Work Text:
“Hold still,” Chrissy tells Eddie the night before graduation. “Unless, um. You want to look like a Muppet?”
Eddie huffs. “Well, that depends, Cunningham. We talking Animal or Miss Piggy, here?”
“I think you know,” Chrissy says, biting back a grin of her own. A pair of barber scissors dangles from her thumb. “As long as you don’t—” she giggles as he tips his head back, waggling his tongue at her. “Do that.”
“Yeah, uh.” He blinks his big brown eyes at her. “Following directions isn’t exactly my strong suit.”
From her perch on the edge of the bathtub, Chrissy gives him a gentle nudge with her knee. “I believe in you.”
“Ha!” Eddie tilts his head forward again, but she can still hear the smile in his voice. “Well, alright, cheer queen. Do your worst.”
The truth is, not much changes after spring break. She’s still exhausted, still treading water in almost every class. And Mom’s voice buzzes in her ear, incessant. Like those weeds that push through the cracks in the driveway every spring, no matter how many chemicals Dad sprays. Roots dug in too deep.
Not much changes, but— her headaches have stopped. She wears that glittery eyeshadow that Mom absolutely hates three days in a row. Drugstore makeup! She’s giddy, drunk on this tiny act of rebellion. And on Tuesday, she waves at Eddie Munson during passing. Just a twitch of her hand, fingers lifting off her backpack strap, but he sees it. Wiggles his fingers back. Under the sharp fluorescents, his rings wink at her.
The Munsons’ bathroom is cluttered. It’s small. There’s a rust ring around the drain in the sink, water spots dotting the mirror.
Chrissy absolutely loves it. A dirty bathroom? Unimaginable at her house! Growing up, she never understood why Mom wanted it to look like nobody actually lived there, why it felt more like a museum than a home.
The laminate sticks under her bare feet as she shifts slightly, adjusting the towel draped around Eddie’s neck. She’s trying, unsuccessfully, not to let her gaze drift any lower.
He’s sitting between her legs, and he’s not wearing a shirt.
For practical reasons, obviously! And Eddie’s just a friend. Still, her eyes sweep over his bare shoulders, the bottom half of a tattoo peeking from underneath the towel. Scales, a serpentine tail. It looks like something out of one of his D&D books. She wonders if he sketched it himself.
His hair is still damp, but it’s already curling. Chrissy runs a section between her fingers. Then another, stalling. Eddie Munson’s hair. It feels like she’s about to desecrate the Mona Lisa, or something.
“Don’t worry, it's more afraid of you than you are of it,” Eddie says. “The wild beastie!” He whips his head back and forth, curls flying.
Chrissy makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a yelp. “Eddie!”
“Chrissy,” he replies, fake-serious. His elbow knocks against her leg. Accidentally or on purpose, she can’t tell.
She pokes him between the shoulder blades with the loop end of the scissors. “Stay. Still. Final warning.”
Eddie blows a raspberry, but he stops fidgeting. “You’re kinda bossy, you know that?”
“Shut up,” Chrissy says through a smile, cheeks going hot.
“Oh ho ho. The lady proves my point!”
His elbow digs into her leg again, right above her ankle. Not an accident, then? Chrissy sucks in a tiny breath and slides his hair through her fingers again. Just a friend. But that sounds silly now, even in her head. Like— of course they’re friends. It’s whatever else they are that has her head spinning.
She lifts the scissors. Two quick-clean cuts, snip-snip. The curls fall away.
The problem is, the more she’s around Eddie, the more she wants to be around him. She goes out of her way to run into him at school— passing by the lunchline, taking the hallway where his locker is, sharpening her pencil approximately twelve times during Bio just for an excuse to walk past his desk.
“We meet again, Cunningham,” he intones in that goofy voice, every single time. Her heart does a tumbling pass behind her ribs. Every single time.
Soon, they’re hanging out after school. She meets him at the picnic table— their table. His trailer, other days. They crack open their textbooks and pretend to do homework, but mostly they just listen to music and talk, and the thing is— Chrissy’s always been perfect. Primped and polished, tucked under Jason’s arm. Squad captain. Laura Cunningham’s golden girl. Even her friends, oohing and aahing when she steps out of the dressing room at JCPenney, like trying on a new sweater is some huge personal achievement.
But at Eddie’s, there are dirty dishes piling up in the sink. The tacky shag carpet is a color that would probably make Mom faint on sight. And his uncle gave her a gentle nudge on his way out the door earlier, make sure Ed doesn’t burn the place down, would ya? Chrissy can’t remember the last time she felt this way, like— present. She’s been a plastic doll her whole life. This feels real.
Graduation is eight weeks away. That’s real. Eight weeks, and then the rest of her life, stretched ahead of her. That All-American dream, shiny and perfect. All she has to do is follow the yellow brick road.
Across the room, Eddie grins at her. Chrissy grins back, big and toothy. Maybe she really did lose her mind.
Or maybe she just woke up.
“Still good back there, Cunningham?”
Chrissy frowns. She’s taken maybe an inch or two off so far, but it doesn’t look right. She eyeballs the ends of his hair, hanging level with his shoulders. It’s even, right? So hard to tell when it’s already curling—
“Chrissyyyyyy,” Eddie sing-songs, voice pitched ridiculously high, and that snaps her out of it.
“I’m here!” she squeaks. “I’m, um. Re-assessing?”
“Oh, cool, re-assessing.” His voice is warm, teasing. She just knows he’s smiling. “Always what you want to hear mid-shearing.”
“I think it’s okay, just—” Chrissy reaches for the handheld mirror sitting beside her on the tub, then pushes it gently into Eddie’s hands. “Here.”
“Sooooo. I can move now?”
“Yes.”
Eddie spins around. Flashes that dorky smile at her, the one that always turns her stomach inside out. Then he holds the mirror up. Assessing the damage. Chrissy chews her bottom lip. Oh, gosh. He hates it. He hates it.
But he just shrugs and passes the handheld back to her. “Looks good to me. Way better than my last hack job.”
She glances down, picking at the skin under her thumbnail. “Okay. You’re sure?”
Eddie sweeps an arm out, bending dramatically at the waist. “The rat’s nest is in your more-than-capable hands, madam.”
Chrissy giggles, but her chest still feels funny. A little tight. There’s a knot in her throat when she swallows. Eddie settles back between her legs, humming under his breath, fingers twitching over an air guitar. Unbothered.
She unclips the next section of hair and combs through it, but her hands start shaking as soon as she lifts the scissors.
(A memory: she’s seven, maybe eight. Her hair is a little wild from playing outside at recess, strands blown loose from her braid. Mom tsks and fixes it right there in the parking lot after school. Twists Chrissy’s hair into a ballerina bun on top of her head, so tight it pulls at her scalp. There, she says. That's perfect.)
Chrissy puts the scissors down. “Eddie,” she says. Her voice sounds small.
He must hear it too, because he flips around again, forehead wrinkling slightly.
“It’s uneven,” she says simply.
“Uhhhh,” he replies, stretching out the word like a piece of taffy. “Okay? I mean, I think it looks fine, but you’re the pro.”
She just nods, knees bouncing up and down. The knot in her throat is as big as a planet.
Eddie tilts low and peers up at her. “Cunningham. It’s a haircut.”
“I know,” she mumbles, more to herself than him. Eyes drilling hard into the floor. She feels— tiny and stupid. Like she’s a bumbling little kid, messing everything up.
He’s quiet for a second, looking at her. All her messy thoughts and jumbled-up insecurities. Seeing her. It turns her stomach upside down again.
“Sorry,” she says, shaking her head.
“Jesus, don’t apologize,” Eddie laughs. “I’m, uh. Basically Sasquatch, at this point. Full mange. You literally couldn’t make it worse if you tried.”
She has to smile, just a little, because his bangs are sort of frizzing, falling over his eyes, and— he’s so goofy. He’s gorgeous.
“Okay,” she says. “Okay.” But her hands are still shaking. She squeezes her eyes shut. Mom’s in her ear, buzz buzz buzz. Perfect perfect perfect.
Snip-snip-snip.
Her eyes fly open. Eddie’s brandishing the scissors, eyes sparkling. There’s a clump of hair in his other hand. His hair. Five, maybe six inches, cut clean off.
“Aughh!” Chrissy shrieks.
Eddie actually cackles, teeth flashing. Triumphant. “Fear not, maiden most fair! The beast has been well and truly vanquished.”
“But, but—” she sputters, stunned. “Graduation— tomorrow!”
“Yep.”
“You can’t walk like that!”
“Yeah? Says who?”
Chrissy gapes at him, mouth opening and closing. That very first day in the woods— shaking leaves out of his hair, punching trees. You’re not what I thought you’d be. He keeps surprising her, and she keeps letting him. Sometimes she thinks she could spend her whole life letting him.
She makes a weird noise in her throat, sorta strangled. Not quite a laugh. “You—” she touches his hair where he chopped—butchered!—it. “You’re— insane.”
Eddie just beams at her, imperfect. Beautiful. Yeah, still. Somehow. He’s the most beautiful boy she’s ever seen.
“Uh, yeah,” he agrees. As in, duh. Still grinning, he pokes his face closer. Just enough that her fingers brush his cheek.
“Eddie,” she groans, but now she's smiling, too.
He bumps his nose against her hand. Angles into her touch. “Chrissy.”
Nope. Not an accident at all.