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Summary
It was all Nancy Drew’s fault—or whatever her fucking name was.
Billy was certain. He was more than certain. He was more certain than he was about the sun setting and rising every day, and the neighbour above him faking her orgasms at a pitch meant for dolphins every Friday night, eight on the dot. He was certain enough that he’d gamble his entire paycheck on it.
Nancy Whatever-the-fuck-her-name-was was to blame for this.
This being Steve Harrington, eyes hollow and mouth dry, banging on his door and asking for Adderall like every other cookie cutter, using-daddy’s-credit-card college student in Oakland.
“Dude,” Billy said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.