doubt, the only resident of Hawkins who would be impressed by her growing knowledge of heavy metal trivia, but he talks as though she could quiet naysayers with the sordid tale of Ozzy’s expulsion from Black Sabbath. Then her eyes go wide, and marveling. Eddie is plucking the opening chords of “Golden Years.” They sound sweeter and more hopeful, without electricity, and a finch twittering along. 

Eddie shrugs. “Bowie’s alright. Have to respect him–he’s practically an alien.” Then he grins. “And I’ve heard this song a million times. Red’s got a lot of nerve complaining about me. She opens her window to inflict New Wave on the whole damn trailer park.”

A hatchet-faced woman walks out of the double-wide across from them, tightening the belt of her floral housecoat. In Loch Nora, her stern stare would be a warning: Pipe down, or I’ll call the Sheriff on you for disturbing the peace.  

“The neighbors don’t mind the noise?”

“Nope. Well…most of them. As long as I stick to the acoustic when Marvin Thacher’s hungover, or Mrs. Fritz is watching her stories. But I get it: stakes are high.” He affects a gossipy voice, making her giggle. “Jill kissed her divorce lawyer, and Lauren’s been buried alive!” 

Chrissy gasps theatrically, covering her mouth. “Oh, no!” Then: “What’ll happen next, do you think? Amnesia or a coma? Obviously, her doctor's going to fall in love with her, regardless.”

The old woman flip-flops to the clothesline in loafers she must’ve borrowed from her husband. She waves to the teenagers, startling Chrissy by shamelessly unpinning a lacy slip. Once her arms are full of linens, Eddie teases her with a few rag-timey notes, and she cackles, shimmying her hips on her way back inside. 

“I hope it’s amnesia,” Eddie muses, turning toward Chrissy. “That Sleeping Beauty shit creeps me out. Plus, imagine how cool it would be to hear your favorite song again, like the first time.”

They draw up an itinerary, in the event they’re afflicted with soap-opera-amnesia. Eddie suggests biting into a lemon first. “That’s what I tell people to do when they green out—get sick from smoking too much.” Chrissy wonders if chewing mint leaves would clear their heads; that's what she's been doing to remind herself that cold can be refreshing, and shivering doesn’t mean she’s rotting out. They both agree that the hill overlooking Lover’s Lake is the best vista to re-introduce themselves to Hawkins; Eddie informs her that his supplier—the unsubtly-named “Reefer Rick”—has a house on the shore, where he lived until his recent arrest.

Then Eddie devises pranks to pull on his friends and his teachers. (“Do you think O’Donnell would bump up my grade, if I told her I’d forgotten the theme of The Sun Also Rises because I got buried alive? Probably not, right?”) Chrissy ponders whether she’d remember how to do a handspring–if, by now, it is as natural to her as breathing. (“I don’t even have to try to do a turnout. After years of ballet, it’s like my feet move outward on their own.”) And she worries what would happen to her, if she forgot the lessons that she’s learned this year. If she was forced to rely on other people’s recollections to understand her past. 

“What happens if they told us lies about ourselves? Would we act out the lie, trying to get back to normal? After a while, would we become what they think we are?” Then Chrissy pauses. “Could I be getting high, smelling the smoke?”

Eddie laughs, sniffing his shirt. “Oh, shit, sorry. Uh, I don’t think it’s strong enough for that. I think our true selves would win out. It takes years for churches and schools and institutional learning facilities to snuff out the human spirit. Without remembering all their programming, our instincts would be more powerful. But wait, I want to hear about your blow-up.” His eyes go round with excitement. “I was weaned on silver salutes! Flash-bangs are music to me, Cherry Bomb.” 

Chrissy shoves her fingers through the holes in the blanket, like the knit is a knuckleduster. “Well…I was really rude to the squad yesterday. I don’t think we’re friends anymore. And I don’t want to be! I think...I decided I need friends who are…” Her mouth puckers as she searches for the word.

Eddie grins. “Freaks?”

“Yes!" she giggles. "And then, just now…” She pauses, the silent tension building like a drumroll. “I dumped Jason!”

He barks a laugh, whooping like a werewolf. “Congratulations, congratulations! Man, I wish I could’ve seen his face.” 

“He got really red.”

“I am very familiar with that particular shade.” Eddie’s still laughing, and he strums a couple jaunty chords. “Seriously, happy for you. I mean, you’re miles-leagues-fathoms- lightyears above Jason Carver.”

It shouldn’t flatter her: Eddie would prefer a slug to the basketball captain. Still, Chrissy blushes and smiles, reassured. He's probably got as many sour memories of Jason as she's got sweet ones. That’s one of the reasons she came here: in Forest Hills, there is no room for second-guessing. The sight of Eddie is enough to reaffirm that she made the right decision.

He silences the disapproving voices in her head: her mother and Jason, sighing, “You’re ungrateful for God’s blessings,” so Chrissy would give thanks for the healthy body she had to trim, the well-kept house where she’s been locked in, and the boyfriend and parents who are exacting because they love her: (“If I didn’t believe in you, I wouldn’t waste my time trying to make you better.”) 

“I came right here from the Carvers’,” she tells Eddie. “I knew you’d appreciate it more than anybody-” He jerks back, as if she’s accusing him of something. Confused, she clarifies, “-because you already know how awful he can be.” 

She doesn’t ask, “Is it ok I’m here?” She doesn’t have to. Eddie's welcome is sincere. For a girl like Chrissy, his expressive face is a gift: she can relax around him. No need to measure chin tilts and eyebrow arches, searching for the threats behind them. No spike of panic when she returns from the land of daydreams, unable to brace herself for punishment because she missed the warnings, the tight smiles and the strained voices. Eddie doesn’t mind her inattention; he’s just eager for her to recount what she saw.

Chrissy didn't know it was possible to be so comfortable with a boy. Around Jason’s friends, the squad’s boyfriends, she had to concentrate on maintaining polite distance, being “friendly, but not too friendly," because rapport inspired jealousy. And she understood that Jason’s approval was conditional before their first date. The tips and tricks Chrissy learned from the squad (and TV shows, books, and magazines) kept her humble; the endless refrain of “Turn Him On” and “Please Your Man” reminded her how easy it would be to displease him, and turn him off. 

There’s no need to worry about propriety, when she’s with Eddie, and they’re both unattached. Wait. Is he? Chrissy nibbles the corner of her lip, pensive. He's not dating anyone at school, but that doesn't mean he's single. Maybe his girlfriend graduated already. Maybe he's in love with some tall, willowy rebel girl from The Hideout, who wears spandex pants, studded belts, and a band t-shirt that used to be his, cut up so that it barely covers her push-up bra. 

“Eddie…do you have a girlfriend?”

“Uh, no, no. Nope. No girlfriend. Totally single.” 

“Good,” Chrissy says, slightly breathless. She doesn’t understand why she’s blushing, excitement glimmering among the relief.

He drums the arm of the couch. “Um. Any particular reason you’re asking?”

“I…I wouldn’t want to make her upset that I’m taking up so much of your time. Or keeping you from, um. Big plans.”

“Oh, well. No big plans today. Just noodling.” At her inquisitive glance, he explains, “Noodling’s like…messing around. Making things up as I go along.” He pats the body of his guitar. “Making sure Pretty Polly doesn’t feel neglected. Wayne named this one-he loves those old Appalachian murder ballads.”

While Eddie plays the bluegrass chorus–impressively fast, considering how stoned he is–Chrissy pictures him as a little boy, cross-legged on the carpet, listening raptly to folk tales about vengeful ghosts of beautiful maidens. Then he shifts to a lower key, and she turns toward him, curious, when the rhythm transforms into something dark and strange, experimental.

Bent over the fretboard, Eddie’s hair hides his face, and a few curls are caught in his collar. Without thinking, Chrissy gently untangles them, and he exhales, shaky, when she fingers the edge of the denim. Since she caressed his tattoos, it’s easy to convince herself, This is nothing. This is tame, in comparison. She pretends it's only the chords, thrumming the air between their skin, and her soul rises, serpentine, for his music, not for him.

Eddie moves on to something slower, then speeds up again, each section flowing into the next without pause, until Chrissy’s lost track of time. The ambient sounds, layered over the strings, are peaceful. The swing of a door, the slide of a curtain rod. The pitbull’s paws, padding on the concrete. The rising pitch of Max’s voice as she praises him, and his owner’s gravelly thank you, shouted through the window. Eddie’s sneaker, tapping against wood. His contented breathing.

Just as Chrissy is closing her eyes, huddling further under the blanket, and her ankle brushes Eddie’s calf, she hears the rumble of an approaching car. She can’t identify it through the trees. But she straightens when it hits a pothole, filled with foreboding.

“Shit,” Eddie sighs. “Cops. Better talk to them now, so they don’t hassle Wayne later.” He’s more annoyed than alarmed, as if they’re pests, raiding the garden.

But Chrissy is frightened: after all, they're men with guns and grudges. She is suddenly, excruciatingly aware of every sin she's committed since Thursday night.

“My mom cannot find out I’m here!” she yelps, jumping to her feet. She spins uselessly in a circle, looking for a place to hide.

“Wait in my room-there's no way they've got a warrant.”

The offer comes too late: Chrissy’s already running around the side of the trailer, toward the shadows.

Max follows her, curious. "Are you a fugitive or something?” she laughs.

“Sssh! I'll be grounded forever if the Sheriff tells my parents where I've been!"

She shrugs, but goes quiet, petting the dog, who is sitting motionless, like a Westminster champion. He doesn't even react to the slam of the squad car door. Chrissy arches her eyebrows in surprise, and Max smirks, whispering, “Mr. Cooper never taught Clover to heel. But he made sure he shut up around cops.”

There is something green, gleaming in the dirt beside Chrissy’s shoe. Bending to pick it up, she discovers it’s his enamel nametag, shaped, of course, like a four-leaf clover. She hands it to Max as the Sheriff says, “Eddie Munson, we’re here to ask you a few questions.”

Chapter Text

Chrissy’s fears come in flashes, faster and faster, until they’re as relentlessly bright as a Mag-lite. Her mother reported her missing, because she’d rather believe Chrissy had been kidnapped than fled the Carvers’ on her own. A photographer captured her and Eddie, smoking joints, their shoulders touching, in the corner of a sunset-quarry landscape, and mailed the film to the precinct. Tiffany snitched to Officer Callahan that Eddie dealt drugs at the party; Eddie’s neighbor called the tip line, complaining his music disturbed the peace. Ms. Kelley let slip that Chrissy has hallucinations, and the Sheriff is here to escort her to Pennhurst Asylum. Handcuffs to straightjacket to haloperidol injection.

It makes no difference whether her worries are realistic: Chrissy’s heart rate doubles, just the same. After all, for three months, she’s been terrified of scenes that belong in a Grimm fairy tale. She braces herself against the trailer, casually, like she leans against her locker during grapefruit-diet-dizzy-spells; the freshman has witnessed too much already. Chrissy keeps her eyes fixed on her tan leather heels. 

I’m safe, she tells herself, taking monastic breaths. They can’t see her. None of those things really happened. And if Eddie thought they were going to arrest him, he’d be hiding, too.

Instead, he’s laughing. “How’s it going, Cal? Do you have a request? I could manage the ‘Theme from Baretta.’”

Max snorts, and her dry amusement calms Chrissy down. When the car was rolling to a stop—and marijuana smoke singed her nose—the indistinct silhouette of the policeman in the windshield was intimidating; Chrissy was trapped in a vision of a car chase, engine fire, an escaped prisoner crashing into a highway divider. But this is no Dirty Harry. This is quiet, unassuming Calvin Powell.

The last time Chrissy saw Hawkins’ Sheriff, he was pushing a cart of Girl Scout cookies for his niece to sell; on the Cunninghams’ front step, while Chrissy mapped out the lucrative route through Loch Nora, he tore open a box for himself, slurring, “Thanks,” around a mouthful of Do-Si-Dos. Although his cabana shirt and slacks were pressed as neatly as his uniform, it was easy to forget he was an officer of the law, and after the Powells departed, her father predicted, “He won’t be re-elected. If Jim Hopper hadn’t died, he’d never have been promoted to Sheriff in the first place.”

Until recently, Powell’s shown little ambition, content to take long lunches at Devlins’, playing gin with the proprietress after the rush. He left the politicking to Sheriff Hopper, who could’ve used help, in Chrissy’s opinion: he was evasive with the press, and brusque with the victims—like Mrs. Byers, whose twelve-year-old son got lost in the forest for a week in 1983. Then again, Powell could be insensitive, too. 

He and the Tigers brought up the rear of the search party, trudging through Hawkins Woods, calling Will Byers’ name. To stop herself from imagining the boy shivering under a tree somewhere, his belly torn open by a wolf or a bear, Chrissy concentrated on her friends, fueling their chatter with snippets of reassurance. While she was advising Mindy to ignore her dad’s flirting—“Why would he want Mrs. Wheeler when he’s married to Miss Black America, 1970? Your mom is skinnier and prettier.”—Powell was complaining about Mrs. Byers. “Joyce is a loon,” he grumbled to Callahan, “and she’s making Hop looney: enough with conspiracy theories, enough with condolences. She’s sick, I’m sick of her, and we should send her home to wait by the phone.” 

But Chrissy doesn’t think he meant to be callous, any more than Hopper ever intended to be surly: they were merely acting manly, in the way their generation defined the word. After all, out with his sisters’ children, Powell is gentle—far kinder than her own parents are to Jimmy. And he chuckles, good-natured, at Mrs. Devlin’s teasing, “Lucky in cards, unlucky in love.”

The truth is, Chrissy needs to believe that the Sheriff is harmless. 

So, unable to see him from her hiding place, she deliberately conjures up a placid image of him: a middle-aged Black man with a neat black beard and mustache, taking off his aviator sunglasses to reveal that his gaze is benign.

And then she pictures Eddie, muscles coiled with gleeful defiance—Enjolas-wild, like he is when he’s taunting the Tigers. She knows he’s standing on the porch, because he’s always preferred strutting on the higher ground. 

“Eddie, this isn’t a joke,” the Sheriff says. “This is a murder investigation.”  

Shocked, Chrissy turns toward Max, whose brows are pulled together in confusion.

“You’re here about Fred Benson?!”

“You’re the leader of a club called Hellfire, is that right?”

“Uh, yeah? What, why?”

“And you play that Dungeons & Dragons game, don't you?"

"Yeah..."

"A game that’s been implicated in violence, and suicide.”

“Ooh, real violent,” Max whispers sarcastically. “Nerds in wizard hats, throwing popcorn at each other because their imaginary elves ran out of arrows.” She scoffs. “They’re as scary as little kids sending GI Joes to pillage the Barbie Dreamhouse.”

“C'mon, Cal. That's bullshit.” Eddie says, energized by the slur against the game. “Do you even know where that story started? A book about a college kid who tried to off himself, hallucinating the game characters were real. And then they made a TV movie about it, and the next thing you know, everybody's calling D&D a 'danger to the nation,' trying to ban it. It doesn't make sense. Should I go to Family Video and trash all the Jodie Foster movies because some crazy guy shot Reagan to impress her? No! It’s-”

“Eddie, enough! God almighty. Just tell me if Fred Benson was a member of your club.”

“No,” he replies irritably. “I talked to the kid maybe twice in my whole life.”

“Can you think of any reason he’d have been near the Drama Room on Thursday night? That's where your club meets, isn't it?”

“Jesus, is that where they found his body? He was probably on his way to the library.”

“That's right, he was a reporter for the school paper. Was he investigating your club? That must have made you angry.”

“What do I care? D&D’s not Skull & Bones.”

“We found a sculpture of a demon in the Drama Room. Does that belong to you?” the second officer asks. “Do you have a special interest in demons, Mr. Munson?”

Max huffs. “They’re toys. Ugh, Powell's clueless. He'll never figure out what killed Fred Benson. I know for a fact Nancy told the cops there were no other students at school that night. He should listen to her instead of wasting time with Eddie. And the cops should stay out of the park—they make bigger messes than the criminals. Like, ok, sure, Eddie drives like a maniac. But it was the squad car chasing him that flattened Mrs. Fritz's impatiens.” She pauses. Then she sighs, evoking Nancy Wheeler: "Adults have no idea what's going on. We have to take care of ourselves."

“And you don’t keep any drugs there, with all your little devil figurines?" the Sheriff continues. "Did Fred do drugs? Could he have been looking for them?”

Eddie's voice is winding tighter. “No. And how would I know what Fred’s smoking? Don’t you people do autopsies to find out that sort of thing?”

“But you’ve taken drugs, haven’t you?” the second cop asks, loud and pompous. “You’ve sold them.”

“I've never been convicted. ‘Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades,’ like my pops always said.”

Max shakes her head. “Is Eddie trying to be annoying? He should shut up and call a lawyer. They have free lawyers, right?”

A window slides open above the girls’ heads, and a man leans out, earning a quiet woof and a tail wag from Clover. He drops a tennis ball into the dog's mouth.

“Pigs after Eddie again?” he asks Max. Then he does a doubletake. “Well, hell-o, Blondie. Aren’t you a pretty little thing? You eighteen yet?”

Gross, Chrissy thinks. He’s got to be thirty years old, at least, with a ruddy nose and salt-and-pepper stubble on his scalp and chin. Still, she thanks him with a smile, knowing he won’t care that it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“It’s the Sheriff, and that new hire, Daniels,” Max replies. She's scowling, but, of course, he doesn’t register her disgust, either. 

“Cal’s bad enough, but that other one's worse,” he informs Chrissy. “Can’t trust a man who hates dogs.” Then he points at the freshman. “Ring my doorbell if they start sniffing around the park.”

“Alright, Mr. Cooper,” she says, and the window shuts. 

“Have you ever taken hallucinogenic drugs?” Officer Daniels is asking Eddie. "LSD? PCP?”

“Oh no,” Chrissy whispers, suddenly understanding their theory of the crime—likely inspired by today's edition of the Indianapolis Star. 

Her father read the article over bacon and eggs this morning. “Kids in Indianapolis are going berserk on this PCP stuff,” he told his wife. "They tear apart their houses and lift cars with their bare hands. A few tried to kill their parents. They call the poison ‘angel dust.’ It sticks in the blood. Even after they’ve stopped taking it, they can have flashbacks, and go psychotic.” (“That’s why you stay away from the big city,” Chrissy’s mom advised her, as if their small town is not the site of multiple murders.)

“They think the Hellfire boys smoked a drug that gave them super strength,” she tells Max. “That’s how they broke all of Fred’s bones. They think it made them hallucinate that he was the monster in their dragon game.”

“That's stupid. Mike, Dustin, and Lucas have never even smoked weed!”

A redheaded woman emerges from the trailer next to them, yawning loudly and rubbing her eyes. "Looks like that Munson boy's up to no good again," she murmurs. "Maxine, baby, come inside! I'm making Hamburger Helper." 

But Max doesn't move, stiff with anger, because the Sheriff is demanding the Hellfire Club roster.

“I’m not naming names,” Eddie swears. "Not even if you drag me to jail."

“You just wait, we might do that. We'll get that list eventually. Now, one last question: Where were you on Thursday night?”

“I can tell you where I wasn’t. I wasn’t at school. I didn’t kill anybody!” He sounds shrill. Desperate.

He’s being chivalrous, Chrissy thinks. She is starting to panic again, remembering that these are the same cops who arrested Eddie’s friend, Rick. These are the cops who arrested Eddie’s father. 

Innocent men get the electric chair, too. Accidents happen. She tries to convince herself that the police don't make mistakes. It was easier to believe before she met Officer Callahan.

Max nods to Chrissy, oddly formal, as though they are a couple of espionage agents instead of eavesdropping teens, and walks home. She pitches the ball at the fence, a yard away from where the police are standing, and Clover bolts after it. Officer Daniels squawks, and Max’s laughter is hard-edged.

It’s not fair, Chrissy thinks, the freshman's flinty outrage sparking her own. Not to Eddie. Not to the Hellfire boys. Not to Fred, whose killer will go free, as long as the police are hunting the wrong men. 

She's ashamed that she feared their friendship would become police record, paper for her mother to rip in her fury. Her punishment will be mild, compared to the state’s, should the Sheriff decide Eddie is guilty. And Eddie can't defend himself. Suddenly, she senses the fear in his awkward non sequiturs and bravado.

She folds her coat and tosses it over her arm, a fall of mint green wool. Although goosebumps are rising on her arms, Chrissy feels like she’s putting on a cloak, and when she pulls up the hood, she’ll transform into her past self.

Her false self. The girl Hawkins thinks she is. The girl she’s hiding to protect. The girl she wants to kill. 

Shoulders back, Chrissy thinks, adopting a finishing-school posture. She flips open her compact to check her makeup, flicking away an errant flake of mascara. She wipes the dust off her shoes with the handkerchief embroidered by her grandmother, which is striped with red and purple gladioli. She adjusts the white bow around her half-ponytail, smooths the lace bib on her dress, and centers the cross on her necklace, making sure it’s easy to see. 

Then Chrissy walks out into the glaring sun, grinning at Eddie, bold and honest, baring her crooked teeth. The policemen get the close-mouthed smile, the one she wears in the Cunningham family portrait.

She tells herself:

I’m the Queen of Hawkins High. I'm the Captain of the cheer team. I'm " Sweetheart” in the yearbook. The “Girl Scout." Miss Hawkins Fair. First in the Sunday School class. A candy heart, a white carnation, vanilla pudding, a peach. The cherry the boys want to pop, but know they never will: “Prissy Chrissy," pure as snow. I’m town pep, I'm school spirit, I’m Christian virtue. I’ve got feathered wings, I’m holding an Easter lily, I’m a dead ringer for the Carvers’ Christmas tree topper—or I would be, if my hair was gold. 

I'm "Perfect Alibi."

She waves to the cops, and the pitbull rushes to her side, like she wished the fawns and bluebirds would when she was hiking as a little girl. “Hello! Is everything alright?” 

Officer Daniels ignores her, clearly desperate to make up for his lapse in composure. He keeps his eyes on Eddie. “Account for your whereabouts Thursday night, Mr. Munson.”

“Oh, he was keeping me company,” she says. When the police officers turn to look at her, she modestly tilts down her chin. “I’m so sorry to interrupt. Oh, Sheriff Powell, did Mae earn her patch?”

He startles. “Oh. Yes. She raised more money than any of her little friends. My sister’s sending over some of her blueberry jam, a token of appreciation. It’s damn good stuff—excuse my language.”

“And who are you?” Daniels asks, just as Powell registers what she said, exclaiming, “What were you doing with Eddie Munson?”

“I’m Chrissy Cunningham,” she tells the stranger. He must be new to Hawkins, or her parents would have mentioned him. Although he looks to be a few years older than she is, his expression is as severe as an old curmudgeon's, and his handshake, predictably, is almost too strong.

“Eddie and I are friends,” she explains. To forestall questions about how they met, she lies, “He’s been tutoring me in Woodshop. Mr. Butler says I’ll pass, if I can just figure out how to dovetail. I really want to make him proud.”

“And Chrissy’s been helping me study for the History exam,” Eddie adds. “I’m going to graduate this year if it kills me. Uncle Wayne can throw my carcass in a wagon and drag it across the stage to ‘Pomp & Circumstance.’”

With a wag of her fist, Chrissy cheers, "Go Tigers, right?”

The Sheriff looks skeptical, but she's wide-eyed as an ingenue, and she's not breaking character. 

"Sheriff," she says softly, "I did want to talk to you about something serious." She’s going to make a last-ditch effort to keep her presence here a secret. And to defend Fred, like she wishes she had when he was alive. ”I worry about the investigation, you know, since Officer Callahan's telling Tiffany all about it. The truth is, sir...she's a little bit of a gossip.”

Daniels frowns, affronted. "This is a professional operation!"

"Who's Tiffany?" the Sheriff asks.

"My friend Tiffany Ruiz—she's a base on the Hawkins High cheer squad. I'm sure she didn't mean for the story to get around. I just hate to think how Mr. and Mrs. Bensen are going to feel, when they hear everyone talking about Fred's autopsy report...what happened to his fingers and his eyes. It's not very respectful to his memory, is it?"

Daniels raises his eyebrows, and Powell pinches the bridge of his nose.

She faces the younger man, who seems more likely to care about bad press and violated protocol. “Officer Callahan talks to Tiffany about a lot of things. She’s seventeen, and the way he acts around her…I really don’t think his wife would approve.”

Above them, Eddie is smirking. 

“I’ll have a word with him,” the Sheriff says unconvincingly.

”Don’t you fret, Miss Cunningham,” Officer Daniels assures her. “We'll maintain the highest ethical standards and uphold the values of our community and the agency we serve, as expected of officers of the law.”

There is a long pause. Then the Sheriff heaves a sigh. “Thank you, Chrissy. You have a nice day.” He opens the door of the squad car. “Eddie, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you soon. Try to keep out of trouble. And next time, spare us the wisecracks, will you?”

Eddie goosesteps and salutes. “Sir, yes, sir!" as they drive away. The rubberneckers shut their doors and curtains until Forest Hills is bright and empty, so, when Eddie hops off the porch, grabs Chrissy's hands, and calls her, "My savior!" it feels like a private pleasure.

“I’m sorry they spoke to you like that.”

“Eh, I’m used to it." He swings their clasped hands back and forth. “Well…I've never been accused of murder before.”

When he starts walking backwards, Chrissy lets him pull her along; she hopes peace awaits them in his trailer. He turns on the light, and she notices, for the first time, that the switch plate is engraved with an angel, guarding his charges. She traces the outline of his wing with her fingernail, and smiles.

Chapter Text

The trailer is vibrating with quiet, like a string at the end of a sour note. So Chrissy shifts closer, until her shoulder brushes Eddie's bicep, and links their fingers. Just in case he needs to be held steady. The strain is obvious now: his muscles are tense, his Adam’s apple is bobbing, and his rings, chilled by the spring air, are only slightly cooler than his skin. She breathes, slow and even, in hopes he’ll match his breath to hers, the way he taught her to inhale smoke.

“Thank you,” he repeats. “Seriously, Chrissy. Thanks.” 

“Don’t,” she says firmly, because his gratitude contains apologies: “I’m sorry for causing trouble” and “I’m sorry for being myself.” She's used that tone often enough--too often, according to Ms. Kelley. It clashes horribly with Eddie's spirit, like a white shirt, beige sweater vest and khakis, her father’s favorite at-home outfit. "It was the very least I could do. They're being stupid and shallow. That's not your fault."   

“Guess they figured it was inevitable, that I'd level up from dealing." His words drip with casual derision, but when he looks down at Chrissy, Eddie's eyes are wide and pleading. “Since dad went from stealing to killing. But he was defending himself! He’s not evil. And I’m not him.”

“I know that. We are not our parents. We’re not going to be-not ever. And you’re not going to jail. They can’t hurt you.”

“Yeah," he exhales, shaky. "Alright.”  

He fits his guitar in the nook between the coat rack and his uncle's fishing pole. The warning-boast faces the wall. Chrissy had been working up the courage to hug him, but she grabs the neck of the guitar instead, and turns it around; the press of the frets feels nearly as intimate as the touch of his calloused fingertips. Some dragons are invincible, that's true. But not all of them. They both could use the reminder that they’ve got weapons of their own.

“A cold beer would really calm my jangled nerves,” Eddie says, heading into the kitchen. “You want one?”

“No, thank you,” she answers, fretting that the cops might come back.

At her refusal, he sets down the bottle, tapping a rhythm on the cap with a wood handle church key. He leaves it on the counter and follows her to the couch. 

“I don’t think the Sheriff suspects you,” Chrissy tells him, taking a seat. Flattening the pleat of her skirt with her fist, she stares at the sharpened fold and summarizes the newspaper article as delicately as she can. Then she turns to him and says, “Here’s my theory: he doesn’t have any evidence. He doesn’t have any real suspects (The murderer's probably a drifter, anyway.) Powell doesn’t have any good ideas at all. But he wants to prove he deserves this job, so he has to look busy to the mayor, and you’re easy to...” She twirls a lock of hair, tightening it until her skin goes white.

Her pause resounds with the word, Scapegoat. She wishes Eddie had worn a different t-shirt today: the Sabbatic goat printed on the front is an inauspicious sign.

He flips a shotgun shell in the air, considering. “I don’t even carry that shit,” he gripes, rolling the shell across the table, and it bumps a penny, Lincoln-side up. He flicks another shell, and it knocks into the Garfield mug, which Chrissy notices guiltily hasn’t been refilled since she gorged herself on candy. “There’s no demand, around here. I hung out with Rick and his buddy while they smoked wet, once. Did not look fun. Rick got stuck staring at the radiator, and the other dude kept crying we were in a game of Dig Dug, except we were tunneling under the River Styx.” Eddie stands, pacing the living room, unconsciously mimicking the movements of those Atari creatures with his jerky steps.

Chrissy seizes on the chance to change the subject. He's clearly not ready to talk about anything serious yet. She certainly wouldn’t be, in his place: attending counseling has taught her that it’s easier to share her thoughts after her nerves have settled, which is why she scheduled her sessions during the lunch period, instead of Study Hall, post-purge.

“I don’t even like regular Dig Dug,” she says. “Moon Patrol, all the way.”

Eddie stops short. “You go to the arcade?”

“I have a little brother, remember?” She smiles, bragging gently, “I’m a killer at the shooting games.” When Eddie squints with teasing skepticism, Chrissy makes an x over her chest. “Cross my heart! The claw machine, too. There’s a stuffed animal menagerie at the church daycare, thanks to me.”

“Hey, I can totally believe you’re a champ. I just thought Keith had sprayed that place with Tiger repellant. He’s still angry the jocks beat him up when he was a freshman in ‘72.” Eddie shakes his head. “What a loser. As soon as I’ve got my diploma, I’m never going to think about high school again. I’m going to forget every single jock's name. Except yours, obviously. I love it. Excellent alliteration. "Chrissy Cunningham, Chrissy Cunningham, Chrissy Cunningham."

She used to hate her name. It’s common among late-sixties babies, born-coincidentally or not-around the same time as the Crissy doll, a plastic girl with big eyes, a round face, and bobbed auburn hair, which, with a tug, could be lengthened until it reached her Mary Janes. When Chrissy turned six, her mother bought a later model, whose hair was adorned with twirly beads, pink and white, to match her gingham gown. Chrissy kept it long, so she could pretend the doll was a red-headed Rapunzel, and later, Guinevere, the noble queen. 

Back then, Chrissy wished that she'd been called something legendary, like "Guinevere." Or "Cordelia," deemed "perfectly elegant" by Anne Shirley. Or "Titania," the fairy and the moon. 

"Chrissy" is cloying, she thought. Frivolous. American-bland. "Christine" is worse:  when she hears her legal name, she straightens her posture and reaches for a pen. It's dry government forms, evangelical sermons, and maternal scolds.  

But Eddie makes her name charming, swaying until the double-s’s are an incantation. He hums them into a jingle. When he sharpens the consonants, her name becomes a cheeky comic strip title. He repeats it until it is pure sound again, and renewal feels possible.

“I want to start over, too,” Chrissy tells him. Then, barely audible: “Sometimes I think I carry around everything that ever happened to me.” She fidgets in her seat, uncomfortable with her sudden vulnerability. “I feel sorry for Keith, if he’s holding that grudge. But he's always been nice to me.”

“Well, you are special,” Eddie says, like he means it.

“I haven’t gone to the arcade in ages. I started getting loopy from those red-and-blue lights. And the noise….”

The whoops of the boys had become war cries, and their ogling made her excruciatingly aware of the flaws in her shape. Staring at the screen, the animation dissolved, and then the pixels coalesced into photorealistic scenes of rubble crushing children's limbs, and contorted roadkill, shriveling. Jimmy stopped asking her to play games with him after he heard her whispering that she was being drained, trying and failing to chase away ghosts. Chrissy had despaired that there was nothing too small or too silly for her brain to ruin.

But maybe it can be fun again. After all, Eddie's louder than the kids at the arcade, and she hasn't gotten scared of him. When she listens to his heavy metal music, she doesn't picture murder and mayhem. Not even when they're yelling about a thousand deaths or railing against a leper messiah.

“We could go together, sometime,” Chrissy blurts out. 

“Yes!” He grins broadly. “Fair warning: I’m a contender at Battlezone.”  

“Well, I’ll win you a stuffed animal."

After she makes the offer, she wonders if her smile had a coquettish slant, inadvertently revealing what it means to her. To Chrissy, it recalls date nights at the fairground: cheering Jason as he declared victory over the Ring Toss, presenting her with a plush lamb, a fawn, and a red panda, which she’d donate to the church, because her mother sniffed, “Christine, you’re too old for toys.” He whooped when Chrissy correctly guessed the number of jellybeans in the jar, because the prize was a free ticket to the Dunk Tank; she tempered her “Go, Jasons!” there, out of sympathy for the inevitably soaked freshmen. She can almost smell the funnel cake, remembering; she skipped Hawaiian Tropic in favor of vanilla lotion, hoping her perfume would complement Jason’s favorite dessert, and he’d reward her with powdered-sugar kisses. She acted out romance, back then, hoping that practice could make it real.

Of course, this'll be different. Everything is, with Eddie.

“I don’t think they stock bats or spiders,” she points out. “Or goats, either. That’s Baphomet on your shirt, right?” 

Eddie laughs. “How’d you know? You a devil-worshipper, too, Cunningham?” 

Fluttering her lashes, she twists her cross pendant. Then she says, “I read about it in a book once. Miss Weldon ordered it for me–she knows I like all that Templar and tarot stuff.” 

“She’s filling up that library with ‘Dangerous Literature.” Eddie informs her, drawing out the words with flair worthy of Vincent Price. “She’s still pissed about that letter to the Editor in the Post.”

Chrissy cringes, dismayed that Mrs. Carver's screed is now common knowledge. She demanded that librarians "think of the children" when they're shelving their "indecencies," and that politicians stop wasting tax dollars, funding "obscenity." Since the pastor cancelled the book-burning he'd scheduled for last summer, deciding it would be in poor taste after the mall fire, Mrs. Carver and Mrs. Henry click-clack through the stacks in search of books to ban. They tear the pages containing particularly offensive passages, like Sappho's poem to the army wife, Frederick Douglass's speech on John Brown, and anatomical illustrations of puberty stages, and they hide the works of Kurt Vonnegut, Toni Morrison, and JD Salinger in the basement, "far away from innocent eyes." 

“It must have felt like a declaration of war to Miss Weldon,” Chrissy realizes. “She thinks Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret is required reading, for preteen girls.”

“I’m glad somebody’s fighting. But it’s a lost cause. Those people will never see reason.”

“You don't believe people can change?” Chrissy asks tentatively.

“Sure, the brave ones can. But most people are cowards. Or they’re selfish. Let’s say the Carvers decide Christianity is bullshit, right? Do you really think they'd admit it? They wouldn't. Not in public. They'd be too afraid of losing their clout in this town.” Eddie pauses. “It doesn’t matter whether the Sheriff thinks I’m guilty. If arresting me would get him re-elected, he’d make the charges stick. He’d lie for the rest of his life, to keep his job, and his shiny badge of honor.”  

“I won’t let that happen,” Chrissy promises, her brow furrowed with determination. 

While Eddie is clearly unconvinced, he smiles at her anyway. So she hugs him, tightly, squeezing his waist. At first, he’s too stunned to move, his arms limp at his sides, but before she can retreat in mortification, he returns her embrace, and when he rests his chin on top of her head, she tucks her face in the crook of his neck, murmuring, “I won’t.” She tells herself she’s doing this for him, that she’s being unselfish. But she’s lulled by the steady pressure, too, and reassured by the size of him. She inhales, drawing in his scent-the resinous opoponax of his deodorant, tinged with sharp, oddly pleasant sweat—and lets out a shuddering sigh.

“Hey,” he says softly, leaning back far enough to meet her gaze. “You want to stay? For dinner, I mean. Wayne has a date with his lady friend, so I was going to go to Delmonico’s. I’ve got to drop off some shrooms for the Phish fan on the night shift. He’ll give us free, unlimited toppings.” Wary of grease puddles, Chrissy hesitates; she regrets it when Eddie drops his arms and moves away. “Oh. Unless-”

“No, I’d love to stay!” She pauses. “Wait…your uncle has a girlfriend?!”

“Yeah, Joan O’Donnell. The Hawkins High Grendell’s sister, in fact. But they hate each other. She won't even say her name, like she's Bloody Mary or something.” He shrugs. “Joanie's pretty cool. She makes a mean Cincinnati chili. And she plays the fiddle-the Grand Ole Opry stuff that Wayne likes.”

Chrissy sighs happily. “It’s so cute that they go on dates even though they’re old. Like The Golden Girls." 

Since the show premiered, and Blanche Devereaux went out dancing with a beau every Saturday at 9, boasting of her "devastating beauty," Laura Cunningham has stepped up her warnings that every woman has a romantic expiration date. "Thirty-five, if she's lucky," she claims, "and can ward off expression lines and the secretary spread." Of course, the aging woman is expected to maintain a neat appearance, despite having lost the right to wear miniskirts and sequins, but she’ll never be attractive to men again, and must compensate by embodying wifely virtue. 

Eddie cocks his head, smiling. “You’re a real romantic, huh?” Then he sobers. “Oh…should we be doing some kind of breakup ritual, since you ditched Carver? I don't have any chick flicks, but we could rent something at Family Video. That Michelle Pfeiffer movie, LadyHawke?  Since you said you like medieval princess stories. We could, um. do karaoke, I guess? ‘You’re So Vain’? I’ve got a hairbrush…somewhere.” Just as she’s about to suggest he trade it for a comb, which would be less likely to frizz his curls, he says, "And I would be honored to cut Carver’s smug Aryan face out of your Prom photos.” He rubs his hands together with glee.

“Is that what you do when you split up with a girl?” she asks, giggling.

"Alas, Chrissy," he sighs, exaggerating plaintive longing, "I have never known true love!"

“Me neither,” she confesses. “I’ve never broken up with anyone before. But I don’t think I’m going to cry much over Jason.”

Eddie looks pleased, and Chrissy is, too, because she’s not sure she could survive heartbreak, on top of all her other suffering. She used to worry that she was broken, struggling to muster up passion for Jason while her friends swooned and pined and lusted for their boyfriends. The fact that Eddie's waiting to fall in love makes her feel more normal. Then again, Eddie's allowed to wait, because men are permitted to stay bachelors until their fifties. Girls are supposed to find a husband while they're young. Except what happens if it takes years to meet your soulmate? If Chrissy married Jason, she'd be giving up her chance to meet hers. She is astonished to realize that she might be a romantic, after all.

She looks up at Eddie, who is watching her with his warm brown eyes. “So where did you learn about that breakup ritual?” 

“Uh, Grant’s mom. After the divorce, we had to stop having band practice at Grant's place because she kept making us play Carole King for her.” He ruffles his hair, smiling sheepishly. "So, uh. That's why I have those tabs memorized. Good thing Gareths' parents let us play in their garage. We barely dodged her Nancy Sinatra phase.”

“I like her!” Chrissy objects, through breathless peals of laughter. “I always wanted a pair of shiny go-go boots.” She bites her lip. “I’m not sure I could pull them off, though.”

“You absolutely could,” Eddie says, so enthusiastically that it makes her shy. “You could wear them to The Hideout.”

She bounces on her toes. This time, Chrissy pictures herself under the dim barlight, flushed and giddy and unafraid of the crowd of drunks and toughs. She’ll wear black go-go boots, sheer black tights, and her off-the-shoulder dress, because the pale twilight blue will look dreamy in the smoke. She won't be teasing her hair or squeezing into zebra-print spandex, the heavy metal version of greaser Sandy Olsson. Eddie wouldn’t want her to conform. He seemed to be admiring her on Friday night, despite her casual sweats, and even now, he's gazing at her as if her fussy church dress is flattering. If she wants a leather jacket, she'll borrow his. 

Brimming with energy-and not the fearful kind-Chrissy is a cherry bomb, with a ready fuse. Finally, she thinks, I deserve to celebrate. 

She lets Eddie help her into her coat, and he lets her drag him to his van; she's unwilling to drive the Escort and risk being noticed by her parents, Jason, or, worst of all, Mr. and Mrs. Carver.

“This is your big night,” Eddie says. “So you get control of the radio.”    

Chrissy's first instinct is to demur, and her hand twitches toward his cassette tapes. Then Eddie smiles encouragingly, pressing the power button, and she turns the dial. She rushes past news of an approaching cold front. She skips the March Madness bracket and “I’m a Toys ‘R’ Us Kid." She rejects the aria, the polka, and the jazz. She mouths "no" to “Every Breath You Take," "We Are the World," and “She Keeps the Home Fires Burning." Chrissy stops for hyper keyboard notes: The Cars' “Dangerous Type."

She rolls down the window, sending, “Geranium lover, I’m live on your wire” to a garden bathtub madonna.

Chapter Text

The pizza boy is building a tower of charred sausage, which he's fortified with a ring of sun-dried tomatoes. “I’m calling it ‘The Palpatine,’” he tells Eddie, regarding his creation with heavy-lidded, bloodshot eyes, then smiling, satisfied. He struts in place to "She's A Rainbow," slightly off-beat, until the cook threatens him with a face full of dough, and Chrissy, who has never dared to play with her food, wrinkles her nose. Their antics distract her from her usual pizza-counter dread. 

“Franklin, man, you can make me whatever you want, as long as it’s free.” 

“A token of my appreciation for your impeccable service!" he says, with a conspiratorial wink. Franklin Higgins has little in common with his staid father, their principal. "And if you could put in a good word for me with The Reefer...”

“How is it possible you’ve never been caught?” Chrissy wonders, looping her arm around Eddie's; they're alone, except for the cook, who merely rolls his eyes, but she doubts Franklin is any more circumspect when the place is packed. She squeezes Eddie's elbow, declaring, “You need me! I’m the best at secrets.” 

“Yeah, no shit," he laughs, nudging her shoulder. "I heard you on the phone with your dad. You almost got me convinced that I was Nancy Wheeler.” 

She told her father she was staying at the Wheelers' house to keep Nancy company, embellishing that finding Fred's body renewed Nancy's fear of the dark. He praised her for her act of Christian charity. When he assumed she'd be sleeping over, Chrissy said, “Maybe.” She's not quite sure why she did it. And if Eddie overheard that part of the conversation, he hasn't mentioned it.

As Eddie idly touches her lace collar, Chrissy contemplates her greatest deception, the one sin her family would never forgive: her repudiation of their Jesus, nailed to the cross and bleeding Nantucket red. She takes what comfort she can in the shape of the upside-down cross on his ring, rubbing the rough tape that keeps it on Eddie's finger. 

The cook is knocking Franklin's skull lightly with his fist. “Have you got a meatball between your ears? Don’t use the word 'free' in here!" he says. "If the boss finds out you’re giving product away, he’ll stuff you in that brick oven, bake you at 725, and feed you to the guys who defected to the mall food court last summer.”

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah," Franklin mutters, kicking a crumpled receipt, and Chrissy recalls that he and his friends used to play hacky-sack outside of school in the mornings-until Andy tore open the footbag, ordering them to stop blocking the prime parking spots. Considering how easily Franklin shrugged him off, it's no surprise to Chrissy that he's ignoring the cook's reprimand. Within his passivity, she sees defiance. But they don't notice.

“If old man Delmonico wasn’t such a stingy son-of-a-bitch, he wouldn’t have been able to keep the lights on after Starcourt opened," the cook continues, his black mustache twitching with indignation. "And you wouldn’t have pocket money to live out your Woodstock fantasies. Munson, explain to this kid about Altamont, will you?”

Eddie raises his hands, palms out. “No can do, Paulie! I’ve got my own electric bill to pay.”

Startled, Chrissy drops the napkin she’s been using to soak up the oil on her spinach slice. She’d assumed that Eddie’s uncle was responsible for household expenses, and Eddie’s side venture was funding his great escape. To her and her friends, budgeting and balancing checkbooks are adult concerns, forgotten as soon as the ending bell rings in Home Economics. Their fathers provide them with a regular allowance–even if the housekeeper is doing their chores–and loan them their credit cards on special occasions. It's hard to fathom that Eddie, who rarely manages to turn in his homework by the deadline, could be relied on as a breadwinner. 

This is the first time Chrissy fully appreciates that Eddie is a grown man—and not merely in the eyes of the law. She calls him a boy because she still feels like a girl. Her eighteenth birthday came and went, and Chrissy enumerated all the ways she remained a minor.

“Will they really let me in The Hideout?" she asks, touching the point of her bow. "Even though I’m…” Eddie stares blankly. “They don’t have a bouncer?” 

“They don't give a shit. I’ve been hanging out in dives like that since I was seven years old.” After trying and failing to catch cheese in his mouth before it falls onto the table, he says, “My dad used to park me in front of a bowl of peanuts while he hustled guys at pool."

"But you were practically a baby!"

"It was nice, sometimes. There was usually a barfly who'd keep me flush for the jukebox, if I could charm into taking me under her wing. If not, the bartenders let me cut lemons for quarters. I know all the classic rock records, back to front." 

“I don’t even let my little brother touch a citrus knife.”   

“Never needed stitches." Eddie shrugs. "It taught me a lot, growing up around ornery drunks and shitty bar bands. I know exactly how bad a set's got to go for the guitarist to get brained with a beer bottle. Anyway, The Hideout's regulars are always tame. I'd put up with some projectiles, if I could get the crowd slam-dancing. Someday, Corroded Coffin will play a real concert. We'll rile them up to a ten on the Richter scale. I'll crowdsurf, too--once I figure out how."

“I’ll learn how to slam dance before your show,” Chrissy offers eagerly. She's not sure what that means.

He laughs. “I bet you could crowdsurf, easy, thanks to those cheer moves.”

“I could float, maybe. But to fly safe? You need perfect trust." Suddenly, the pizza's too rich; Chrissy pushes her plate to the side. On another day—with another companion—the taste would have already made her throat close up. “It sounds kind of lonely, being held up by strangers.” 

Eddie cocks his head. Then he picks up her wrist. “You’d probably like it better on the sidelines,” he says, circling it with his thumb and index finger. When they overlap, Chrissy feels impossibly dainty. “Less chance of breaking these little bones.” He goes on to explain, "Gareth got stomped on in the pit, when he was a freshman. A hot co-ed cracked his rib. Of course, the twerp jumped right back up to try out, ‘Are those Docs moon boots? 'Cause you’re out of this world.' He's lucky she let him live. He had fun, though."

Chrissy narrows her eyes, dubious. "If you say so..." Then, resting her chin on her clasped hands, she commands, “Tell me more about the concerts,” because she wants to prepare. 

Eddie swiftly catches on that she's more curious about the after-hours bars and parties than the virtuoso solos. She is intrigued by the bond that can form between fans over the course of a single cigarette. Galvanized by her attention, he picks out the snippets of nightlife that he thinks Chrissy would like best. Pink neon and gold moonlight. Fizzy-sweet cocktails, loaded with cherries. (When she coquettishly informs him that every girl on the squad can tie a cherry stem into a knot with her tongue, he smiles.) 

Then he turns serious, describing the undulating crowd. He makes it sound holy, transcendent. It's the wine-dark sea of an ancient’s epic.

“It really is like another planet," Chrissy sighs. "Is that why…I mean-you don’t belong in Hawkins. Because you’ve always known there was some other form of life, out there.”

“If there wasn't, I'd have to invent one,” Eddie says, fiddling with the bundle of red chilis hanging on the wall. “Sometimes, when shit gets really dire, I drive into the city just so I can sit on a park bench, get stoned, and watch the freaks go by. It wakes me up. Sometimes, this town feels like a bad dream.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to go. Or how to make friends, like you do. Isn’t it scary, going off with strangers in the middle of the night?”

Eddie is surprised by the question. "I’m a pretty good judge of character.” He bumps her ankle with his toe. “Haven't you ever met somebody and thought, right away, 'This is one of my people'? There's no logical explanation for it, it doesn't make any sense, but you know in your body it's true?”

“Just you, Eddie,” she confesses, blushing fiercely at his wild grin. She waves the crust of her pizza in invitation, and he leans across the table, taking a bite of it straight out of her hand.

"And sometimes, it’s pretty fucking wholesome," he says, chewing. "Like when we went to Chicago to see Megadeth. We crashed at Gareth's cousin's sorority house-it's called the Delta 3, I think? I can't tell the difference. They've all got starship names. You'd really like her. She's got a solid appreciation for crossover thrash, but she's into girly shit, too. She does ballet. And she tortures Gareth-it's hilarious. She forced him to let her feather his hair, and he walked into The Metro like a low-rent Steve Harrington. And she sprayed us all with perfume, so we’d class up the joint. White musk. It smelled kind of nice, actually.”

(Chrissy's visited a sorority, too; her cheer camp counselor is an Alphi Phi. She likes the idea that her sisters might have been hiding secret stashes of heavy metal records. She doesn’t mention the trip to Eddie, because the memory makes her squirm: the girls had inundated her with sex advice, like “Never let a guy come first. Never give him head before you get it," thinking they were doing her a favor, countering the high school locker room maxims. But they left her embarrassed, and more confused than ever.) 

“You'd love The Aragon Ballroom,” Eddie continues. "It’s like a fancy castle. After the Slayer show there, we went out drinking with this English couple who swore they’d shared a coke straw with Ozzy, once. The old lady was awesome. She drew our caricatures on napkins. Helped Jeff ace his Art final.”

“I remember that! He made the cartoon, right? With the octopus tentacles?”

"I didn't know you were in his class," Eddie says with surprise.

She laughs. "I wouldn't expect you to have my schedule memorized!” Inhaling deeply, Chrissy blurts out, “Mr. Markle hung up my final project in the Art Room, if you want to see it. It's a watercolor of the ocean, and the belt of Venus." Then she furrows her brow. “Not that you'd want to. I know it's nothing special. There’s already, like, a bajillion paintings of the sky by real artists." She attempts a smile, but it's shaky. "Jason said I should’ve gone to the library and made a photocopy instead.” 

“What a dick. You know he’s full of shit, right? It’s one-of-a-kind because you made it. Because there’s only one Chrissy Cunningham.” 

Chrissy blinks up at him, her heart full. All of a sudden, she understands why he's chosen to share these particular stories. Eddie takes for granted that she will escape Hawkins-and that she deserves to. Now, he's showing her she won't be lost and adrift, after she's gone. There's a place for her, out there. A place to be herself. A place to belong. Even among the seedy, the fearsome, and the foreign, she can find beauty and connection. And wherever Chrissy ends up, there will be music. 
 

Chapter Text

It’s only after Eddie’s gone that Chrissy notices the place has filled up; she’s glad he’s in the alley, safely out of sight, while he does his dealing. Mr. Thacher’s here, scarfing down a calzone and scowling at the Hawkins Post. The McKinneys are here, too, and when Patrick meets her eyes, she knows he saw her with Eddie Munson. I won’t hide, she decides, buttoning her coat.

“Chrissy Cunningham!” Mrs. McKinney calls. “Tell me you weren’t about to leave without saying hello." When she smiles, her chubby cheeks are as round as plums. (Molly refers to her and her husband as “The Black Spratts”: he’s average height for a man, but she’s taller—the tallest woman in Hawkins, by far—and twice as fat. She was the true athlete in the family, according to Patrick—as a little girl, she ruled the playground courts, and could even beat her big brothers. His dad, a track star, eschewed team sports.)

“Never, Mrs. McKinney. How are you?” 

Chrissy turns her smile on Patrick’s father, who nods, polite but perfunctory, as usual. He spins his fork in his spaghetti, impeccably neat, and it seems like a different dish entirely than the slurping mess of kids' menus and Lady and the Tramp.

“Did Patrick tell you he'll be interning at his father’s firm this summer?” Mrs. McKinney beams at her son. “And then he’s off to the University of Chicago!”

Mr. McKinney frowns. “It’s called a legacy admission.”

If not for the tight curls he inherited from his mother, Patrick would be his father's spitting image, yet Chrissy's never seen such a forbidding expression on his face before—not even when he was tossing nerds into the dumpster at school.

“You’ve all grown up so fast!” she continues, her cheer tinged with desperation. “Clinton wasn’t going to let him go to your little party tonight, but I told him, ‘Puddin’, let the kids be kids!’”

“He’s got a hell of a lot of growing up to do,” he growls. Then, to Patrick: “You couldn’t even keep that car going for a year. Useless and entitled, that’s what you are. No appreciation for the value of the dollar. I worked for everything I had. I didn’t have anybody buying me a car. You know what I got for my sixteenth birthday? A job.”

Chrissy waits for Patrick to break the rising tension, bracing herself, because bringing up her association with the local criminal would be the quickest way to do it. She almost wants him to. But he doesn’t. In fact, Patrick doesn’t defend himself at all. When he notices Chrissy staring, he offers her a stiff, tired smile, then returns to poking sullenly at his lasagna.

“It was a blessing, really,” his mother tells Chrissy, collecting the trays. “Patrick brought it to the shop because the cassette player broke, and Harold Thacher discovered the transmission was failing! If not for him, my baby could’ve crashed, like that poor Anderson boy!” 

As she departs, she touches Chrissy’s hand with the affection she offers every child. She thanks Mr. Hagan, who is holding the door for her with the decency he reserves for the female gender. The youngest Hagan ducks under his arm and runs straight to Chrissy, baring his teeth to show off the new gap next to his incisor. Bouncing on his Roos, he shouts, “I got a Transformer like Jimmy’s with my dollar!” while she smooths her hair, which had been tousled by the cold gust of wind.  

“That’s great!” Chrissy says insincerely, anticipating another Decepticon War—the boys’ new favorite game. At first, she thought it was an excellent way to burn energy, because their “battles” involved a lot of shrieking and high-kicking in the backyard. When they explained that they needed to conduct a secret ceremony, to protect the land from the evil seeping from the Decepticons’ corpses, Chrissy agreed, figuring it would help them process the trauma of the funereal summer; she was proud of herself for applying what she’d recently learned about psychology to real life. Too late, she realized that their vanquished enemies were her hair dryer, curling iron, and lighted compact, and the holes where they’d been interred would have to be filled by a professional landscaper. It was impossible to stay angry at the boys, though, after Richie apologized with a drawing of a flower and a stick of Bazooka gum. (“Out of Jimmy’s friends, you’ve always been my favorite,” she told him, because he is no one else’s favorite.)

“I said extra cheese, you moron!” Mr. Hagan bellows.

Chrissy cups her hands over Richie’s ears in a futile attempt to muffle the sound of his father’s rage, thinking how lucky she is that her parents don't yell. Chrissy’s mother modulates her tone when she's berating service staff, and she rarely shouts at home, either. Her most cutting words are spoken in her softest voice, so Chrissy can’t dismiss them as hasty or thoughtless, the result of a temper fit. They are her mother’s truth. They are excruciating declarations of love. 

“Richard, stop pestering the nice girl,” Mr. Hagan barks, pulling Richie through the door before he has a chance to say goodbye. The soles of the little boy's sneakers drag on the linoleum; Chrissy cringes at their squeaking, and Patrick flinches, too. When his watch clinks against the counter, she turns toward him, surprised he didn't leave with his parents.

“I hate that motherfucker,” the cook says.

“Reminds me of my dad,” Patrick mutters under his breath. “Hey, Paul, can I get a large pie with black olives and green peppers?”

It’s his ex-girlfriend’s favorite. “You and Molly got back together?” Chrissy asks, briefly forgetting that Tiger business is no longer hers. She bites her lip.

“We’re still friends.” He shrugs, attempting to seem casual. Then his shoulders slump. “I get it—I’ve been kind of out of it. Jumpy. Thinking too much about the championship, working with my dad...I don’t blame her for dumping me, ok? It’s probably better, for now, anyway. Until things go back to normal.” He glances at her sympathetically. “I heard about you and Jason.”

“Wow. That was fast.”

“We knew something had to be wrong when he invited us out to Benny’s on a Sunday. Look, I don’t know what happened between you, but. Maybe once he’s calmed down a little…maybe things’ll go back to normal.” He jerks his thumb toward the parking lot. “Debi’s on her way, if you want to say hi. She’s giving me a ride.” 

“I’m done with normal,” Chrissy says firmly. “The truth is, I’ve been feeling jumpy, too. And pretending to be normal? That only makes it worse.” Regarding him closely, she adds, “You don’t have to answer Jason’s summons, you know. You can go home, and get some rest.”

He whispers something that might be “It’s cursed,” but Chrissy can’t be sure, because the pizzeria’s old speakers are cracking every “lovely” in the chorus of “Hotel California.”

As they transition to "Gimme Shelter," mangling the layered chords, she wavers, debating whether to recommend a visit to Ms. Kelley. She doesn’t want to upset him. Coming from one of the boys, the advice would be an unequivocal insult, punctuated with “pussy” or “queer.” But even if the suggestion was kindly meant, offered by a nonjudgemental friend, it might be offensive. Chrissy would be mortified, no matter who made the suggestion. So she decides to be vague. “Maybe you can…talk to someone?”

He never has the opportunity to answer. Debi struts inside and says, “Hurry up, McKinney," staring past Chrissy as if she is invisible. In a vicious little sing-song, she adds, “You don’t want to leave Molly alone with Jason too long...”

It’s the sort of taunt the squad has always excelled at, reminding the boys who break their hearts and shred their pride that they can be easily replaced—and that the girls’ loyalty is, first and foremost, to one another. The shot’s meant for Patrick, but Debi’s sharp, split-second glance at Chrissy makes it clear she is a welcome casualty. It’s no longer considered an act of treachery to go after the captain’s ex. That means Chrissy is, definitively, out.

The knowledge smarts more than the break-up. But the brief sting of indignation is inconsequential, compared to what Patrick must be suffering. His skin has an ominous yellow cast, made more pronounced by the mustard color of his t-shirt.

“Jason would never go after Molly,” Chrissy reassures him, because Jason once scoffed, "She's barely hot enough for varsity."

"He wouldn’t,” Patrick concedes with a weak smile. “He wouldn’t want the drama. But Molls? My girl loves to make a scene.”

Unwilling to lie, Chrissy stays silent. A few weeks ago, she would’ve told him, “She still loves you.” Now, she knows that makes it worse.

“CC, did you want to come with us?” Debi asks, finally deigning to acknowledge her. Her eyes, sparkling blue and lined with turquoise, appear guileless.

And in her voice, Chrissy hears the echo of long-ago invitations, when “prissy” was a term of endearment, not a slur, and she still believed Chrissy would join in her rebellions. “Let’s spike the lemonade!” she said, kissing Chrissy’s cheek as she reached past her for the vodka, because Mrs. Devlin liked Lemon Drops, and deserved to drink whatever she wanted at her husband’s wake. When Mrs. Henry intoned, “Vanity is the besetting sin of teenage girls,” she rested her chin on Chrissy’s shoulder and whispered, “Let’s tell her to stuff her pearls in the alms box, if she really wants to get Biblical. What a hypocrite.” And then: “Catch me, CC!” faking a faint so they could skip out of Sunday School early. 

She never worried about consequences, not like Chrissy’s had to–but then, none of their friends’ parents are as strict as Laura Cunningham. Debi’s become even more reckless since her chemist father died in an accident at the Hawkins National Laboratory, because her mother tithed the massive check from the Department of Energy—his overdue wages—to the church.

Debi’s only acknowledgement of Laura Cunningham’s nature was the sturdy padlock on the powder-pink diary she gave Chrissy for her birthday. Chrissy has filled it with worries, fantasy stories, and feeble excuses for her mother’s cruelty; it is immeasurably precious to her.

So she is polite, even a little regretful, when she answers, “No, thank you.”

“Are you sure? Jason might take you back, if you get down on your knobby knees and beg.” She pushes her tongue against her cheek so it bulges obscenely.

Doesn’t it mean anything to you that we used to love each other? Chrissy wants to ask. She knows the squad has been inventing past resentments to smear the water-colored memories, and by the time Spring Break’s ended, any lingering affection and admiration for will be lost beneath the muddy mess. It embarrasses and infuriates Chrissy in equal measure that she’s finding the good times so hard to forget.

Patrick is awkwardly chatting with Paul about the projected seeds for the NCAA, pretending not to hear them. The girls might as well be alone. No one to intervene. Malice unfettered. Chrissy wants to cry. Instead, she wills herself to remember why she’s been determined to break away from them. She calls to mind every act of callous disregard, and every petty, hateful barb; although Debi shot the poison-dipped arrows at the weird and the homely, she threw plenty of darts at her friends. Chrissy reminds herself that the diary was the first act of kindness she’d shown her in ages.

“I feel sorry for you,” Chrissy says sincerely.

And then she runs her eyes over Debi's body, her slow perusal an assault. Her Contempo Casuals blouse is white, printed with macaw feathers, and cut too low for the Lord’s Day. She'd offered it to Chrissy, because their coloring is similar enough that they suit the same clothes, and the captain always got first dibs. But Chrissy told her to buy it for herself: it was retail therapy to cope with Billy's attendance at the Holloways' family dinner. “You’ll forget faster, if you feel pretty,” Chrissy assured her.

Now, the curl of her lip says she let her have it because it's tacky. When she zeroes in on the sagging neckline, which exposes Devi’s awkward tan lines and a gigantic cystic pimple, she tugs it up, popping her collar. 

Then Chrissy turns her attention to Debi’s drooping bangs, wondering absently if she still listens to The Ronettes while she sprays them—she used to say she was conjuring the ghosts of bouffants past, who would keep her hair shimmy-proof at the party. Anxiously, Debi fluffs them, but they fall again. With a frustrated breath, she shifts backwards, staring down at her striped Diadoras.

Chrissy feels safer already.

“You think everybody’s desperate, but I’ve never had to chase a boy, remember?” she says. “I broke up with Jason, by the way—not that it matters, because even if he had dumped me, I’d already be over him. And I’m over Benny’s. Watching the boys get mean-sloppy drunk and disgusting in their little clubhouse? Listening to your boring gossip about girls who are prettier than you’ll ever be, and way more fun? No, thanks. It’s all so…high school. Grow up.”

“You really do think you’re better than us, don’t you? Tiffany said, but…I-”

Chrissy lifts her chin. “I’m better than whatever you’re doing tonight.”

“Um. Deb? The pizza’s getting cold,” Patrick interrupts, pulling up the hood of his sleeveless grey sweatshirt.

Debi gestures for him to wait with an open palm.

“Chrissy,” she says, without mischief or scorn. “You’re the one who’s going to be sorry.” And once she's halfway out the door, she calls cheerfully, “See you at school, CC!” and it is a threat.

...

Although it seems like Eddie left ages ago, in truth, it's only been fifteen minutes. Too long, Chrissy thinks, waiting for him by the van. To her, Eddie embodies everything that exists outside the Tigers’ cage, and it is easier to cope with their enmity when she is near him. Because he is unfailingly true to himself, despite their bullying, she believes she can be, too—even if she’s not quite sure yet what being true to herself looks like. He makes her feel like she deserves kindness, and that she’s too unique to belong to a clique. Twisting her hands in agitation, she frets. She was as catty as Debi was, in exactly the same way. She's supposed to be better than that.

As Eddie lopes to the car, she tries to relax, focusing on the shape of him. Backlit by the Delmonico’s sign, his curls look charmingly fuzzy. How’d it go?” she asks.

“Just like any old sale. Except, you know. Cash only. In the dark. Ten feet from a dumpster full of marinara. I bummed one of Frank’s ridiculous clove cigarettes, he repeated his plans to moon Saunders at graduation, I told him I’ll tape him to the flagpole if I even get a glimpse of his pasty ass…The usual.” Chrissy laughs. “Did I miss anything?”

“Well, I found out the Tigers are having a Bash-Chrissy Bash at Benny’s.” She tries to sound sardonic, but she can’t quite manage it. Sighing, she rests her temple against the window. “The squad'll call me stuck-up and uptight, Jason’ll give a speech about what a terrible girlfriend I was…God, he must be so, so furious. He never goes out on Sunday nights. His family does a Bible-reading–every single week, eight on the dot. He must’ve had to make up a crazy lie to get out of it.”

“Who cares what that prick says about you? Half of what comes out of Carver's mouth is bullshit. That goes for the rest of them, too.”

Some of what they say has to be true, Chrissy thinks. She can guess which flaws they’ll put on the list. Orange-peel thighs and a spare tire. Rabbit teeth and bumpy feet. Cry-baby, mental case. Failure as a captain. They’re sharpening their blades for a very public regicide, and they know exactly where to aim. After all, who’s more of an expert than a best friend? 

“I’m sorry," she says, embarrassed. "This must sound so stupid to you.”

“Wait, no, no, sorry, I get it. It matters. They were your friends. I just forget, you know? Because they suck so much.”

“What you said before…he’s–they’re–they’re Hawkins to me. They’re the bad dream.”

“So, good fucking riddance! Not to be insensitive, or whatever. But they’re shitty people with shitty taste. Somebody told me once, ‘You’re measured by the quality of your enemies.’ The things they hate are the things that make us cool. Personally, I consider it a badge of honor to be their enemy.” She smiles fondly, imagining Eddie giving this speech to every new member of Hellfire. He grins back, then winks. “It’s a real crown. No more plastic.”

“You’re right, I know you're right. But. God. They’re going to be brutal once we’re back in school.” She pauses. “Maybe it’s a good thing. The nastier they are, the faster I can accept they’re not worth missing.” And I’ve got nothing to be scared of, she reminds herself. I’ve been facing worse fears. I keep surviving.

“Lucky you, I’ve got years of experience fighting those douchebags. I’ll teach you everything you need to know. And I’ve got your back. You call, I come, no question. I’ll get rid of them for you.” 

“Thanks, Eddie.” Chrissy doubts that his usual methods—intimidation, misdirection, and a total disregard for the opinion of the masses—will be as useful to her, but she appreciates the offer and briefly rests her hand over his on the gearshift. “At least we only have three months until graduation.”

“Sixty-eight days, in fact. Fifty days of class. Wait, no. Sixty-seven!”

His open joy makes her giggle; by the time they turn onto Randolph Avenue, Chrissy’s almost cheerful again. Then she sees it, the squat gray building with boarded-up windows and graffitied siding, its sign still intact. A memento mori.  

And there they are, the Tigers. Andy is hefting a twelve-pack out of his trunk, and Chance is lugging his girlfriend’s prized lipstick-red boombox. Tiffany applauds as if their feats are Herculean, the skirt of her blood-red dress fluttering around her thighs. The fringe on Mindy’s suede jacket swings, too, as she doubles over laughing, clutching Debi’s arm in a vain attempt to stay upright. And then there are Jason and Molly, talking in the shadows. Their silhouettes are indistinct, fading into the tree line—she’s in a hunter green jumpsuit, and he’s wearing his green letterman jacket. Chrissy recognizes them by the brightness of their hair: copper and pale gold.

The pizza is a rock in her stomach. She sighs. “I wish I didn’t care.”

“Hey, Chrissy. Chrissy,” Eddie says urgently, drawing her attention away from them. “Want to give them something else to talk about?” He leans in, dimpling with mischief. “Scare Carver straight? Gossip’s a sin in the Bible, isn’t it?” 

She is barely aware of what he’s asking, but she nods anyway, and then Eddie is rolling down his window, ordering her to do the same. He retrieves a cassette from the glove compartment with the wild glee of a little boy with an armful of fireworks. Although the band’s name is illegible, the sinister goat and pentagram below them are clear enough.

“Cover your ears,” he says, and Chrissy does, just in time for the volume to hit the upper limit. Eerie growling shakes the speakers. It's a warning.

The heavy metal's blasting when he speeds around the building, his van swaying with every right. Chrissy thinks of the helicopter in Apocalypse Now, dropping the notes of "Ride of the Valkyries" over Vietnam before the bombs. She grips the seat, white-knuckled, when Eddie bumps the side mirror of the Cherokee.

By the time they pass Jason, Eddie’s half out the window, his fingers curved into horns above his head. He sticks out his tongue, wiggling it like a serpent. His face must be blurring, because they're moving impossibly fast. “You should’ve stayed home tonight, Carver! You should’ve said your prayers!”

Jason stumbles back in shock—or else, he’s drunk already. Tripping over a rotten log, he falls into the mud, staining the seat of his khakis and the clean white arms of his letterman jacket. 

“Haven’t you heard?” Eddie shouts. “The Devil’s come to Hawkins!” 

“You’re crazy, Eddie!” Chrissy squeals. She is kicking her feet like a little kid, one kitten heel dangling.

He laughs, “All for you, sweetheart.”

"Jason's going to seethe over that all night," she says smugly. Chrissy would have, once. She’d have been frightened, and mortified, and furious that her outfit was ruined. And when she was grounded for making a mess, she would’ve obsessed over the fact that the team saw her make a fool of herself, falling in the dirt. It seems so absurd to her now.

Benny’s is behind them, and her troubles are receding, too. What do high school power grabs matter? There are people in the world who care nothing about power, and Chrissy will be one of them. Why should she worry about the opinions of people whose names she’ll someday have to search her yearbook to remember? She’s not going to nurse her grudges or lament the loss of her glory days. She’ll be far too busy with her strange new joys. When Eddie tosses the tape into the glove compartment, she smiles in the silence—not vicious, exactly, but defiant.

Then Chrissy hears the screaming. I’m hallucinating, she thinks, staring at her own horrified face in the window. It is melting, pale and eyeless. It is floating in the vast forest darkness.

“Eddie. Did you hear that?” she asks, motion-sick with dread. She’s afraid he’ll say yes. She’s afraid he’ll say no.

“Yeah,” he says, unconcerned. “Fox, I think. Possum, maybe.” When he notices Chrissy’s frozen posture and her clenched fists, nails digging into her palms with the desperate desire to believe him, he gently reassures her, “‘Night’s full of varmints,’ Wayne always says. Dustin calls this Mirkwood. ‘Forest under deadly nightshade.’ ‘Forest of great fear.’ But there’s nothing to be afraid of. We’re almost home.”

So Chrissy lets the thrum of the engine slow her pulse, and Eddie’s soft voice muffle the sounds of agony and terror. The starless sky above them is shifting, red, and red, and blue. But she will not see it. She keeps her eyes on him.

Chapter Text

The record’s spinning visions of misty gardens, because Chrissy requested something gentle. The guitar flutters like a willow leaf, she thinks, lolling on the couch. The flute notes are raindrops on hyacinth blossoms, the bass is the lovelorn call of a frog, the triangle’s a twinkling star. And the singer’s voice is the bark of a yew tree, as old as knightly chivalry.

Chrissy would never have survived this long, if she hadn’t mastered the skill of being two places at once. Usually, she straddles worlds alone, but this time, Eddie’s there with her, transported by a hippie-folk album that she would never have expected him to own. These were his childhood lullabies, he explained: his mother hummed them while she tucked him in, telling him to dream of woods- and lake-magic. She swore she’d seen it herself, because the Millers’ run-down plot was a thin place—it shimmered, she said, when the weather was stormy. Eddie’s bedtime stories were a patchwork of Lewis Carroll, Lady Gregory, and William Butler Yeats—one step away from his favorite, J.R.R. Tolkien.

He’s humming now, while he rolls Chrissy a joint. He mouths a line about driving chariots before he licks the seam.

“Just in case,” he says, when Chrissy shakes her head. 

“Eddie, I’m not here because you give me stuff,” she says with fond exasperation. “I hang out with you because I like you.” 

She swings her bare legs, watching the aqua polish frost under the lamplight. From the armchair, her wool tights dangle like ghostly limbs. She was chilly on the drive back, and shivering when they walked into the trailer, but now she’s warm and cozy. 

“I know,” he says with an awkward smile. Then Eddie waves his arm with the mercenary pomposity of a monger in a tale of Geoffrey Chaucer. “But it is my duty and privilege to offer, as Roane County’s very finest purveyor of intoxicants.” When she laughs, he flicks his lighter on and off. “You sure, though? Your day kind of went to shit.”

She stares at him. “Eddie. You’re the one who got interrogated by the police! ”

“Yeah, uh. Trying not to dwell on that. At least Powell won’t be back tonight. Rick always said he was too lazy to work after dark.”

“I wish I didn’t dwell on the bad things,” Chrissy sighs. Reaching for the yellow pillow squashed between the sofa cushions, she clutches it to her chest, circling the tufted button with her fingertip—it feels like Marilla Bunny’s velveteen nose, which she used to rub at the dawn of each month, singing, “Rabbit, rabbit” for good luck. “Instead of making things better, I just mope all the time. Or I get so scared, I freeze up.”

He laughs. “Chrissy. In the past twelve hours, you’ve dumped your douchebag boyfriend, broken up a police interrogation, and told your bitchy cheer friend to fuck off.”

“That’s new, though!” She puts her hands on her cheeks, feeling the heat of her blush. “That’s not really me.” Then she blurts out, “I’ve been going to counseling. Like, psychotherapy. With Ms. Kelley.”

“You like her? She’s a hell of a lot friendlier than Donahue. When she dragged me into her office to ‘discuss my prospects,’ she didn’t mention my dad once. So what do you guys do, exactly? Look at inkblots?”

“I’m pretty sure that only happens in the movies,” Chrissy giggles. “Mostly, she asks me questions, and says nice things when I answer.” Chrissy squeezes the pillow, worrying the piping, which has peeled away from the fabric. “I don’t really have a choice. I try to do everything she tells me to. Like I said before, I’m, um. Kind of insane, actually. For a while, I…I wasn’t sure I was going to make it.”

When he turns to face her, she pretends to be absorbed by the polyester nap. There is a beat of silence. It’s gentle, though, and its softness gives her the courage to tell Eddie the truth. 

Some of it, anyway. Chrissy describes the headaches, the chills, the insomnia, the nightmares, and the hallucinations, but she keeps her mother’s words to herself. (They’re irrelevant, she decides, no matter what Ms. Kelley says.) She admits to skipping meals, and running until she feels small; the vomiting is too shameful to confess.

Talking to Eddie is different from talking to the counselor. It’s more like talking to herself. Even in her head, Chrissy has rarely felt completely free: instead of stream-of-consciousness, her internal monologue is a choreographed release—like a dance she’s only ever done alone, in front of the mirror, expecting it would stay within her reflection forever. 

The tilt of Eddie’s head is curious, and his eyes are warm and sympathetic. He’s not repelled by her. In fact, he’s moving closer. When he grabs her hand, resting it on his thigh, she slides her fingertips over the rip in his jeans, ruffling the fringe. 

“Music helps, sometimes,” she murmurs. “It makes it harder to hear the ticking.” Looking up at him, she asks, “Do you think I’m a psycho?” 

Chrissy is coming to love asking questions she already knows the answer to. It’s like scraping the last of the cake batter off the sides of the mixing bowl, sweet and forbidden.

“I think you’re tough as shit. You’re battling psychic monsters .”

She shakes her head. 

“And you’re still going to class every day. I can barely make it to Pre-Cal when I got ten hours’ sleep.”

“Nobody else thinks like you. Jason, my friends, mom and dad…they’d never accept me, if I told them the truth.”

“A lot of people called my mom ‘crazy,’” he tells her. “They’d say nasty shit about how she couldn’t hold down a job, or keep the house clean. I don’t think she ever tried to get better—not the way you’re trying to. She’d rather disappear for a few weeks, until she felt steady enough to come home, than talk to a doctor or a social worker. Maybe she was crazy. But she was also whip-smart and funny and full of charisma. My favorite person in the world.

“If she was here, I’d want her to try, like you’re trying. But I’d love her either way.” He nudges her, smiling. “Chrissy, even if you are sick, or just…going through hell, for a little while…you’re still you.”  

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“Well, I’ve only been hanging out with you for a few days, and I already know you’re a kind person—unlike the rest of the preppy posse. You never let them turn you into a bully, you never let them dumb you down, and you never let them make you boring, either. You’ve got a wild imagination—you’d be an excellent D&D player, you really should come to Hellfire sometime. And you listen, really listen. My uncle’s the only person I’ve ever met who listens as well as you. All those things would be true, even if your best friend was a six-foot-three invisible rabbit.”

She beams with gratitude–but there is no apology within it, only exuberant joy. She feels as brave as she’s ever been. Three times today already, Eddie had said. What’s one more? So Chrissy leans in. 

And she kisses him. 

Eddie stiffens in surprise, so she waits, keeping her chapped lips against his; he won’t care that her sugar-sweet lipstick has faded. It only takes him a second to respond–just long enough for her to think the word “patience.” When he cups her cheek, she returns the gesture, wondering if he can sense how new this feels to her.

Chrissy has been kissed, of course. But now, she understands, she’s never truly kissed a boy before.  

She is the one to deepen it, wanting to show him she’s not fragile . Wanting to prove it to herself. She slides her tongue in his mouth, then bites his lip. How could she hesitate when Eddie is so eager? There’s an urgency in his caresses, as if he’s rushing to memorize the shape of her. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” she murmurs, nuzzling his jaw, savoring the scratch of stubble. Time doesn’t exist here, she thinks. There’s no ticking clock. The only sound is the duet of their breathing.

She expects him to palm her breast, or shove her down so he can grind against her. But Eddie lets her set the pace. He massages her shoulder, where she often carries stress, then moves to her ribs and her waist. 

When he pulls back to catch his breath, he’s smiling. 

Her friends would have had a quip prepared–one of the provocative dares they came up with together on the bus to Tigers’ away games. But Chrissy only grins helplessly, then kisses him again.

. . . 

They don’t go any further. To her chagrin, she yawns—an unpleasant reminder that she’s not a normal girl; she’s still recovering. Chrissy hurries to cover her mouth with her hand. 

“Contagious,” Eddie says, yawning, too, and she smiles sheepishly. His mouth widens until she can see his tonsils and his silver filling, like a cartoon.

“Did you, um. Want to crash?” he asks, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just to sleep, I swear. Since you said you needed a break from your parents. We could get breakfast at Devlins’ tomorrow, then hit the arcade.”

Chrissy shrugs, although her heart is pounding. “Ok. Just to sleep.” When she climbs off of him, Eddie whines in dramatic discontent, and she giggles, feeling smug. “May I use your phone? I want to make sure Nancy can cover for me, if my parents call. They do that, sometimes, when I’m at a slumber party. It’s so annoying.””

Eddie laughs. “Slumber party?”

Teasingly, she tugs on one of his curls; it’s odd, doing it to a boy, for once, but she likes it. “Hey! You’ve had slumber parties before. With the Tri-Delts and the band, remember?”

“Not the same thing. Hey, do you need Wheeler’s number? I’ve got it somewhere around here. Her kid brother’s in Hellfire.”

“No, I know it by heart.”

Once upon a time, Chrissy recited it as easily as her own family’s telephone number. When Nancy’s father grumbles, “Wheeler residence,” she twists the cord around her finger, thinking it feels like 1978.

“Hello, Mr. Wheeler. This is Chrissy Cunningham. May I please speak with Nancy?”

“Yeah, yeah, every kid in Indiana’s just got to talk to Nancy,”  he complains, his voice getting quieter as he steps away from the receiver.

“Chrissy?”

“Hi, Nancy, I’m so, so sorry to bother you,” she says in a rush. “Would you mind telling my mom I stayed over at your place tonight, if she checks in on me?”

“Chrissy, are you safe?” she asks, strangely tense.

Chrissy frowns, confused. “Yeah, the safest.”

“I don’t think we can get away with lying to your mom tonight. Once she finds out about Patrick, she’s going to want to make sure you’re alright. You’d better head home.”

“...What about Patrick?”

Nancy gasps. “Oh, god…I thought you knew.”

Her breath stutters with dread. “What happened?”

“Chrissy…Patrick’s dead.” 

“I just saw him an hour ago,” she says faintly.

“He was killed in the woods behind Benny’s. Jason found his body—Jason’s ok, but the paramedics had to treat him for shock. The murder hasn’t hit the news yet–Mindy called Lucas, and Lucas told me. But it will. Patrick’s wounds looked like Fred’s.”

Someone else might mistake her clipped delivery as unsympathetic, but she knows better. This is Nancy’s reporter voice. Chrissy recalls standing next to her at the club fair, listening to her recruit overachieving ninth-graders to the Hawkins High Gazette . “My personal maxim is: knowledge is a gift,” she told the awestruck freshmen. “It’s kindness. Keeping people ignorant is cruel.” That’s why Chrissy can’t delude herself for even a second that Patrick is alive, the way she did when her mom told her that Heather had died: Nancy Wheeler doesn’t lie. 

Chrissy doesn’t feel anything—not even grief, yet. There are no thoughts in her head. When she whispers the prayer for perpetual light, she’s barely aware of what she’s saying. All she hears is the tinkling of a piano, and a wistful serenade to a ballerina. Chrissy thanks the god she doesn’t believe in that she’s being spared quiet. 

Chapter Text

Chrissy flinches away from the word “murder” when she tells him, and Eddie hugs her. At least I’m strong enough to speak the truth, she thinks. Then she asks him to hold her tighter, hoping he can squeeze sensation back into her numb flesh. Feeling returns in pins and needles. 

Chrissy hates to burden Eddie with her incipient grief—especially after dropping her insanity in his lap—so she pulls away, trying to regain her composure. Yet the end of the embrace leaves Eddie at a loss. Restless, a little desperate. He offers her a glass of water, a bag of cheese puffs, a smoke, a ride home. She’s endeared enough to smile.

“I drove here, remember?”

That steadies him. “I’ll drive behind you. Just in case.” 

She nods, lacking the will for even a token objection. Then she retreats to the bathroom with her stockings; it’s a struggle to untwist them with her icy fingers, and she’s awkward, tugging them on. Once Chrissy is properly dressed, she regards herself in the tiny mirror over the sink. The glass is smudged with fingerprints and splattered with toothpaste. The grime suits me, she thinks. She feels unclean. 

As she exits, Chrissy notes the calendar on the opposite wall—it's the free one distributed by Our Lady of Mercy. She wonders whether Eddie’s uncle is Roman Catholic or merely frugal. “Bless this house,” it reads, “by night and day.” With the tender tranquility of the immaculate, the Virgin looks down on 1986. 

Touching the square marked March 23rd, Chrissy thinks, I’ll remember it forever.

The date of another Hawkins horror. It should've been the anniversary of their first kiss. 

Distantly, Chrissy recalls how Molly celebrated hers: she bribed the A/V Club president to play “Almost Paradise” over the loudspeakers before homeroom. It was her favorite love song, not Patrick’s, but, judging by his laughter, it delighted him anyway. If only they hadn't had that fight. Sadly, she admits to herself she’ll be little comfort to Molly now. 

She barely registers Eddie behind her, following her into the dark. He waits until she’s in the driver’s seat before he climbs into his van.

The radio plays static. Chrissy shivers along with the sound. Quickly, she switches to the oldies station, and it's a relief when “Moonlight Becomes You” drifts from the speakers, an unearthly echo. She lets her mind wander to her grandmother—it’s easier to remember someone who passed away at the expected time, long after her hair had turned pure white.

“I’ve got moonlight hair, you see?” she used to laugh, smoothing her chignon. “He’s singing to me.” Then she’d dance across the parlor, arms around an invisible partner, whom she claimed to prefer to any beau she ever had. Her boyfriends stepped on her toes at the VFW balls or sent her careening into the other dancers, too busy boasting about the Krauts they’d kill to pay attention to the rhythm: the only chorus they could hear was “Beware / the Yanks are coming.” Although it was commonly said that their violence was inspired by their honorable cause, Evelyn was certain they’d have invented a reason to unleash their bloodlust, if Uncle Sam hadn't done it first. “Never marry a soldier,” she warned her granddaughter, “or a policeman, or a gangster.” And she died as she lived: peaceful.

Lucky. Not like Patrick.

Chrissy focuses determinedly on the road ahead. It’s empty. Soon, she finds herself drifting, imagining the asphalt peeling away from the earth, rising, rising until her car’s floating in outer space. She speeds past the crescent moon, this time, to weave around the scales. 

And then the rows of mansions close in on her, and Loch Nora drags her down onto the flat, straight path.

The nosy neighbors have closed their curtains, and no one’s out walking their dog, so it wouldn’t require much courage to kiss Eddie goodbye. Still, indulging in romance seems obscene. I don’t need to pay penance for tragedy, Chrissy tells herself, like she did after every funeral this summer. But she feels guilty anyway. So she waves to Eddie through her front window, watching wistfully as he departs.

She stomps up the stairs. The planks are solid. The thud is satisfying. Chrissy wants to wake her parents, because she’d rather pretend this was an ordinary night, even if it earned her a sharp, “Are you an elephant?” from her mother. With her perm crushed on one side and poofy on the other, her monogrammed flannel crooked at the collar, she was at her least intimidating at night.

No one stirs. Dreamland, too, is silent, but there are vines there, slithering.

The vines are nearly black– bloated with blood, Chrissy fears. They curl around Patrick’s backward joints, proudly cataloging the wreckage of his body. His mouth is frozen open, his soundless scream trapped by the tendril forcing its way inside. It’s a mercy, Chrissy decides, that his eyes are rolled back, sparing him the view. When her mother shakes her shoulder, the red ground quakes beneath her feet, and Chrissy recalls John 15:5. “I am the vine,” Jesus said. “You are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit. Apart from me, you can do nothing.” 

“Oh, my dear!” her mother cries as Chrissy gasps into consciousness. “Thank the Lord you’re safe. You weren’t there when it happened, were you?” She kisses her crown.

“No, Mom, I wasn’t. I’m ok." She rubs her bleary eyes.

Her mother sniffles once, then schools her expression. “Good. That’s good. Why don’t we visit the Carvers. It’ll help to be among friends.”

There’s no use resisting, and besides, Jason deserves her condolences. So Chrissy dresses in the outfit her mother lays out for her: a white shirt, a steel blue sweater, and her plainest black skirt–the one her mother bought before the funeral at the Unitarian Church, tsking, “They might as well be atheists.”

She rifles through her daughter’s closet and the drawers of her vanity, unrepentant; she has no concept of privacy. After all, the house is hers, even if her husband is the one to pay the mortgage: “the woman’s domain,” she proclaimed, denying him the basement space that many men in Loch Nora keep for their exclusive use, to smoke cigars amid their trophies and signed footballs. It's "my Kitchen Aid in my kitchen," "my TV in my den," never "ours." Laura Cunningham owns every room, and that includes Chrissy’s.

She seats her at the vanity and begins to comb her hair, as if she is a little girl again.  Chrissy doesn’t look in the mirror. She doesn’t have to. She keeps her eyes closed as her mother stretches her skin, sweeping on mascara, and moves her head from side to side to brush on blush. She tugs at her earlobes, sliding in the pearls, which are miniature versions of her own. For a moment, Chrissy is at peace with the fact that her body belongs to her mother. 

And her mother rests her hand over Chrissy’s as they drive to the opposite end of the neighborhood. They both tense when Mrs. Carver twitches open the gingham curtains to peer through the transom before unlocking the door. Usually, she doesn’t bother to bolt it.

“Jason’s speaking to the police,” she says, inviting them into the kitchen, pouring water into three plain porcelain teacups. She startles when she realizes the teapot is cold. “He was the only witness. My poor, darling boy…”

Chrissy’s mother takes the pot from her friend, flicking on the burner. “Chrissy, why don’t you wait in the parlor.”

Wrinkling her nose at the smell of the gas, she obliges, even though she hates that room. Chrissy deliberately faces away from the trophy buck; Mr. Carver ordered the taxidermist to keep his torso intact, so he’d appear to be leaping out of the wall. (According to her mom, Mrs. Carver had wanted doilies and calico, but her husband vetoed.) 

Of course, the view of the mantle is hardly better: the photographs depress her. There are Mr. Carver and Jason, showing off a dead rainbow trout. There’s Arthur’s final school portrait. His hazel eyes are solemn–he hated getting his picture taken as much as Chrissy does—and his curls are slicked down. And there’s Jason in his tee-ball uniform, flushed after his first home run; the frame is painted to resemble a Major League Baseball card. Arthur was a victor, too, but there’s no commemoration of the Roane County Youth Chess Tournament. Chrissy wonders how long the McKinneys will display Patrick’s championship photo. Will Mr. McKinney force his wife to pack it away, so they can enter this new phase of life without sentiment?

She can hear anxious noises from every direction. A teacup clinks against its saucer, and Mrs. Carver says, “There but for the grace of God go I.” The toaster springs out Wonderbread, and her mother asks, “What should we bake? It’ll have to be special,” because they’ve never liked Mrs. McKinney, and she’s always known it. 

Jason’s words are muffled in the distance, but Chrissy can tell that they’re clipped by anger and anguish. She’s unsurprised that Sheriff Powell replies with an aggravated sigh. At the creak of the hinges, she hurries to meet the officers, eager to discover whether they’ve identified any suspects.

Officer Daniels stops short. “Miss Cunningham?”

“Oh, good,” the Sheriff says. “We can get another one out of the way. Were you at Benny’s last night?”

If they’d been at the precinct, the question might have sounded accusatory. It might have made her nervous, at Forest Hills. But Chrissy has home field advantage in this house, where she’s passed a hundred placid afternoons—once she learned how to manage Jason’s parents, anyway. She feigned ignorance of cross-stitch and jam-making, because Mrs. Carver took pleasure in teaching her, and she referenced Biblical parables in casual conversation. She spoke fawningly of Jason’s achievements—the real and the invented—and agreed to the wisdom of his every decree. And she mused how lovely country life would be, encouraging Mr. Carver to reminisce about his boyhood, rambling on his grandfather’s farm, where he milked cows, fed sows, and rode stallions bareback; they’d sold the place long before Jason was born, and doubled their fortune. The only memento, a brass barnstar, hangs above Chrissy’s head. She has more power here.

“No, I wasn’t invited. Jason and I broke up.”

“Why are you here, then?” Officer Callahan asks.

“Our moms are friends. And I still care.”

Daniels taps the spiral of his notebook with a golf pencil. “When’s the last time you saw Patrick McKinney?”

“At Delmonico’s, right before the party. Debi was there, too.”

“That’s Debi Finley, backspot on the cheerleading squad,” Officer Callahan informs his partner.

“How was he acting? Strange? Nervous?”

“A little down, maybe? But his girlfriend broke up with him a couple weeks ago, so. I think he isn’t—he wasn’t-” Chrissy takes a shuddering breath. “-over it. We didn’t talk for very long.” 

“Was anyone paying him any special attention?”

“No. No one was there except for us. And the cook. And Eddie, but he was outside, smoking with Franklin Higgins, the delivery boy.”

Daniels leans forward with interest. “Edward Munson? He and the basketball team had something of a rivalry, is that true?”

“Um, kind of. They don’t have much in common. And Eddie doesn’t like sports. But it really isn’t fair that the Tigers get all that funding-”

Sheriff Powell rubs his temples. “I’ve heard that speech before–from the source. Stay on track, please, Chrissy.”

Blushing fiercely, she tells him, “Well, it wasn’t planned. But we did drive by Benny’s—just for a minute. Eddie, um. Played a song about the devil really, really loud. Jason doesn’t approve of hard rock music.” Officer Daniels frowns—she doubts he’s ever pulled a prank in his life—and Officer Callahan rolls his eyes. “It’s silly, I know. The boys like to provoke each other, and I was a little...well, we did just break up…I thought it would be kind of funny. I’m so sorry.”

“Jason didn’t mention seeing you.” 

“I don’t know if anyone did. It was dark, and the window on my side was closed.”

Tugging his mustache, Officer Callahan says, “That’s what you were up to, you and Eddie. You were on a date.”

She looks back anxiously toward the kitchen. “I guess you could say it was a date.” 

Maybe they've been on more than one, she realizes, late.

The men stare in bald shock at the idea of a cheerleader dating a freak. It annoys her that they’re no more mature than a high school freshman. It worries her, too. How will they find Patrick and Fred’s murderer, if they’re so small-minded? Detectives ought to be worldly and unflappable. How will they capture him? If he’s at all intelligent, he’ll be able to intuit their moods and misdirect them. Chrissy read an article once about the Co-ed Killer—a quarter of an article, which was as much as she could stomach. According to the journalist, Edmund Kemper was a genius, and he’d never have been arrested if he hadn’t turned himself in. 

“That would make Jason jealous.”

“Maybe. I guess. Jason probably wouldn’t like it.”

“Was he prone to angry outbursts? Did he ever get violent?” 

“No. Absolutely not." She says it firmly, because he’d never vent his temper onto Patrick; he saves that for the nerds. 

“Who else was present?” asks Officer Daniels.

“The varsity cheerleaders, the varsity basketball players, and Mindy–she’s JV. It looked like a regular party. Except Molly–”

“Molly Andrews, another backspot,” Callahan interrupts.

“-was hanging out with Jason instead of Patrick.”

The policemen glance at each other, but Chrissy can’t decipher their meaning, and she doesn’t bother to inquire. It’s obvious they’ve got no legitimate suspects. Thankfully, they seem to have lost interest in Eddie. 

Once the officers have donned their hats and wished her farewell, Chrissy turns toward the den.

She finds Jason in the rocking chair, in front of the cast iron stove. The fire is roaring. He’s wrapped in a tartan blanket like a dozing grandfather, but he looks miserably alert. It’s clear he’s desperate to get up, but his mother ordered him to stay put and rest. On the table beside him, there’s a cup of tea, a glass of apple juice, and grape jelly toast with the crusts cut off, which he has yet to touch. When his eyes meet Chrissy’s, they are bloodshot and feverish. 

Unable to bear his gaze, Chrissy looks down. The new cross-stitched pillow on the couch reads: “The Lord will watch over your coming and going, both now and forevermore.”

“Chrissy,” Jason breathes. “You’re here.”

She clasps her hands together so she won’t be tempted to wring them. “I’m so sorry about Patrick. He was such a good friend. How are you holding up?”

Jason ignores her attempt at commiseration. “We’ve got to do something,” he says urgently. “Those stupid cops think he got killed by a regular psycho. They don’t understand. They didn’t see. I saw it, Chrissy. Patrick, he floated up, up–ten feet, fifteen–and then his bones…The sound, it was…I heard it. I was the only one. And his eyes, they…I saw it, I saw.”

Fighting the urge to flee, Chrissy reminds herself that it's normal to melt down, at a time like this. Sternly, she orders herself closer. She intends to pat his hand, hoping he’ll interpret the gesture as friendly, or even maternal. 

Her hand freezes in mid-air when he shouts, “It was the devil! The devil, through Eddie Munson. That Freak sacrificed Patrick. He must’ve done some kind of ritual. We should look for pentagrams in the woods, in the trailer park. Or maybe it’s the music…maybe it’s a curse. Maybe it gives him his power.”

“Eddie didn’t hurt anyone! Jason…” Careful. Be careful. “You don’t seem like yourself.”

“I haven’t told my mom yet,” he continues. “I didn’t want to scare her. But she needs to know. Everyone needs to know. Eddie brought the devil here. We’re all in danger until we stop them. We’ve got to stop them.”

“You’ve been through something terrible. Unimaginable,” Chrissy murmurs, trying to soothe him. But her voice is quivering. “You’re not thinking straight. You need to rest.”

Jason grabs her wrists. “Chrissy, you’ve got to believe me,” he demands, squeezing, while she struggles in his grip.

And then her mother is in the doorway, snapping, “Jason Carver, calm yourself,” and he lets go. “Chrissy, dear, come here.”

Her teeth chattering, Chrissy obeys her.

Chapter Text

“Unseemly,” Chrissy’s mother calls it. They don’t discuss Jason’s behavior further. They merely continue on to their next stop. Chrissy is slow to climb the stairs to Molly’s bedroom, hesitating at the sight of the “Keep Out” sign. It's never daunted her before.

Patrick was the one who stole it. After a humiliating loss to the MHS Timberwolves, the Tigers returned to Marsden after dark, armed with wrenches and spray paint, to loop "Wolves Suck!" around the cul-de-sac and scratch the “g” off of Angus Way. Andy brought home a "Beware of Dog” sign, which he hammered onto his sister’s door while she was at practice. After removing it, their father made him spackle the holes himself, which left an uneven dull spot she considered nearly as insulting. Now, there is a note taped over that patch of plaster. "I'll take care of it," Andy wrote, and underlined twice. Another warning? But of what? With an uncertain smile, Chrissy turns the glass doorknob.

The squad is here already, of course. Molly is in bed, propped up by satin pillows—she refuses to sleep on anything else, for the sake of her hair. Debi is offering her a plush fox and a tissue, bent like a servant with a palm leaf fan. Mindy and Tiffany are at the vanity, sharing an iced cinnamon bun while they sort through photos of proms and parties.

Chrissy's mother would call this scene “unseemly” too. Mawkish, maudlin, self-indulgent. But Molly, at least, is pretty when she cries. 

“What are you doing here?” Tiffany asks. If she'd said it any louder, it might have been a snarl, but she speaks as though they're already at the funeral.  

Mindy smiles at Chrissy, distracted, sliding a photo of Patrick into an envelope marked "’85." It's for the reception, she realizes, reminding herself to ask the principal about setting up a memorial in the trophy case. She hopes there will be enough space left to honor Fred.

“I’m here to say I’m sorry,” she says, her voice even quieter than Tiffany’s. “And that I want to help, however I can.”

Molly is staring fixedly out the window. There’s still nothing remarkable about the view—ordinary grass, trees, flowerbed, gazebo. “There's nothing you can do,” she sighs. "Nothing anybody can do." Her locket—a Valentine's present—rests against her skin, the chip diamond sparkling in the pale light of the morning. She presses her palm over it, as if trying to embed the silver heart into her flesh.

With her hair tied up and her bangs curly, Molly resembles the lady on the cover of the paperback Camille; even the bodice of her nightgown looks like a fichu. She and Chrissy had obsessed over the TV movie, declaring Colin Firth in an ascot to be Alexandre Dumas’s finest achievement. Chrissy assumes that the likeness is deliberate: the girls love their costumes, Molly most of all.

No. She only cares about the locket. The giddy, frivolous theatrics of their girlhood are behind them: Molly Andrews aged decades in an instant. And yet as her expression hardens, Chrissy has an awful premonition: that part of her will stay eighteen forever. The memories of her youth will crystalize, spiking into something dangerous, like chatoyant quartz riddled with asbestos.

Chrissy is ashamed that she boasted she’d outgrown Jason, comparing herself to a gladiolus, hardy and bright. I acted like I did something special. But I was just blessed, she thinks. She could have been stunted by betrayal, heartbreak, or complicated grief. 

Then again, there's no predicting how this latest horror will affect her: Chrissy's been learning new things about herself every day. She hasn't even begun to examine this grief. If only she and the squad could do it together—kindly, openly, with perfect trust. After all, Debi, Mindy, and Tiffany are the only people in the world who could ever understand the shape of it. The web’s overlapping threads: best friend’s boyfriend, boyfriend’s best friend, number 17, the winner they cheered for. 

Molly knocks the pillows to the floor. “If you hadn’t made Jason break up with you, we wouldn’t have had that party. Jason and I wouldn’t have been-I wouldn’t’ve-. I would’ve been with Patrick.”

“If you’d been with Patrick, you might have gotten hurt," Tiffany reminds her. "Patrick wouldn’t have wanted that."

“The only person to blame is the person who did this to him,” Mindy says.

They're flinching away from the word “murder” too.

Debi makes an odd, furious gesture, which is exaggerated by her enormous sleeves. The black is stark against the cherry blossom wallpaper: when Chrissy’s vision blurs, it is an abyss, slashing through spring. "Eddie Munson will be punished for what he's done, I promise you that."

“I bet he’ll get the chair," Tiffany says dispassionately.

“I'll hold your hand while you watch him fry, Moll." Debi speaks as if she's offering nourishment, the way Eddie pushed water and food at her because he didn’t know what else to give.

It makes Chrissy’s skin crawl. “Eddie wasn’t even there!”

How many times do I have to repeat myself before someone listens? she thinks desperately. At least it doesn't matter whether they believe her or not. Teenage girls have no power over the law. They can't truly hurt him.

She tells herself these revenge fantasies are no different from the ones they traded on the school bus, seething over rival cheerleaders’ snide taunts. "I'll tear her hair out." "I'll hold her down." Threats against girls they all knew they'd never meet again.

Tiffany pushes her thumbs through the holes in the cuffs of Chance’s gray Colts hoodie, the one she wears to sleep. "Eddie did it. Jason said so."

Mindy scoffs. “Jason also said Patrick was levitating! And he didn't even mention Eddie's name until later, by the way. First, he blamed Satan!" She shakes her head. “I get it, ok? He's in shock. But I’m not going to suddenly start believing in ghouls and wizards just because-because Patrick-...I’m just not, ok?”

“The boys will find out the truth,” Molly declares, lifting her chin. “One way or another. Andy promised.”

“What do you mean?” Chrissy asks.

“Jason called just before you got here. He said the Sheriff told him he needed "real" evidence before he could arrest that Freak. He wouldn't take Jason on his word. Since the cops aren’t doing their job, the boys'll do it for them.”

“They’re going to the trailer park to interrogate Eddie themselves,” Tiffany explains. “They’ll find out how he did it.”

"And make sure he can’t do it to anybody else," Debi adds.

While Chrissy reaches up to twist a lock of hair in frustration, forgetting how tightly her mother pinned her bun, Mindy shifts in her seat to hide her eyeroll from the others. “Apparently, Jason knows some prayers that’ll scare away the devil." 

“Jason needs rest. Not a Rambo mission!” 

“CC,” Debi sighs, so much kinder than yesterday. "He’s not your boyfriend anymore. It’s not up to you. At this point, I think helping to capture Patrick's killer is the only thing that'll make him feel better."

Her breath catches. She's got to call the Munsons' trailer. She's got to drive to Forest Hills. And then...what? 

It's doubtful that she'll be able to talk sense into the Tigers; even when she was their so-called queen, the boys rarely listened to her. Once, the squad might have tried to sway them on her behalf. But they’ll never back her now. Tiffany rules them. 

I’ll find another way, she tells herself. I don't need them. Then: They don’t need me either. They have each other.  

“I’m so sorry. But I've got to go." 

"Whatever, Chrissy," Molly says flatly. "Just go."

None of them deign to respond to her goodbye. Tiffany climbs under the covers, inviting Molly to lay her head on her shoulder. Debi grabs a few photos and sits cross-legged at the foot of the bed. She lines them up like tarot cards, peering at them as if searching for some hint of Patrick’s future, and Chrissy recalls that biblical prophecy is written in the past tense. 

In the kitchen, her mother and Mrs. Andrews are nibbling shortbread. “Wandered off in the dark while there’s a killer on the loose?" her mom is asking. "What did he expect? My Chrissy would certainly never be so reckless—or drink liquor that dulls the mind.” 

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Chrissy says meekly. "May we please go home?"

"Oh, you poor sweetheart," Mrs. Andrews croons. "You must be so tired."

She's wearing the Bulgari parure, gold and precious gemstones—Chrissy’s mother called it “vulgar,” especially after she heard the country club rumor that it was a bribe, Mr. Andrews’ attempt to placate his wife so she’d overlook his infidelity. Chrissy winces at the diamonds’ brutal flash.

“When we’re finished, dear," her mother says.

Maybe Chrissy can hitch a ride. Maybe she can run. If only there were sidewalks. There's little risk of a crash, of course—there’s rarely traffic on this road, and the speed limit's twenty-five. But she can’t stop picturing Fred’s ruined face.

Mindy appears beside her, smiling sweetly at the older women. "I can take you home, Chrissy."

Her mother’s lips thin as she takes in Mindy's scarlet turtleneck and acid-washed jeans. "That's fine. Drive safe."

"Red was Patrick's favorite color," Mindy informs Chrissy as they leave, defensive.

"I didn't know that. It's really beautiful on you."

Then Mindy slips Chrissy a Polaroid—behind her back, like it’s contraband. "I stole this for you.”

It's a photograph of Chrissy and Patrick caught mid-laugh, snowflake streamers sparkling above and behind them. Winter Formal, 1985. He looks handsome and modern in his black shirt and boxy white suit. He had a sharper flat-top, then, and a wider smile.

“You look like you came out of different decades," Mindy notes, because Chrissy’s ruffle-sleeved peach gown was more Sandra Dee than Lori Singer.

“My mom wanted to pay homage to her glory days, I guess." Her fingertip hovers above his face. "I wish I could remember what made us laugh." She only recalls the dance: he'd cut in after Jason got tired, dipping her as "True" transitioned into "Young Turks."

“I wish I’d been there,” Mindy sighs. “But I got ditched at the last minute for that cow Tammy Thompson. Patrick was the best of them. He was civilized. Every other date I ever had just wanted to hump me on the dance floor.” Then she sobers. “We’re lucky we get to remember him this way. Alive. Whole. Chance held the rest of us back, so Jason and Andy were the only ones who saw his body. Whatever they saw...it’s like it cracked something inside them.”

“They’ve totally lost it, Going after Eddie-”

“I do not believe Eddie Munson can teleport or astral project or sprout bat wings and fly. Did you know Lucas used to play Druid’s Dragons with the Hellfire Club? He told me himself—he didn't want me to be afraid, since Jason was screaming it was a doomsday cult. I told him to keep his mouth shut about it.”

“Why? Maybe he can convince them it's not dangerous."

“The game does have warlocks in it. I was worried it would make them even more unhinged.” She shakes her head, cursing under her breath as a truck speeds past them, its trailer swaying ominously. “I feel bad for Lucas, being caught in the middle. Plus, it’s got to be hard for him to lose both Patrick and Fred.”

“I didn't know he and Fred were friends.” I don't know anything, Chrissy thinks in frustration.

“That's the impression I got. Tiffany was going on and on about the autopsy, and Lucas kept wanting to talk about what Fred was like when he was alive. None of us knew much. I mean, come on. He was a non-entity. But according to Tiffany, he and the guidance counselor had a standing date. Weird, right?”

“Maybe he needed someone to talk to about the car crash. I haven't talked to Ms. Kelley much, but she seems like she'd be a good listener."

Chrissy is not certain why she's lying. She tells herself it is strategic, a way to keep the conversation on track or preserve whatever rapport they have left. But it doesn't feel like she's making a conscious choice. It's more like she is a scallop, snapping shut around the truth: no brain, no soul, just vigilance and hunger.

Mindy smiles without humor. “We should send Jason and Andy to her if they don’t chill out.” Then she frowns. "They'll have to do an autopsy on Patrick, won't they?"

"Yeah. It's the law, I think."

"I wish they could make a copy of Fred's. Then they wouldn't have to break anything else." Her lashes are unpainted, so the tear falls cleanly over her cheekbone. 

"Don't think about it," Chrissy says, trying to force the image out of her own mind.

Patrick had been her lab partner when they dissected the pig's heart in Biology class. Although his hands trembled just like hers, and his Adam's apple bobbed convulsively, he'd picked up the forceps and scalpel without complaint. "You read the parts out loud, ok, Chrissy?" he'd asked, and she'd tried to soothe him with the rhythm of the Latin, speaking softly, like an incantation. The atriums, the aortas, the venae cavae. She still remembers them. Now she wishes she could forget.

It had been a profound relief to peel off their gloves, tossing them on top of the meaty mess in the biohazard bag. Patrick had high-fived her, in honor of a job well done. Now that hand is frozen, never to be touched again, except by the same stranger who will saw into his chest, shove his fractured ribs apart, and inspect his major arteries and organs. At the end of the workday, the coroner will mop up his blood and throw the rag in the trash, tying the plastic with the same impatience they had felt, counting down the minutes to the school bell. He'll leave satisfied, having dutifully apportioned his parts, and dispose of them according to regulation.

Patrick McKinney, poured down the drain, into the sewer. Patrick McKinney, burned, sent to the landfill. Patrick McKinney, boxed up and buried in the dirt.

Mindy's breath hitches. "He just left him there. Crumpled up. Dropped like litter. And then he ran. Chrissy, nobody heard a sound. No leaves, no twigs, nothing. Who can move through the forest like that?" She shakes her head, nearly hitting the mailbox as she pulls into the Cunninghams' driveway. "He must have had a lot of practice, killing and escaping." She hums. "Maybe it's a good thing they're going after the Freak. A drug dealer, from that family? He's practically an expert on the criminal mind. He hangs out with all kinds of felons. Eddie must have some idea who did this. Hopefully Jason can make him talk."

”Goodbye, Mindy.” The air is balmy. Still, when Chrissy exhales, she expects to see fog.

Instead of a farewell, Mindy says, "Somebody has to pay."

Chapter Text

Chrissy is familiar enough with the look of grief, by now, to be certain that no one is dead. The neighbors have gathered outside to gawk at the Munsons’ trailer with varying degrees of begrudging concern. Mrs. Hargrove shakes her head, mouthing something Chrissy cannot hear, though the expression in her bloodshot eyes portends doom, and Mrs. Fritz curses bitterly at the new tire track in her carefully-tended grass. 

One of the boys broke a window. Chrissy hopes Jason was not to blame. On the Munsons’ porch, Max sweeps up the shattered glass with brisk little movements, while Wayne collects the larger shards by hand. The teenager's frown is even deeper than the old man’s–Chrissy thinks it would take little provocation for her to turn the faded red broom into a weapon. Eddie’s uncle appears stoic, but when he rubs his back, Chrissy can tell that he’s achy.

She rushes to help and to ask, “Where is Eddie?!”

“He’s alright,” Wayne answers. Neither he or Max appear surprised by her arrival, and Chrissy spares a second to wonder what Eddie told them about her as she exhales in relief. “Had a bit of a scuffle. Got a few licks in, himself. Decided it’s better he clear out, just in case the law comes looking. He went off to his friend Rick’s.” He waves her away from the mess, as chivalrous as his nephew. 

Despite his uncle’s reassurance, her heartbeat won’t stop racing. On the way here, she could barely concentrate on driving, with the violent images flashing behind her eyelids, every time she blinked. Blood on Eddie’s curls and Jason’s knuckles. A fist crushed beneath the wheel of a Cherokee. A skull hitting the edge of the porch. If anyone was seriously hurt, it wouldn’t be intentional, she’s sure. Jason’s not the homicidal type. She reminds herself that he's a Christian who idolizes lawmen, though he doesn’t always follow the law. Would he really risk a proper court case? It's not totally reassuring.

Accidents happen. All it would take was a moment of vicious carelessness for tragedy to strike, the silence cast from the sky, pale red-blue like a new bruise. This year, Chrissy has learned how fragile the human body is, and how swiftly luck can turn. 

To stop catastrophizing—Ms. Kelley’s word—she’d tried to make a plan. She would warn Eddie to flee before the Tigers arrived, driving him to safety, crouched in her backseat under her coat to deflect notice by a passing Jeep. She’d rally his neighbors—especially that man with the dog—to chase them out. She could even leap into the fray herself, trusting that would stop the boys in their tracks.

Chrissy is tempted to hurry off to see Eddie, now that she knows where he is. But some part of her knows it's wait here and find out the real story. Just in case, she thinks sadly, he decides he never wants to see her again.

Max hands her the broom and plops unceremoniously on the couch. Chrissy is glad she's sitting down: she still looks anemic. “Your ex-boyfriend is a psycho,” she tells her bluntly. Chrissy winces, hurt, despite the fact that she agrees, mostly. But Max’s frown is sour when she continues, “ My ex-boyfriend is a sheep. Half the basketball team came over to beat up Eddie.” 

Mrs. Hargrove salutes Chrissy, then braces herself on the side of the trailer, clutching at the handful of greenery cascading out of her window. Her daughter shows no worry, only scowls deeper. The other curious neighbors have already left.

In the distance, Chrissy can hear barking, but the dog quiets in time for soft-spoken Wayne to confess, “It’s a good thing I had that.” He nods at the hunting rifle, propped up against the door. ”Scared them off fast.”

He comes off as placid; it's difficult for her to imagine him brandishing a gun. In all of her imaginings, she never expected his uncle would protect him. Now it seems obvious that intimidation would work best. As a pack, the Tigers would assume they could overpower Eddie without effort. They wouldn’t be prepared for anyone to stand their ground or fight back, let alone an old man. 

The gun appears to have been passed down a generation or two. It looks nothing like the rifles favored by the men of Loch Nora; they have stainless steel barrels, which they brag are state-of-the-art. They’re oblivious to the fact that Chrissy doesn't care, either way, because despite her impressive aim, she shies away from guns. Even when they’re unloaded, they frighten her a little. The one time her dad took her shopping for hunting supplies, she’d been so overwhelmed by the glass case of revolvers and the cold aggression of the men perusing them, she fled back to the car. The men and boys shared tips on how to lure deer into their sights--they admired stags, not does or fawns--and how to snare a rabbit. She’d taken refuge in her cardboard Golden Book, a story about an alpine girl in a peasant blouse and dirndl, feeding blossoms to billy goats under the guidance of her adoring grandfather. 

Whenever Mr. Carver mocked her dad for his failure to bring in any game—the best he could manage was catching a trout or two—Chrissy comforted him with the fact that it made her like him better. Once, Jason’s father–-Jason, senior-–had taunted him, “I bet you cry at Bambi." (Chrissy’s mother’s reply had been sharp and swift: “I wouldn’t have expected you to know the plot so well, Jason. Is that the sort of movie you watch with your sons?” When Chrissy, suddenly sympathetic, had tugged at Mr. Carver’s sleeve and reassured him, “Don't worry. I cried, too,” her dad had guffawed and patted her head in approval.) Her family had been less patient with Jimmy, who used to be afraid of blood. They pressured him to join their camping trips, and it worked: at age eight, he almost bagged a quail.

It chills her that the boys in Hawkins are experts in all sorts of weapons.

To ground herself, Chrissy focuses on the here and now, but the ambient sights and sounds only add to her sense of unreality. A woman’s voice is tight with complaints about a leaky faucet, and a man is shouting about the rising cost of gas. She hates how easily they’ve returned to their day-to-day tasks, as if no boys had been murdered and no boys had committed brutal acts.

Then she hears the creak of a door, a little girl’s giggle, slow guitar notes, and plaintive crooning in Spanish. To Chrissy, it’s incongruous enough to border on bizarre. She can recognize a few of the lyrics, thanks to Spanish class. Color and green and moon and stars. For a second, she is distracted from the turmoil inside her, searching for the source of it. Across the street, a chubby woman smiles from her doorway, then shoos children back into the trailer, closer to the song. The tender way she holds the little girl's hand, instead of tidying her frizzy braid, makes Chrissy feel a pang of loneliness.

“I scared them off, too.” Max is saying, and Chrissy returns her attention to the important conversation. “Yelling at them. I told Lucas I was going to call his mom. Not that I would, but he doesn’t know that.”

She is unfazed by the threat of the most influential teenagers in Hawkins. Her tone is more irritated than bitter. Chrissy is impressed. It was brave of her to go against them. She doesn't know Jason well enough to know what Chrissy does: that he would never truly want to frighten her. While their classmates might accept it, considering that she's poor and a social nonentity, his parents and their pastor would punish him for harassing a younger girl in mourning for her brother, with no father or step-father to protect her.

“So was it hazing?” she continues, while Wayne glances over at them with sudden interest. “Playing some new game of Hunt-the-Freak?" She eyes Chrissy speculatively. "Is Jason the jealous type? Ugh, I can’t believe Lucas was with them.”

Chrissy conceals the relief that overtakes her, realizing that they didn't hear any mention of murder or revenge. She doesn't want to break the illusion that this was just a run-of-the-mill case of bullying. Max is too young to understand the truth (Chrissy ignores the fact that one of the Tigers was a boy her age.) And Wayne is too old. Based on his tired posture, he could use ten hours of sleep, at least; she wouldn't want to share bad news that kept him up, worrying.

The truth is, Chrissy is too afraid to confess that all of her friends have decided to take their grief out on Eddie. What if they blame me for not stopping them? She stares down at her reflection in a crooked triangle of glass, the blurry highlights of white and gold and the shadows, glum and uncertain. Then she resolves to talk to Eddie first. He’s street-smart, she reminds herself. He’ll know what to do.

So she lies. “Um, I’m not sure. You know boys. They’re always riled up about something." Max holds the hefty bag open so Chrissy can empty the dustbin. “You could sue for property damage, you know. My mom threatened to after Tommy H. ran into our mailbox, and Mr. Haven paid us to fix it. He made Tommy clean our gutters, too.” 

“They’d probably get Eddie in worse trouble,” Max points out. “Maybe they’ll counter sue. He hit Jason pretty hard.” She stands up. “I’ll call Steve. Maybe he can talk some sense into Lucas. See you.” She’s gone too quickly for Chrissy to find out how Steve knows him–and why, for that matter, he and Nancy were hanging out with freshmen on a Saturday.

Eddie’s uncle is already shaking his head, concentrating on cutting a cardboard box into a square. “I’ll take care of it.” Chrissy hands him some duck tape, and it secures it over the window frame. “I’d let Eddie know he’s good to come back, but I don’t have any of his friend’s phone numbers, and I’m already late for work.” He shakes his head with fond disapproval. “They're probably in his room, under all those papers. I tell him to straighten up, but what boy his age listens to his elders?” 

“I know where Rick’s place is. I can do it ”

“That’s real nice of you, Chrissy.” Although Wayne’s expression barely shifts, there is an amused twinkle in his eye when he replies. "I’m sure he’d rather get a visit from you than me.”

Chrissy is not so certain. What if he yells at her? Still, she steels her spine. If there are consequences, she’ll just have to bear them.

“Besides, I wouldn’t want him to be alone after a fight,” he continues. “It can get you feeling hard-done-by. His pops was like that—and so was mine.”

His farewell is warm, and Chrissy returns it with gratitude. In the car, she tries to cheer herself up on the radio: although she’s got no clue what the Germans are singing on “99 Luftballoons” sounds happy, which brightens her mood. The sight of the lake on the horizon and the familiar van behind the house makes her smile. She feels more confident that everything will be alright, the closer she gets.  

The lakehouse is not nearly as picturesque as she imagined, with a flat roof and siding the same dull brown as the trees. But Chrissy doesn’t need romance, at a time like this. She barely has the presence of mind to grab her backpack, with its little first aid kid, before she's running up the front steps and turning the doorknob. Of course, it's locked. 

Rocking on her heels as she waits for Eddie to answer, she is delighted by the thud of his heavy boots. As soon as the door opens, she throws herself into his arms. He hugs her back immediately, and when she rises onto her tip-toes to kiss him, he responds with more intensity than he ever has before.

But his voice is soft in her ear when he asks, “Chrissy!? What are you doing here? Everything ok?

“Of course I’m ok! It’s you I’m worried about. Your uncle told me what happened. Did Jason hurt you too badly?” She tilts her chin so she can examine him, her brow furrowing at the burgeoning bruise around his eye. She briefly kisses the unmarked skin below it, noting approvingly that it’s cold from being iced. His cheeks redden.

“Oh, I’m fine. Not the first fight I’ve been in, won’t be the last. Those jocks scurried like scared little mice.” His uncle was wrong: Eddie doesn’t sound hard-done-by at all.

“Well, you definitely need a Band-aid.”

‘I guess I could use one, if you’ve got one.” 

He takes her hand as he leads her to the kitchen. On the counter are a bag of frozen lima beans and an ashtray, where a joint is spent and a cigarette is still burning. He offers it to her, and she shakes her head, washing her hands with dish soap instead. Eddie widens his legs so Chrissy can step between them, and she dabs at the scratch left by Jason’s class ring with a tiny square of alcohol.

“Where else?” she asks with uncharacteristic sternness.  If there’s anything she’s learned from her experience at basketball tournaments, it’s that boys can ignore their pain almost as well as girls can. Andy outright laughed when he found out he’d broken his wrist in tenth grade, insisting, “All that matters is that it happened at the end of the last game of the season. I’ll be back kicking asses by fall.”

“That’s the worst of it,” Eddie swears, even as he presses the freezer-burned bag against his knuckles. When she peels open the Band-aid, he grins. “Are those little stars?”

“They’re cute!” she says defensively. Then she bites her lip, wanting to laugh at how the Tiger orange clashes with his complexion.

“Yeah, ok, they’re cute.” He lets her tilt his head for a better angle, carefully adhering the bandage to his skin. It’s oddly intimate how he submits to her direction. The only boy she’s ever touched like this was Jason, who preened smugly at her attentions, then brushed her off in irritation, as soon as she was finished.

Eddie is patient. “Happy to see you, obviously,” he says, once she’s satisfied. “But how did you know how to find me?"

“You told me all about Rick’s house at our picnic, remember? Your uncle said you were here.”

"Yeah, he told me to book it, just in case, and I wasn’t going to say no.” He looks down. “I’ve been enough of a burden on the old man.” With genuine regret, he tells her, “I hate that I left my uncle behind.”

“He didn’t mind. He’s just glad you're alright. He'd’ve come to see you himself, if he hadn’t had a shift at the factory. And you didn't leave him alone. Max helped him sweep up.” Indignantly, she adds, “It should’ve been Jason.”

Idly playing with the hem of her sweater, Eddie tells her, “Well, that one was a little my fault. See, Carver came banging through the door, but Ramos--that slimy fucker--was peeping in the window. I was dead asleep on the couch, still half-drunk, and having a really freaky nightmare. I was being stalked by those monkeys from the Planet of the Apes cartoon. You remember that one?” She shakes her head, confused. “Well, in my dream, I was throwing rocks to fend them off. I was still in dream-mode when I woke up, I guess. I just grabbed the closest thing I could find and pelted it at him.”

She covers her mouth, trying to suppress her giggle. She doesn’t believe that he is nearly as unaffected as he seems–it was only days ago that he was clutching her so tightly, after his encounter with the police--but he seems determined to lighten the atmosphere. So instead of bringing up Fred, Patrick, the police, or the Tigers, she asks, “What’d you end up throwing?”

“That big bowl on the coffee table, the one with all those shotgun shells. The window already had a crack in it from that hailstorm last year, so it went right through.”

“That’s Chance’s fault, then!”

His mouth turns up. “If you say so, I’ll take it.” Then, “The couch is pretty beat up, but it’s probably more comfortable.”

It is a dusty, dim space, but since Eddie's not complaining, she doesn't either. It only makes her more sympathetic, picturing his childhood of neglect. It’s not entirely forbidding, though, once she takes a closer look. The cheerful quilt he kept in his van is tossed over the arm of the chair. Actually, if she ignores the decrepit condition, she decides it suits Eddie a bit better than his uncle’s place.

The furniture is painted black. The poster on the wall is an ironic warning of the dangers of marijuana: “The Burning Weed With Its Roots In Hell,” it reads, above an illustration of a beautiful woman, surrounded by clouds of smoke and flames. On the mantle, there’s a silver sculpture of a dragon and a clay elephant with a rainbow tie-dye hide and half-lidded eyes; Eddie's eyes look sleepy too. And on the side table, there’s a loose leaf of paper covered in pencil sketches. It’s Eddie’s work–-she recognizes his style from the drawings scattered in the back of his van–-but this one is different from the others.

It's the outline of a girl's dainty silhouette, in profile. It's barely begun--her face is still featureless, besides one pointed ear. Her long hair is a few wavy lines, and the crown atop her head is three plain triangles. She wears a floor-length, flare-sleeved gown, like a princess in a medieval storybook, though her low neckline belongs on a futuristic sexpot in a sci-fi magazine. To Chrissy, however, she most resembles Tinker Bell. She has four wings.

There are explanations due, and there are plans to make. But for now, Chrissy is content to kiss him.