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Four things are true about Hawkins, Indiana. One: It has survived four near apocalypses. Two: It shouldn’t exist anymore, but somehow it remains intact. Three: It needs to have more than five possible part-time job opportunities for traumatized teens. And four: It is home to the world’s loudest girl, Robin Buckley.
This last fact has been added to the list in honor of Robin’s mother. If it were up to Robin, and Robin alone, the list would consist of three points and none of them would be solely about her. She doesn’t need to be tied to Hawkins more than she already is. But she is the loudest girl to ever live, there or anywhere. And if she were to make a list of all the landmarks in the town, her house would be on it. The enticing blurb beside it would read, “Come and gawk at the girl who yells when she means to talk. Don’t forget to pack earplugs!”
Now, Robin is aware that her mom doesn’t actually mean to say that she’s too loud to exist. What she really means is that Robin doesn’t know when to shut up. A problem that has interfered with many aspects of her life. It has lost her friends and cost her jobs and if she could sew her mouth shut, sometimes, just sometimes, she thinks she would do it in an instant.
All she has ever wanted is to be loud and to be loved at the same time. Doesn’t she deserve that? Hasn’t she paid the fee required for having a big mouth?
Or is she still a few dollars short?
She wonders idly, on days where she has too much time on her hands, if she could ask her mom to pay the difference. She wonders if her mom would do it. She knows she wouldn’t.
But she knows someone else who would. And the name sits like aloe on a burn.
Steve Harrington.
The one person who needs her to talk too much. Because she circles back and she repeats herself and she repeats others. He leans in and asks what he missed when he wasn’t paying attention and she fills him in without taking a break to catch her breath. She tells him what she heard on the sidewalk and in the general store and her words fill any room they’re in until there isn’t any space left for monsters and nightmares and hate.
She leans against him on the hood of his car, and she talks softly, (or, at least, she thinks she’s talking softly) laying out her plans to get out of town. Some of them find her behind the wheel of a car. Others she’s on a bus. The most inventive ones, the ones she whispers when she’s half-asleep, have her riding a cloud or a griffin or a very large cat. She takes Max with her. She takes Eddie with her. She takes Nancy and they have an epic romance. She takes Dustin and Steve follows. No matter where she goes, Steve follows.
The one person she leaves behind is her mother.
In her mind, Robin is packing her bags and throwing away photo albums. She’s sorting her VHS collection and crossing out her mother’s name on hand-me-downs. She folds down the tops of boxes and wipes away tears.
She loves her mom.
She wishes the reverse were true.
On a night full of summer rain, Robin knocks on Steve’s door, soaked all the way through. He answers and she knows that he’s alone. She knows because he called her. She knows because of the look on his face. She knows because there is only one car in the driveway. She knows because he is always alone.
He is the one person who needs her.
She is the one person who needs him.
They are two sides of the same fucked up coin. A boy with no parents. A girl with an ever-present mother.
She holds his hand when he cries, and he combs the knots out of her wet hair when it’s her turn.
Six things are true about Hawkins, Indiana. One: It has survived four near apocalypses. Two: It shouldn’t exist anymore, but somehow it remains intact. Three: It needs to have more than five possible part-time job opportunities for traumatized teens. Four: It is home to the world’s loudest girl. Five: Robin Buckley found her soulmate there. And six: She’s getting out of that town. Tonight.
And she’s not going alone.
In the backseat of Steve’s car Robin’s bags sit packed, the photo albums are long gone. Her VHS collection is boxed up and the tags with her mom’s name have been cut out of her hand-me-down clothes. Her things are sorted and settled and her cheeks are dry.
She loves her mom.
She loves herself more.
Maybe someday she’ll come back and find her mom where she left her and they will know each other. She won’t be too loud. She won’t talk too much. She will be her mother’s daughter and that will be enough.
Until that day, she will make her own family and they will love her at every volume, at every speed.
“Ready?” Steve asks. He is made of careful hope, sidetracked thoughts, and every piece of her soul that she has ever lost.
Robin smiles, slow and deliberate. She is made of loud noises, gentle repetition, and every piece of Steve’s soul that he has ever lost.
She nods once and the world makes more sense than it ever has before. “Ready.”