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Honestly, Heather is just in the library to escape Mrs O’Donnell and her death glare. She isn’t particularly into books—like, she doesn’t hate reading, and she’s not stupid, but it’s just not at the top of her priorities. There’s a lot of things she prefers to do, like shopping, and trying on clothes, and spending time with her girls, and swimming, and dancing around in her room to ABBA or Cyndi Lauper, and doing her nails.
Speaking of which—with a hum, she checks her nails; one of them is chipped already, damnit, but the colorful nail polish still looks good, so there’s that—while she listens to Natalie next to her chatter on about the guy she’s currently into. Or fancies, as she puts it, because it’s a British guy. Heather rolls her eyes.
She doesn’t particularly like British guys. Actually, she doesn’t particularly like guys in general. It’s not like she knows what it is—there’s just never been a guy who’s been… particularly interesting. Maybe it’s this stupid school, who knows. There’s some pretty boys, she guesses, but whenever any of them got close, she was just so turned off by one thing or the other.
Her friends tell her she’s picky. And who knows, maybe she is. If none of the guys here meet her standards, how is that her fault, anyway? She doesn’t need a boyfriend just yet. She’s a-okay with waiting until she’s out of this hellhole town and moved to a big city. Like New York. Or Los Angeles, even. Something like that. Feels fitting to a girl like Heather, if she may say so herself.
“And he’s so cute,” Natalie breathes out, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “He, like, helped me carry all my things, Heather. Isn’t that nice?”
Heather purses her lips. “Y’know, I think that should be bare minimum for a man.”
Her friend rolls her eyes. Here we go again, Heather can see on her face, Heather and her impossibly high standards. For some reason, it makes a feeling of golden glittering pride bubble up in the pit of her stomach. Nothing about this is bad. She just… knows what she wants, and she won’t settle for anything less than the perfect princely dream guy.
“I’m glad you’re happy,” she adds, however, because her aversion to small-town boys isn’t Natalie’s fault, and she is happy that the other girl is happy. Even when she has to listen to her gushing. It’s actually kind of cute, the way her face flushes, the way she’s twirling her hair, the way her lips glitter when she speaks. The giddy tone in her voice, the way she’s bouncing in her chair in excitement.
Heather’s gaze slips up and over Natalie’s shoulder—it feels weird to look at her for too long, it always does—and she’s met by the bookshelf a bit away from their table, shaggy hair and a raggedy looking denim jacket.
Somehow, it sparks down her spine, tingles in her stomach. Somehow, it makes her sit up straight, and then the other person turns around and—
And Heather sees the prettiest boy she’s ever seen, with dark eyes and a pale face, and hair hanging into his eyes.
He could be better dressed, though. He’s all slouched in his baggy clothes, and she tries to get a glimpse of the books he took as he turns to leave, but he’s too far away.
Suddenly, Natalie’s face drifts back into her vision. The other girl squints, turns around, but the boy is at the librarian’s desk already to check out. “What are you doing?”
Heather nudges at her, before pointing at the guy. “Who’s that?”
Natalie lifts her brows in surprise—and Heather prepares herself for a surprised speech of that guy? or I thought you didn’t like any of the guys here, or anything like that, but nothing happens—and furrows them. “Oh, that’s just Jo.”
Jo. Huh.
Well, she’s avoided that sort of conversation for now, so it’s probably better to not poke at it any longer. Also, just like not-Natalie said in her head—it’s just some guy. Not even particularly tall, and he doesn’t look like he’s ripped, either. Looks like a freak, if she’s honest, so it’s not like he actually caught her eye. Yeah.
.
Now that she thinks about it—and she does think about it, she reluctantly has to admit as she’s chewing on the end of her blue glitter gel pen, seated at her desk in her room—she’s seen Jo around. Of course she has, it’s a small town, after all. God, how she hates it.
But yeah, she’s seen Jo around. She doesn’t have any classes with him, but he skulks around the hallways sometimes, stays in the shadows, and never talks to anyone. She wouldn’t have thought he’d hang out in the library, but then again, she hasn’t thought about him at all, so far. Why would she, anyway? He barely even exists on Hawkins High’s social map. No wonder he never caught her eye.
Until now. Heather groans, rubs her hands down her face, checks her palms with a small surge of panic, but yeah, she already took her makeup off. Thank Christ.
What’s wrong with her anyway? Why can’t she get that guy out of her head?
She’s had crushes before. On Jason Carver in middle school, before they started talking and she decided she didn’t actually like him like that at all. On Steve Harrington in high school, from afar, but she never really talked to him in the first place. Didn’t want to—she’d been too scared. Billy Hargrove, who moved here from California, with long hair and a cigarette between his lips. Another guy she’s never talked to—she’d wanted to, though, when she worked at the pool, but then she chickened out every time.
So, yeah, she’s had crushes before, but how the hell does Jo fit in there? She knows nothing about him—not his last name, not what he does all day, not what kind of music he listens to, just that he apparently reads. He’s obviously not in any sports team, either, so it’s not like she can just go visit practice like she did with her other crushes.
With another groan, she knocks her forehead into the table, before reaching out and grabbing her diary.
That’s exactly the moment her mother chooses to burst into the room, apparently. There’s a knock on her door, then it swings open, without any wait period between it. Heather rolls her eyes.
“Mommy,” she complains, turning to glare at her mother. “I’m in the middle of something. And can you wait after you knock? Jesus.”
Her mother lifts her brows. “Dinner’s ready,” she says, simply, then she turns around and leaves, leaving the door open behind her. Goddamnit.
Dear Diary, Heather scribbles down, anyway, my life sucks. I met a cute guy today, however, though I really don’t know why I think he’s cute. I guess I’ll see.
Then she gets up and skips down the stairs. She hopes her mother made the pasta she likes so much.
(No one talks during dinner. Her father stares into his paper and her mother stares at the table. It is the pasta, however, so hey, there’s that.)
.
“And what the fuck is wrong with you today?”
Heather lifts her head from where she’s been doodling in her notebook, slouched in the bleachers of the gym, waiting for the stupid basketball practice to be over.
It’s the captain of the team himself, gracing her with his presence, pushing his blond, sweaty hair out of his face. Heather wrinkles her nose. He smells.
“Fuck off,” she mumbles, before looking over at the court, spotting Chance and glaring at him. He just waves back. Fucker, he’s the only reason she’s waiting here, because they have that stupid family dinner at her home today. Of course her only cousin is an asshole who loves gossiping even more than he loves all the girls he kisses in a day.
Jason huffs, drops down next to her on the bleachers. God, is it only time for the break now? How much longer is this going to go, anyway?
“Can you pass me some water?” he asks, dabbing at his forehead with his shirt, and his muscles shining with sweat do absolutely nothing for Heather.
See, this is exactly what she means. This is how she feels about all these stupid guys—especially the basketball boys, since she knows most of them more than just from afar, because Chance decided to join. But hey, she’s actually been pretty close to the athletes of this town since middle school, being on the swim team and all, so it’s not like it’s that big of a change.
Sitting up straight, closing her notebook and putting it aside, Heather reaches under the bleachers for one of the plastic bottles, before tossing it into Jason’s lap. He takes it, unscrews the cap and flicks it God knows where before downing the thing in one go. One of the guys across the gym cheers then whistles, but who knows if those things are connected.
“So,” Jason starts, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Chance tells me you’ve been moody and refuse to talk to him about it. You okay?”
Heather groans, just as Chance jogs over to them. “It’s nothing.”
“Hey coz,” Chance grins, dropping down on her other side. This is just great. Now she’s squeezed—she’s exaggerating, they’re not even touching her—between two sweaty boys. “You ready for family dinner tonight?”
Jason squints at the other boy with slightly furrowed brows as if to say what the hell are you doing? and really, Heather is inclined to ask her cousin the same thing, but like, out loud.
Instead she huffs, looping a strand of hair around her finger. “You guys hover so damn much. I’m not your child and you’re not my helicopter parents, are you aware of that?”
That makes Jason laugh, and she sticks her tongue out at him. Chance, meanwhile, glances at her from the side with an uncharacteristically serious expression.
“Just,” he says, very slowly, “y’know, if you need advice for your love life, I’m always here.”
And before she can groan again, elbow him maybe, or just start throwing hands (all bad ideas, because he’s sweaty, and she doesn’t need that on her clothes, yuck), Jason throws in, “Don’t listen to him, Samantha broke up with him again because he forgot they were dating and kissed Linda.”
Chance protests in a shrill tone, which just makes Heather giggle. Ah, nothing like humiliating family to make her feel better.
(She still can’t get the library and shaggy brown hair out of her head.)
.
So, yeah, obviously Heather goes back to the library. Just to… look. Maybe she’ll even find a book she likes, who knows. Something about princesses in huge dresses and dream princes, the love story she’s always been looking for. The one she’s almost given up finding in this town, and now—
Well, now, she still doesn’t make herself any illusions. Still, she goes back to the school library, skips there and blows a bubblegum bubble.
“Miss,” the librarian says from her right, in a stern tone that makes Heather pout. “No bubblegum in the library.”
Fine. She spits the bubblegum into the bin and sticks her tongue out to the librarian once her back is turned, before turning to the library with a wide grin. Time to inspect the losers here.
(Her heart is racing. She thinks she’s more flushed than usual. Her palms are sweating. And what the fuck is wrong with you today? Jason’s voice echoes in her head, and it almost makes her roll her eyes, almost makes her cheeks burn even more.)
The library is relatively empty. There’s Nancy Wheeler and Barb Holland in one of the corners—Nancy helped her for English one time, and Barb is cute, so they are cool in Heather’s book—and a few more students she doesn’t know at the bookshelves. No denim jacket. No shaggy hair.
For some reason, Heather deflates.
.
She sees Jo around in the hallways, sometimes. From the corner of her eye, skulking in the figurative shadows, his shoulders hunched, staring at the floor, careful to avoid anyone and everything.
What a guy. What an absolute weirdo. Her eyes follow him, every single time.
Natalie and Linda next to her are giggling about something. Whispering about their boys—Natalie about her British beau she’s almost dating, and Linda about Chance, whom she’s now apparently dating. And really, Heather hates whenever Chance dates any of her friends, it just always ends in heartbreak and fights and then things are all awkward when she’s hanging out with her friends and Chance comes over like nothing happened, but right now, she can’t really think about that.
They’re in the cafeteria. Jo is sitting at a table at the other end, all by himself, and Heather thinks she’s never seen him here. Where does he usually eat? What does he usually do? Why did he decide to eat here today?
Why does she care, anyway?
“Why are you staring at that weirdo again?” Natalie complains just as Heather notices the camera dangling from Jo’s neck. A camera. Huh. So the guy has hobbies, huh? Does he just spend all his time outside, hunting for the perfect shot? That’s kind of cool, actually, to be dedicated to something like that.
(She’s getting ahead of herself. She doesn’t even know if he’s particularly dedicated to photography.)
Natalie snaps her fingers right in front of her face, and Heather startles so bad she almost knocks over her juice.
“Nat,” she screeches, “what the hell?”
“Sorry,” the other girl mutters, and Linda giggles. “You were just somewhere else entirely.”
And there it is again—Linda is eyeing her, Natalie focuses back on her food. There, now it’ll come. What about this guy? What about this guy is so special, Heather, huh?
Not that she has an answer to that, herself. Jesus, actually she’s desperately looking for an answer to that.
“You’re so weird,” Natalie mutters, however, and that’s that, for some reason. When Heather’s gaze wanders to Jo again, he’s disappeared. Gone, gone, gone, and she sighs, buries herself in the rest of her food.
She can work with weird, honestly. She just doesn’t want to be boring, and she doesn’t want to be alone.
.
(After a weekend of shopping on Saturday and having a girls’ day on Sunday, coming home to her father having bought her more expensive jewelry—pretty pearls and glittering earrings and a super cute bracelet—without many words at the dinner table, Heather sleeps somewhat restless. Tosses around and around and around.
First, she dreams about the cafeteria, about being there with Natalia and Linda at her table, but the rest of the tables are completely and utterly empty. Except—
Except the table Jo sat at. He’s still there, fidgeting with his camera, taking pictures of the wall and the table and then his food.
“Are you in love?” Natalie asks, and Heather doesn’t have an answer to that. Then—then, Jo’s head snaps up like he heard them, which makes sense, she guesses, since there’s not much noise here with the whole room being almost empty, and all that.
His eyes are intense when they lock with hers for the first time. Dark, dark, dark brown, even from so far away, and his expression is neutral, but it still feels like he’s glaring at her. Slowly, slowly, slowly, he lifts his camera, snaps a picture of her, and the flash blinds her for just a moment. When Heather blinks, blinks, blinks, watching the dream dissolve and melt, she thinks, what do you see when you look at me through the lens of your camera? What would you think without it?
They’re on a bed now. She’s on top of Jo, straddling him, and he’s still taking pictures. When she kisses him, his lips are soft, and his chest is, too.)
.
The next day, after school, she makes a beeline straight for the library.
Really, Heather has no idea where that fire in her belly is coming from. This intensity, this longing for a person she doesn’t know, but it’s eating at her. Fills up her head and her heart and the pages of her diary, and she can’t have that, can she? No, she can’t have that anymore.
She doesn’t like the boys in this town, she knows that. Every time one talks to her, tries to hit on her, she shivers like it’s almost gross to her, finds a few hundred flaws why she can’t be with this guy, even when she liked him before. Heather Holloway falls headfirst into crushes quickly, but out of them even faster.
(“I don’t want to go out with you,” she remembers telling Jason Carver, years ago. Afraid of disappointing him, because despite everything, she grew fond of him, just not in the way she started out as. And—and she’s been hitting on him pretty aggressively, so this switch is something she doesn’t understand, herself.
What’s wrong with her?
“Okay,” Jason replied, and for some reason, he’d looked relieved. For some reason, that relieved her, too. And now—and now, it’ll be the same, right? She’ll talk to that guy, and then she’ll lose all interest. That’s the plan.)
So she makes a beeline for the library, because she’s got to fall out of this crush.
There’s no one there, but that doesn’t deter her; she expected this. The bell literally just rang, so she sits down at a table all by herself, and waits.
.
(As a child, Heather used to be obsessed with princesses. Her father bought her so many glittery, poofy dresses and crowns, and she put them on and spun around in front of her mirror until she got all dizzy. Leaned in and kissed her image.
She’s kissed a princess before, even when it was just a little girl who looked like her. Sometimes she still thinks about it.)
.
She doesn’t have to wait for long. Students filter into the library, most of them quickly grabbing one of a few books, checking out before disappearing again, some of them lingering. Nancy Wheeler waves at her when she passes and Heather waves back, but—
There. Jo walks into the library, hunching like he always is, and something in the pit of Heather’s stomach does a flip. He walks past everyone, not looking at anyone, stopping at a bookshelf. There’s the camera around his neck again.
Now or never. Either she’ll chicken out or she’ll talk to him, and either way, her feelings will fizzle out.
For some reason, it feels like she’s watching herself from very far away when Heather peels herself out of her chair. When she walks over to the bookshelf. Taps his shoulder.
Like this, up close, Jo is only a little bit taller than her. He smells earthy, like pine tree, like a rainy day in the forest. When he turns around—when he turns around, looking almost irritated, her breath hitches in her throat, and her face flushes.
“Hey,” she says, smiling, pointing at his camera before moving to loop a strand of hair around her fingers. “You take pictures of pretty girls with that?”
Jo furrows his brows. Regards her for a moment, almost distrustful, reminding Heather of a stray cat. It’s cute. It’s… so cute. And he’s pretty. He’s pretty, like a girl, and—
“If this is a joke, it’s a stupid one,” he says, and Heather’s lips hang open parted when it slowly but surely settles in her chest that Jo isn’t just pretty like a girl, he is a girl. She. She is a girl, it’s clear in her voice, and when she looks closer, it’s—
It rushes through her. Like jumping into cold water, feeling every cell of her body wake up and buzz, feeling it zap through her body, zap, zap, zap, until she isn’t sure if she should laugh or cry or both.
Jo as in Joanne, or Joanna, not as in Joe. That makes sense. Suddenly—suddenly, all of this makes sense. All of her glittering feelings, always, always, always.
Heather thinks she should be afraid. Thinks she probably will be, later, once all of this settles, will probably be terrified, but right now—
“It’s not,” she breathes out, and Jo lifts her brows. Parts her lips, her expression softening, and, and, and, Heather has never felt like this about anyone before. “It’s not a joke.”