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Eddie knows it’s not the smartest thing in the world, to space out during class like that. Especially because this is his last chance to graduate—the school won’t let him try another time. Final chance and all of that. Fucking bleak, really.
Chemistry is still fucking boring. It doesn’t get into his fucking head, and he starts bouncing his leg, starts trailing off, and suddenly, he has no idea what the teacher is talking about. Jeez. Why is he like this?
So… on edge all the time.
Instead of beating himself up further, he starts twirling his pencil with his fingers, at least until he almost launches it across the classroom. Jeez, okay, maybe he should stop fucking doing that. While he doesn’t give too much of a shit about school (unfortunately), Mrs O’Donnel will still fucking murder him if he’s loud in class.
Eddie starts humming under his breath, furrowing his brows and shutting up the moment he notices. Not being loud in class and all that.
Okay, this is fucking hard. Especially because he now has fucking Holy Diver stuck in his head. Which, hey, he’s not complaining, it’s a fucking great song, but bouncing his leg to the imaginary beat doesn’t seem to be fucking enough, and he feels like he’s going to turn inside out with both restlessness and boredom.
Finally giving up, he scribbles some of the lyrics directly onto the desk—in pencil, and glancing up to make sure Mrs O’Donnel doesn’t see him. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s vandalizing school property, but hey, still. He shouldn’t risk detention or a fucking fine if the old lady is feeling particularly nasty.
Holy Diver
You’ve been down too long in the midnight sea
Oh, what’s becoming of me?
Ride the tiger
You can see his stripes but you know he’s clean
Oh, don’t you see what I mean?
He gives a satisfied hum. Eddie’s brain is a little quieter now. But before he can even enjoy that fact, the bell rings, and class is over, anyway.
Oh, well. Go figure.
.
He has honestly forgotten by the time he has Chemistry again. Eddie’s mind is somewhere entirely else—drifting in the skies, and he slouches into his chair, ignoring the grating tone in Mrs O’Donnel’s voice to start bouncing his leg instead.
Today, he doesn’t even attempt to get his supplies out. He won’t be able to listen anyway—so he throws his bag under the desk and goes to lie down on the wood, just fall asleep. He’s really fucking tired. Probably smoked too much weed yesterday.
That thought becomes a lot more apparent when he blinks at the wood of the desk. There’s something on it, he realizes—and it’s not his song lyrics from last week. Those have been erased.
No, it’s loopy, pretty handwriting, with the is dotted with little hearts. Eddie blinks again.
Don’t vandalize the desk.
And that’s it. Eddie laughs to himself, ignoring the teacher’s sharp comment, and rubs over the pencil writing on the desk with his thumb. The handwriting is… cute. A girl? Most likely. No guy would be caught dead writing with little hearts.
Somehow, it lifts his spirits. Somehow, it flutters warmly in his chest, giddy, almost, and he gets his pencil out of his bag anyway—but not to participate in class. No, to write but you’re doing it, too, right under the pencil writing of the other person.
Their handwritings look silly together. Loopy and pretty, right above his own chicken scratch. Eddie snorts, before looking back up at the blackboard, trying to at least pretend to listen to class.
He’s not all that twitchy, today. But he doesn’t really notice that.
.
For some godforsaken reason, Eddie finds himself looking forward to Chemistry.
And that’s definitely not because of Mrs O’Donnel or Chemistry itself (which is painfully, awfully, completely and utterly boring), but because of his desk. And what might be on it.
Which is so stupid. Why is he so giddy because of a few potential words on the desk? It’s stupid, but hey, whatever small thing brightens his day, brightens his day.
When he sits down, there’s a sinking disappointment in his stomach at the empty looking desk—but then he looks again. And well, both messages from last time have disappeared, but there’s a new one there, now. A new message.
Eddie smiles to himself, his chest doing a weird flutter thing. It’s the same loopy handwriting. The message reads: Stop it!!!
And underneath it, smaller, the pencil reads: (Holy Diver is a great song, though. Don’t drag Dio’s name through the mud with vandalism.)
God, he feels like he could die happy right now. An exaggeration, of course—but hey, the other person answered. Not only that, but they also like Dio, which he really wouldn’t have assumed from the handwriting.
It’s stupid to have a vague crush on someone whose face he doesn’t even know, but hey, it’s whatever. No big deal, it’s not like he’s undyingly in love. How could he be? He doesn’t even know them. Only their handwriting. Part of their music taste.
He could, though. Get to know them. Eddie’s fingertips dig into the lacquered wood of his pencil as he writes, I’m sorry, and then, You like Dio? What’s your favorite song?
And yeah, maybe they won’t continue to answer. Maybe they think this is a hassle, and he’s being annoying, and they’re going to tell the teacher that they want to sit somewhere else instead.
But hey, maybe… maybe he’s brightening someone else’s day in such a small way, like they are doing with him. Maybe they smile when they see his answer.
Maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Eddie’s stomach is thrumming.
.
The cafeteria is loud as fuck. And shit, usually Eddie revels in loud sounds. He loves them. Puts the radio at the highest possible volume, blasts music in his room, plays the guitar louder and louder and louder. Sometimes, Wayne tells him he’ll turn deaf by thirty.
Eddie reckons he can make it there earlier.
Okay, but the point is: usually, he doesn’t mind that the cafeteria is loud. Doesn’t mind Wheeler nagging about something, while Henderson and Sinclair talk about something else, Jeff and Gareth and Paul either occupied with their food, or chattering, too.
“What do you think, Eddie?” Wheeler asks, suddenly, and Eddie lifts his brows. He has no fucking clue what the boy was talking about, so he just stares him down until he clears his throat. “Uh, Dustin and I were talking—”
And that’s when he sees her.
Chrissy Cunningham walks past the other side of the cafeteria, and it’s like in a cheap, stupid movie. It feels like time slows down around him, like the air begins to sparkle, and Eddie feels how his lips part slowly at the swing of her ponytail. She’s in a blouse, today—a pretty one, and a frilly, long skirt.
Not really what one would expect his type of girl to be, he knows, and he also knows that he’s being the biggest cliche in the world right now. That he turns into one every single fucking time he sees her.
Gareth elbows him, snickering.
“Staring at cheerleaders again?”
Eddie shoves at him, before swallowing, turning back to Wheeler. “What did you say?”
And Wheeler just stares at him with furrowed brows until he murmurs, “Nevermind.”
(There’s a thought budding at the back of Eddie’s head. A dangerous thought. A thought about strawberry blonde hair and that bright smile back in eighth grade and loopy handwriting. A faint hope fluttering in the pit of the stomach.
Yeah, as he said: dangerous. And stupid. God, he’s such a fucking stereotype that he’s getting sick of himself.)
.
There’s no answer on the desk. Eddie’s heart falls to the floor and bursts into a million shards, and he barely even hears how one of the other students giggles about him and calls him slow for freezing up like that.
Chemistry is especially hard that day. He goes home and gets really fucking high.
.
Next week, when it’s Chemistry day again, Eddie’s lying in his bed and staring at the ceiling. He has to get up, go to school, but everything in his body feels like lead.
God, he’s so fucking stupid. How does this little ruin an entire week for him already? How is this enough to make him dread sitting down in Chemistry today? He’s so fucking annoying, Jesus fucking Christ.
He skips school, anyway. Listens to Holy Diver on repeat, until one of the neighbors outside is yelling at him so loudly to turn the music down that he’s close to sprinting out of the trailer and getting into a fistfight.
.
The passage of time is merciless. Before Eddie can even blink, it’s Chemistry day again, and he doesn’t feel like skipping school again (would just make him feel like more of a pathetic fool), so he reluctantly gets into the room, walking over to his desk and dropping down.
He doesn’t really look at it—he knows there will be nothing on that wood. O’Donnel is already far into her tirade when his gaze finally drops because he’s moving to lie on the desk again. He freezes.
In faint, pencil letters: Dio? Rainbow in the Dark. In general? Uptown Girl.
Eddie blinks. The same… the same fucking loopy handwriting. He’d recognize it anywhere. His heart skips a beat, his stomach flips, and his gaze drops to another, more fresh looking writing right underneath it.
You okay?
His heart is hammering against his rib cage, trying to escape, and his palms are so fucking sweaty. He grins to himself, his entire being lighting up in glee.
“Holy shit,” he mutters.
And even as Mrs O’Donnel yells, “Munson!” he doesn’t stop smiling. No, instead he takes his pencil and scribbles, Wow. Seems like you’re a really nuanced person, into the wood of the desk.
.
Next week, there’s two separate handwritings on the desk. The loopy one he knows, and one that looks more blocky.
The latter reads: get a fucking room, and is very clearly newer than the other one. Eddie grins to himself, his gaze flickering to the loopy handwriting instead. It’s so pretty. The letters are so… adorable. Perfectly formed.
(He cringes a little at his thoughts. Jesus, for all he knows, this girl could be butt-ugly. But hey, maybe that wouldn’t even matter.)
Maybe, reads the loopy pencil writing. Maybe I’m full of surprises. But maybe I’m also boring.
Eddie frowns to himself. Jeez, he can’t have that—so he takes out both his pencil and his eraser, scrubbing away the other comment that’s not loopy and pretty before leaving his own under the loopy handwriting.
I’m sure you’re not, he scribbles, glancing up at the blackboard so it looks like he’s taking notes. Not that he could really fool Mrs O’Donnel like that, the woman might be old but she’s not fucking stupid. You’re probably the most interesting person in this school.
And okay, maybe he’s exaggerating, but he wants to make someone laugh, alright? Is that really that much of a crime?
.
Lying awake at night, Eddie thinks about skulking about in front of the Chemistry classroom to maybe get a chance to peek inside and see what kind of people sit at his desk throughout the week.
It’s a dumb thought, of course. No teacher would let him do that—not to mention that it would be very weird and also vaguely stalker-ish.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters to himself, rubbing his hands down his face. His stubble prickles. He’ll need to shave later. “I’m such a fucking weirdo.”
.
There’s a thought budding at the back of Eddie Munson’s head. Growing and growing, and he knows it’s going to bloom. Knows it like the sky is fucking blue, like he knows how to play the guitar, like he knows the inside of his mouth with his tongue.
A thought about grey eyes and loopy handwriting. A thought about the smell of cinnamon (he knows, he’s sniffed her in passing) and strawberry blonde hair.
He’s fighting against it, kicking and screaming. It’s a stupid, unlikely thought—and it will just end up making him feel like shit when it turns out to be false. And God, he really thought he’s gotten over this stupid middle school crush by now, but here he is, heart fluttering as he watches Chrissy Cunningham across the hall, hiding her smile behind glittering fingernails as she talks to one of her friends.
She’s in her cheer uniform for the championship game. Her legs look good as she walks by. Eddie clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair before tugging his locker open.
Yeah, he definitely needs to get a fucking grip. Jesus Christ, he’s being such a loser right now.
(The school’s freak pining for the head cheerleader, the Queen of Hawkins High? Really? Really?)
There’s a note in his locker. Not unusual, really, but this one is folded neatly, pale pink paper, and he furrows his brows before plucking it from one of his books. He doesn’t remember any of his regulars using paper like that, especially not one that smells like fucking strawberries.
A new customer, perhaps. And when Eddie unfolds the note, he drops it on the floor together with his heart, because of fucking course it’s the loopy handwriting, complete with the hearts, that he knows so well from his goddamn Chemistry desk.
A lot of feelings are swirling in his chest as he kneels to pick the note up, stuffing it into his pocket. Surprise. Shock, really. Excitement—he’s going to… he’s going to meet the person he’s been having this weird pen-pal relationship with. Apprehension. Worry. He’s going to meet the person he’s been having this weird pen-pal relationship with.
Fuck, the thought at the back of his mind has already turned into a fully blooming flower, and he only looked away for like a single fucking second.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’s so fucking screwed.
(It’s not going to be Chrissy Cunningham, you stupid fucking lovesick fool, he tells himself and crumples up the paper. He feels bad for it the moment after.)
.
It’s Chrissy Cunningham. It is Chrissy Cunningham at his fucking meeting spot, and Eddie feels like he’s getting punched in the stomach, all oxygen leaving him. He’s going to fucking piss himself.
Chrissy Cunningham. Chrissy Cunningham. Chrissy Cunningham. The person with the pretty, loopy handwriting, the person who likes Dio and Billy Joel, the person that is worried about vandalism and being boring is Chrissy fucking Cunningham.
.
Eddie’s heart is still thrumming when it’s dark outside and Chrissy Cunningham is in his trailer. For drugs.
She’s the girl he’s been writing to, and she’s also trying to buy drugs.
He hasn’t told her about the Chemistry desk. Something in his stomach turns—and turns and turns and turns—at the vague thought that she’ll be disappointed. She’s not interested, anyway, she has a fucking boyfriend, after all.
(And yet—and yet, she laughed at his jokes in the woods, responded to his shameless flirting with bright smiles and bouncing hair like he’s only seen back in middle school. And fuck, God knows he’s been watching her ever since.)
His hands are shaking. He paces around the room, before rifling through the tapes next to the boom box, until he finds the one he’s been looking for—the one he may or may not have bought after he read those words on the school desk—and puts it inside, hitting play.
Uptown Girl starts playing, and Eddie hums along under his breath, before going back to look for the ketamine.
Across the room, where she was looking around (and there’s an immense insecurity gnawing at the pit of his stomach—she doesn’t think his home is shitty, right? Right?), Chrissy gasps.
“Oh,” she blurts out, and he looks up to her. “That’s my favorite song!”
Eddie grins, just as Chrissy’s face turns bright red. That slipped out of her, apparently—and now that they’re at it, his own mouth works faster than his brain, too.
“I know, sunshine,” he says. And stops. And stares at her with wide eyes as she stares back at him with the same expression. Fuck. “Uh,” he starts again, immediately backpedaling, trying to save the situation and justify himself. He’s sweating. It’s really fucking hot all of a sudden. “Chemistry table. We’ve been writing. I, uh, recognized your handwriting from the, from the uh, note you left in my locker.”
Eddie swallows heavily. His head is spinning. He waits for the disappointed, maybe even disgusted look to cross her face—that was you?—but it never comes.
No, instead, Chrissy Cunningham… smiles.
“Oh,” she says, softly, squirming a little where she’s standing, her grey eyes glittering in the dim light. “That’s so nice.” She pauses, purses her lips in what almost looks like a pout. “You need to stop it with the vandalism, though.”
Eddie’s mouth is hanging open. His heart is going batshit fucking insane in his chest, and he stares at her until Uptown Girl ends.
Quickly, he turns, rewinds the tape and clicks play again. Then he all but flees into his bedroom, to look for the ketamine.
.
Eddie doesn’t get the chance to calm down. Go figure.
No, instead, Chrissy Cunningham starts floating in his living room to the sound of Billy fucking Joel in the background, and Eddie feels so panicked that he could faint. His ass hurts from where he fell on it.
You know I can’t afford to buy her pearls
But maybe someday when my ship comes in
She’ll understand what kind of guy I’ve been
And then I’ll win
Plays in the background, and Eddie’s heart is hammering so fast he can barely hear the words. Everything is blurring together, and he’s not sure if he’s still screaming.
Then, Chrissy Cunningham falls to the floor with a sickening noise, and he hurries over, all but shaking her until her grey eyes flutter open and she breaks out in tears, jumping into his arms. Her knees jab into his stomach, skinny and sharp.
“Thank God,” he gasps, brushing his hand through her hair as Chrissy sobs into his shoulder, trembling. “Thank fucking God. Chrissy, shit, Chrissy, are you okay?”
It takes a while until she nods. Until she peels herself out of his arms, a string of snot connecting her nose to his leather jacket, until she starts telling him about visions and scary monsters and hallucinations with her broken, little voice.
And fuck, he does win, in the end. Eddie Munson does fucking win for once in his life, because Chrissy Cunningham doesn’t let go of his hand again.