Chapter Text
There is a sense of bliss that comes with being a nobody. You never have to carry the weight of other people, and, if you wanted to disappear for a couple of days, theoretically, nobody would notice.You are no Atlas, bearing any immense weight on my shoulders, and you are no Heracles, descendent of the Gods burdened with a future of suffering and glory. You are a high school girl… Thank God.
Something you found out very quickly is that adults are desperate to mold the “nobodies”. They want, beyond anything, to shape the minds of children like clay in order to design a better future than what they could ever offer. It’s almost as if the second they had graduated from highschool, a switch clicked as they lost their grasp on their golden years. Once their fingers lost their fickle grasp on the luminescent threads that had weaved together some semblance of a human adult, the glow of the threads was quickly dulled until they were simply a pile of bland, shapeless loose strings. Rather than facing their own shapelessness and attempting to weave some sort of attainable future for himself, your brother has made it his duty to provide the role of a furious fate, tugging at your golden strings. Biting your heel with the tip of his dirty converses, he incessantly nags you as the can of hairspray follows inches behind him. You have grown used to this second limb of Steve’s in the morning. Sometimes, when he would drone on too long about a memory simply so he could bask in the golden ambiance of nostalgia, you swear you could see Farrah Fawcett’s mouth move, and, rather than hearing his grating voice, you would be listening to the advice of the Farrah Fawcett. That could also be the hairspray fumes getting to you.
“I’m telling you, miss know-it-all. You are going to regret skipping the pep rallies and games and all this ‘teenage shit’,” Steve rambles on as he chastises you for planning to not attend another school game, quoting your choice of vocabulary and calling it “teenage shit”. Sometimes, you can’t tell if these “lectures” are Steve’s attempts at giving genuine advice to his little sister in hopes that she will have an easy and fulfilling senior year at highschool, or just him jerking off his massive god damn ego as he peers back into “the glory days”- even if they were just two years ago. You can't help but let a groan slip past your lips, and you also can’t help but loudly draw out the groan, so Steve could fully understand your opinion on his advice.
“You’re making me regret living to see eighteen,” you bite back while shoving your haphazardly thrown together lunch into your bag. Steve made the mistake of scoffing whilst a steady stream escaped the hairspray can, causing him to choke in the middle of his dramatic gasp. He crumples like paper as he folds into a wheezing mess in the middle of the hallway. After Steve graduated, he seemed to have slowly folded in on himself and into either a man or a manchild. You hadn’t figured out which one. There was a noticeable descent from “King Steve of the basketball court” to “King Steve who looked like he took his amateur ‘professional bowling team’ a tad too seriously”. Of course, neither of you spoke about this obvious decline. you maybe just “jokingly” told him to shower more often than you used to… and maybe that sometimes wasn’t a joke.
“Hey, watch it, missy, or you can walk yourself to school,” Steve manages to gasp out as you shove whatever remaining papers lie on your desk along with a couple books you’ve been meaning to return to the library and are surely overdue. Your vices overcome you, and you can’t stop your eyes from rolling while storming back out of your room and slamming the door behind you. The loud noise rattles your older brother as he begins to recover from the self-inflicted, and a little deserved, coughing fit at the hands of his precious Farrah Fawcett Hairspray.
“Watch it, mister, or I might accidentally dig up your old baby photos while you're on the clock,” you dryly reply as your heavy feet carry you down the steps and to the front door. Your fingers graze the banister, weary of all the splinters you’ve received from it. The carpeted stairs were stained with too many memories to even fathom, and attempting to remember them all surely would cause any Harrington head to implode on the spot. You grab your converse from the shoe pile, right next to the designated shoe rack that nobody uses, and begin to slip them on as Steve stumbles behind you.
“Kids these days are god damn menaces,” is all he manages to seethe out as he trudges down the steps, “Not cool.” You sling your bag over your shoulder before shuffling out of Steve’s way, letting him unlock the door and be the first to exit the house.
Surprisingly, the monotone grey sky is more blinding than the brash blue on a cloudless day. Not an inch of sunlight is able to wrangle its way through the thick clouds, quickly wringing any feeling of “spring joy” from the two of you. Luckily, after listening to the forecast, you were well prepared to be disappointed. A chunky patterned sweater vest drapes from you like hefty theatre curtains, but, you could swear on your mother, this sweater vest is better then any hug you had received in the past year- hell, maybe even decade. Steve quickly unlocks and jumps into the driver seat of his car. That car practically is his own little home away from home. You're surprised that Steve even attempts to date, since it is very clear he will always love his car more than any girl. Your finger dances on the hood of the car as you round it and head for the passenger’s seat. However, as you near the seat, you sense your brother's burning gaze on you like he's trying to turn you to ash before you could plop yourself into the seat.
“No no no. Nice try, missy, but Robin is sitting there,” He spurts out before you can even open the door, and, at the mere mention of her Robin, you let out your second audible groan of the day. It’s not like you hate Robin. You don’t have any good reason to. However, since Robin started working with Steve, they have become inseparable. Now, if you were only Steve’s friend, that’d be great for him. You’d be cheering for him in the stands as he rode off into the sunset for his shift at whatever minimum-wage customer service job he was working this year. However, as his sister, having Robin around always means that you’re getting shoved around like a loose tissue instead of getting treated like a basic human. Again, you don’t hate Robin. It is clear that she and Steve got along great. Steve’s favorite hobby seems to be disappearing for a couple weeks and then returning with a couple bruises and some deep-set trauma that he wouldn’t talk about with you or really anyone, but Robin is able to get something out of him. Whenever Robin is around, Steve’s shoulders drop, the air feels a little less tense, and his car is a little less stuffy. Dismally, you drag your feet to the backseat, making sure Steve can see your disappointed face before wildly swinging the car door open.
“At this point she should just replace me as your sister,” you grumble out as you toss your bag into the pile of filth that took up the other backseat. The second pile is nearing your height. Part of you fears it will soon gain a sense of consciousness. Fingers crossed it won’t have Steve’s insufferable personality.
“If I could, I would, dickhead. Sadly, I’m stuck with the family I got,” he retorts back as he puts his precious baby into reverse. Before you even buckle yourself in, you jump from your seat and smack the radio on. From the radio, perpetually stuck on whichever random station isn’t playing ads at this very second, some trashy Police wannabe blares from speakers as Steve speeds down the street.
“Good morning to you too,” Steve quips as Robin heaves herself into the passenger seat without any greeting or pleasantries. You sigh to yourself as you mentally prepare to deal with their conversation for the rest of the drive to school. Steve turns down the radio as Robin rolled her eyes at his comment, stealing the comforting buzz of the speaker beneath your feet,
“Shut it, Steve. I just had the most awkward night of my life,” Robin moans out as her head bangs on the dashboard in front of her. As she does so, you catch her eye as she peers back at you through her armpit. Like a light switch, her demeanor changes. Her shoulders tense and back goes rigid. She shoots up from a slouched figure to discomfitingly stiff posture. From the rear-view mirror, you can see her gaze flicker between you and Steve. Your eyebrows furrow as you decide to not question her change in posture. However, you can’t help but notice how ragged her breath is. Her shoulders are almost raised to her ears as she tries to almost hide between them. When her gaze lingers a little too long on you in the rear-view mirror, you wave at her awkwardly before her eyes jump back to look at Steve. You know Robin well enough to know that she knew that you didn’t like her, but there were never feelings of distaste or hatred harboured by her. However, some days, like today, she would act in an odd manner. Not speaking a word, she would shut down completely. Hell, you would think she’s dead if you didn’t occasionally catch her lightning-fast gaze in the mirror. You don’t know what caused this. If you had to guess, theorizing off of what little Robin-based knowledge you had, she either shit herself in that very second, or she was sleeping with Steve and scared to talk to his younger sister about it, even if you were in the same grade. Either way, you don’t care enough to ask. Maybe it is better if you didn’t know. Steve doesn’t bother asking whenever this happens. The first time it happened, he bickered with Robin in hushed tones for maybe two or three minutes, but, since then, he hasn’t tried. Instead, he follows her pattern of his eyes flickering between you, Robin, and the road. However, instead of politely waving at him when you catch his gaze, you just flip the bird.
“I’ll tell you during my shift,” she brushes off her previous comment, shifting in her seat. Unwilling to stew in the awkward silence that has too high of a likelihood of secretly being sexual tension, you lean forward and crank back up the radio. Luckily for you, this time, it genuinely was the Police.
Fishing your overdue books out of your backpack, you toss several different novels onto the librarian’s counter. Among the many were “One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich”, “The Petty Demon”, and “Crime and Punishment”, each of which the librarian seems more than ecstatic to see. She shares the same glimmer in her eyes that Steve has for his car, as if, with each book you returned, a year was returned to her life. It’s as if her soul is chained to the novels that rest within her walls. Happily, she scoops up the novels and gives a curt nod in thanks. You politely smiled, pulling up the corner of your lips and nodding back at her.
“Well, I suppose I’m glad to see these returned before the end of school year,” the librarian optimistically chirps, and you chuckle in reply, hoping that no tinge of red on your cheeks gives your embarrassment away.
“No promises on the copy of ‘The Brother Karamazov’. Dostoevsky didn’t really write with library dues in mind,” you reply, making small talk. The librarian lets out a choked chuckle at your comment, both surprised but deftly agreeing with your statement as she enthusiastically nods in acknowledgement to you.
“That book takes most kids over a month to read,” she comments as she carefully places her children onto the book cart. Her fingers are quick and skittish, almost restless, as they dance excitedly on the rim of each novel. Each of them is eager to place the novels in their rightful homes. While the library is miniscule and incredibly unimpressive in comparison to the county’s sole public library, a plethora of classics have managed to find their way here through the help of middle aged men and spill over from the county library.
“Well, wish me luck on finishing it by spring break,” you sigh out as you deftly zip up your backpack and swing it over your shoulder. With immaculate timing, the first bell rings as you flash a quick smile to the librarian. She politely waves goodbye to you before returning to her books. Your feet swerve and begin walking before you can even register fully that you need to get going.
“Good luck!” she chirps like a morning lark, and you turn to wave back at her before exiting the library. Thankfully, your first period is a very close walk from the library. You don’t know whether to blame fate or smart planning by the school for the coincidence, but, knowing the school, you put your money on fate. Letting your eyes drift, the people passing by you blur into a mesh of movement, and you swiftly stroll down the hallway. Narrowly avoiding a few mindless bodies, you’ve found that staring straight ahead, giving no mind to your surroundings, results in the hallway making its own clear path for you. People part like the Red Sea the second they’re met with resistance.
As you near the door, a freshman attempts to squeeze between you and another student as they dart down their hallway. With how fast the freshman is moving, you’re half convinced that some senior has drilled into their mind that, if they are late to first period, they will magically implode on the spot. Whoever convinced them that, good on them. You lose your footing and are flung to the lockers. The handle of the locker digs into your side as the freshman mutters out a half assed apology. Then, without looking back, they continue their mad dash down the hall. Luckily for the freshman, the shove was light, and nowhere on your body can you feel any bruises or injury. So, you shake off the light sting on your hip that wriggles and roils around in your nerves as your hand presses on the cool metal name plate of your teacher’s door. Often, most find the scent of old novels and worn stories comforting, but the wafting scent of stale books in Ms. O’Donnell’s classroom is suffocating. The inescapable stench of mold and mildew dances in the air like a song on the breeze. However, this song is sour and makes you worry that your lungs might have some sort of infection from how much dust you’re inhaling in this class. Your nose scrunches and throat tightens as you rush over to your seat. A dismal amount of students seem to be present this morning. If anything, you blame the lack of students on the epidemic of senioritis, and the excruciating amount of self discipline it takes to deal with Ms. O’Donnell this early in the morning. However, what you did not expect to see, when you entered class today, is your footrest stolen from you.
“Good morning, students,” Ms.O’Donnell croaks out as you struggle to fully contemplate the anomaly before you. Eddie Munson, designated school freak, for the first time since the beginning of the concept of time itself, is actually attending and on time for first period english. His back is pressed against the unforgiving plastic of his chair, and he’s slouching so far down that his neck is almost level with the top of the chair. Drumming his pencil against his desk, a rhythm eternally unknown by the rest of your classmates leaks from his fingers and onto the wood of his desk. While he might call his ripped jeans punk or metal, any teacher in this establishment would call them sloppy and disorderly. However, you can easily read from his attire that his intention is to fight against conforming to the world around him. He exudes a constant energy of always being too close to the fire alarm because he’s secretly planning to pull at any moment. You don’t know much about him, but have been a victim to his “riveting” speeches during lunch. It has always been very clear to you that he never fully knows what he is talking about, but it’s very clear that he also doesn’t care to know. So, whenever he goes on his tangents of “sticking it to the man”, you and your friends giggle and turn your backs to him to ensure that nobody catches his gaze during his speeches. He is chaos personified, and what you hate to see in first period english.
“Morning,” you and the rest of the class spew out with what little energy the dozen or so of you could muster. Your intestine curls in on itself as you digest the truth that, with Eddie in front of you, you have lost your foot rest. For, most likely, the entire year, you had used the free seat in front of you as a place to rest your feet as you stomached whatever lecture O’Donnell managed to vomit up. However, with Eddie there, you have lost the best part of your first period English. A few other students find their way to their seats as O’Donnell begins to drone on about the hidden themes within Orwell’s masterful writing, and, while you don’t inherently disagree with O’Donnell, you still find yourself immensely bored by her lectures. One thing you, to this day, have never fully found comfortable is the little wave one girl gives you whenever she enters class. You don’t know her name, and you don’t care to. It isn’t out of malice that you refuse to learn her name. You don’t have any secret and vile disregard of her because of her gender or because of your hidden ego, which lies dormant beneath layers of flesh and skin. Simply, it is because all you know about her is that she dated your brother for a week when you were a sophomore, and, to your extent of knowledge, the only thing that she knows about you is that you’re Steve’s sister. Her intent behind why she waves at you is truly beyond your hubris.
“Hey. Hey,” someone sharply whispers as they rap something metal against the wood of your desk. What you can tell was intended to be a light tap of a knuckle against your desk is, instead, a loud and piercing slash of tough metal grating against the wood of the desk. Of course, you immediately know who made the noise. Most likely, everyone knows who made the noise without even looking. However, they choose to ignore it. You, sadly, are not granted the same gift of ignorance. You whip your head forward and meet eye to eye with Hawkin’s very own Eddie Munson. You don’t verbally reply, just shoot him a look that you prayed screams “unless you’re asking for a pencil, do not talk to me and be glad I don’t cut your tongue out” as you crane your neck out before returning to scribble out the date in your notebook. Eddie sighs, collecting what little is left of his ego, before truly selling his soul to Satan.
“Hey, I’m talking to you, dude,” he jabs out between clenched teeth as his rings graze your desk again. You sharply exhale before picking your head up, looking at him with a stern gaze. Something about your stare states that your time is precious, and, if anyone is to waste it, there will be additional fees.
“And I’m listening,” you sharply reply, and, stretching your neck to look past his loose mop of curls, you nonchalantly copy down a few of the important notes that O’Donnell is jotting down. Even though you attempt to make your disinterest in talking with him very apparent, he either refuses to or sincerely doesn’t notice your indifference.
“I need your help to save my ass from the wrath of O’Donnell,” he admits through his teeth while leaning back to talk with you. His table begins to wobble and lift from the ground as it fights against all of his weight.
“You need my help?” You chuckle back with an expression of disbelief, and you don’t even fight to hide the testy smirk that curls up your lips. Eddie scoffs as his fingers twitch, and his eyes roll up as he dramatically shakes and twitches like he’s holding himself back in this very moment. What a gentleman. Some of the metal on his clothes shakes with him, causing a light and airy jingle to ring through the air like wind chimes on a morning breeze. He purses his lips and takes a deep breath before continuing.
“Yes, I ‘need’ your help because I am currently failing this class, and I need at least a D to pass and get the hell out of this god damn hellhole,” he seethes out like smoke out of a sewer grate with an almost rhythmic pace to his speech, putting certain emphasis on words like its a Shakespeare sonnet. You can tell that he’s attempting to be genuine, but, blame the Harrington in you, you can’t help but shoot back a sly remark.
“Oh, wow, is this how you show you’re a nonconformist, because you are one, right?” You lean forward on your desk, ignoring your notes for a few seconds, “You’re ‘sticking it to the man’ by getting a girl to tutor you.” Your face is close to his at this point- too close to his. A renegade strand of his hair manages to lightly brush your cheek as you discover the canyons where his pupil and iris meet and intertwine. The texture of his flesh turns to maps of far off lands and mythical geography. You flash him a sickly and cynical smile before leaning back in your chair and returning your attention to the board. You can tell he’s fuming in his seat, a firework ready to blow up in your face. His fingers curl to fists as his rings jab into his skin. You chuckle to yourself and soak in his request. As his words begin to settle, they slip past your snarky facade. You begin to genuinely consider them, and, while you don’t feel pity for him, you do feel bad for your rude and snappy reply. Something within you screams ‘He’d just show up late or ditch you!’, leaving you with the convoluted expression of a grimace and furrowed brows as you continued to think. You could make a decent amount of cash off of it, and it’d be better than any of the shitty minimum wage jobs that Steve has worked. If the sessions went from three to six, and he paid around 15 for it, that’d be about five dollars an hour. That’d be almost double of what your brother currently makes. On top of your job at Melvald's, you could have a slightly above average income for an 18 year old. And pretty average is famously decently better then just average.
As he begins to turn around in his seat and bask in his failure, you whisper out, “I can get you up to a C minus, guaranteed. 15 bucks a session, and, if you’re missing or late to a single one, good luck finding a new tutor.” His eyes jump back up to meet yours as he stops halfway. You can barely catch his look but, from the corner, you watch a glimpse of a spark ripple through his scleras. The edges of his lips twitch their way up into a twisted smile as a sharp exhale, almost a cough, tumbles from his lips.
“You got yourself a deal,” he replies before turning back around with an air of smugness emanating like the buzzing light from an old lightbulb. You can almost smell his smirk as he jauntily shakes his shoulders and slouches back into his seat. Even if you don’t make an exorbitant amount of cash from this deal, you’d at least get a good story to share at the lunch table. A small, genuine smile finds its way onto your face as you settle back into your seat and allow yourself to be wholly consumed by Ms.O’Donnells lecture.