Chapter Text
The typewriter bumps against your knees as you walk through the football field. It’s small and portable, sure, but it’s still a typewriter from the 60s making it awkward to carry and heavy on the arms after a couple of minutes. Still, the end is in sight as you pause at top of the stairs to rest and look at the inviting forest. On well-lit days, it’s comforting, never mind what it feels like to be there in the dark.
Upon your arrival at the wooden table, you see that someone has beat you to it. Super senior and local drug dealer, Eddie Munson with his long hair, layers of jackets, and a joint hanging off his lips.
“What are you doing here?” You shout at him from the trees.
“Is there some kind of reservation system for the abandoned table behind the school no one told me about?” He looks around, mimicking searching. “This is kind of my meeting spot, you should know that.” He has a cheeky grin on his face, you sigh and walk closer to the bench.
“It’s Tuesday. You’re never here on Tuesdays. In fact, no one should be here right now because everyone should be in class.”
“You’re not in class,” he points out.
“It’s my free period. I took summer school to have this free period, that was hard work.” You counter quickly.
He just stands there and laughs, smiling like he’s heard the funniest joke in the world before sitting at the table. “What are you really doing out here sweetheart ?”
Sweetheart. That nickname and the mocking tone Eddie used when he said it had followed you throughout high school with a vengeance, like a ghost no exorcism could get rid of. Your old boyfriend from freshman year, who had been a member of Hellfire, had refused to call you by your name. It was always sweetheart this, sweetheart that, and it had annoyed Eddie to high heaven, leading him to add his own twist to it. A twist that had persisted even after your ex randomly broke up with you two years ago.
You clear your throat in an attempt to banish your annoyance and push up the glasses on your nose. “If you must know, I’m writing the next great American novel. Or short of that, a novel that makes people feel something no matter the genre or era.”
“Is that why you always look so stressed?” He teases, tapping his temple. “Hard to keep track of all the plot lines up there?”
You roll your eyes and sit down. Opening the typewriter and putting some paper in it, you prepare to start writing.
“Why are you writing in the woods?”
“It’s a part of the process.” You pull out your box of cigarettes and curse upon the realization that you forgot a lighter. “No distractions plus nature equals a clear mind.”
Eddie seems to have noticed and gives you a cocky grin, waiting for you to stay something. You sigh and put on a fake smile. “Can I borrow a lighter from you, Eddie?”
“A nicotine rush does not constitute a clear mind, are you sure this won’t impede the process?” He adds air quotes over the last part of the question.
“This is a part of it. The process.” You glare daggers at him, perfectly visualizing where they would land to extend his death. “Don’t you have places to be?”
He takes out his lighter and you stretch your hand out toward him. “Can’t leave until my customer gets here. Guess we’re gonna be here for a while sweetheart.”
You take a drag off the now lit cigarette and shake your head, feeling a little more relaxed. The sounds of keys clacking flood the table, it’s a relief to empty your head on the page.
After a couple of minutes, Eddie raises his voice to ask, “Are you my anonymous buyer sweetheart?”
“Why would I do that, Munson? I’ve literally bought from you before.” You look up from your work and give him a crooked smile. “Perhaps you’re simply being stood up.”
He waves your statement away ignoring the possibility. “Maybe this is also part of your process. Like alcohol for Hemingway, you deal in weed and mystery. I’ll cut you a good deal, artist to artist.”
“Don’t bother, I've tried it.” You say dryly, putting up a finger for everything you list. “Writing while high, writing while drunk, writing in the car with a guy who is going way over the speed limit in a way that oddly makes you feel good. None of it works like a clear mind in an empty forest.” You glare pointedly at Eddie, hoping he takes the hint.
Eddie picks up the stack of papers next to you. The cover page reveals the title to be Blue Satellite. He flips through the pages a bit before deciding to just ask you about it. “Is this the novel? Looks a little thin...”
“Do you read the school newspaper, Eddie?” You snatch the papers back from him.
“I don’t see the relevance.”
“Well, in exchange for some articles Nancy publishes a short story of mine once a month. This is 2/3rds of that story. I’m trying to write the last third right now.”
“How about a summary?” He lays down, back against the table to look at your face easier. “To hook the readers.”
“I don’t have one yet.” You confess. Nancy asks for one with the story so you wait until the last minute to summarize most of the time. “I’m afraid you’re just going to have to wait until it comes out next week.”
“Like the rest of the commoners of Hawkins High?” Eddie rests a hand on his heart, feigning insult.
“There’s not a lot of invested readers.” You type out a few more words.
“I swear to you, from here on out the members of Hellfire will anxiously anticipate your stories in the paper.” His voice is serious, really committed to sounding like he’s taking a solemn oath.
“You’ve never read my writing. It could be awful, full of spelling mistakes, horrible grammar, and nonsensical plot lines.”
“Give me a sample then, I’m sure there’s one on you.” He raises his right hand. “Not that I would take back my sworn oath.”
You look through your briefcase and take out a small stack of papers. “It’s hard copies of the last 5 shorts that Nancy put in the paper. You still do that dungeons and dragons thing right?”
You don’t wait for any confirmation (it was an entirely rhetorical question) as you flip through the papers and take out a specific copy titled Alana’s Sword, and hand it off to him. “It’s about a traveler who sets out to fulfill an old prophecy and when she does it hurts more people than it helps.”
His eyes widen and he flips through the pages excitedly. “It’ll be an honor to read your work.”
“I like the fantasy genre. I do think it’s the hardest to write though so it might not be my best work.” You smile nervously before returning to typing. “It’s just the one I thought you might like the most.”
The weight of the keys pressing down the letters always felt relaxing. It was cemented, a concept turned into a real living thing for others to see and it gave you a feeling of fulfillment nothing else could. It’s all nice in theory when the person who is reading it is still just you but the second it gets handed off to another person… it becomes a different can of worms.
Your heart pounds in your rib cage like a restless bird trying to escape its cage, the thought that Eddie Munson might hate your writing wreaks havoc on your nerves and ruins your concentration. If he did you’d never be able to speak to him again, which might be an inconvenience.
Your eyes keep moving away from the keys and towards him. He had sat back up, brows furrowed with intense concentration, and occasionally running a hand through his hair. You try to decode how he feels about his piece through his facial expressions but it’s impossible to piece together. In moments like this, you really wish you could hear what other people were thinking.
When he reaches the ending he gasps and turns to look at you wide-eyed. “The villain was the princess’s lover the whole time?”
“I wanted a tragic ending. I was going through a bit of a phase.” You avoid making eye contact with him, rubbing the nape of your neck sheepishly. “Did you like it?”
“Yeah, it was so… poignant. The sorrow is there from the beginning. I feel like if I read it again everything would click harder.”
“Thanks for liking it.” Relief spreads through your body, and the sudden vanishing of anxiety is always more relaxing than any drug you’ve taken.
Eddie shrugs. “Thanks for writing it.”
As the hours pass until the sun begins to set, you continue to write as Eddie reads the rest of the stories you have on you. Eventually, the sunlight is all but gone, effectively impeding your ability to write outside any longer.
He sighs loudly. “I guess you were right. Whoever it was stood me up.”
“Terrible.” You close the typewriter and look at him. “Always tragic when the chance to make money slips you by, or whatever Ayn Rand said.”
“I hate Ayn Rand.” He groans.
“Good,” you nod approvingly. “Awful books.”
“Considered suing Mr. Donaghy for assigning Atlas Shrugged. Instead, I protested by not doing any of the assignments and skipping class.”
“I’m sure you showed him.” You walk out of the woods with Eddie, who had let go of any remaining hope of a sale.
“I think he might have won the battle,” Eddie grumbles. “I don’t think he changed the curriculum over the summer.”
“What happened to ‘86 being your year?” You tease without any malice.
“Oh it’s still gonna be my year sweetheart, I’ll figure something out.”
“I’m sure you will.” You genuinely believe that. A little superstitious, you think the third time’s the charm.
You stand in front of his car to say a quick goodbye when he stops you by asking, “Do you… need a ride home?” The question comes out a lot quieter than Eddie thought it would, lacking any of the confidence he usually tried to project.
You shake your head no, declining politely. “I like the walk, it’s good for generating ideas. Plus it’s a bit out the way for you anyways.”
“I’ll see you around then.”
You think you can hear a bit of disappointment in his voice but you shrug it off and wave goodbye.