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August 1985 in Hawkins was hot and nostalgic for something that hadn’t happened. Max Mayfield’s long wavy red hair fluttered in the light wind as she skateboarded along the familiar sidewalk. Kate Bush was quietly coming out of the Walkman.
The door of the Wheeler house swung open. Mike stood in the doorway, his dark curls tousled, and his face expressed that one dumb determination that usually follows bad ideas.
“Eavesdropping again?” he asked, noticing her.
“Public space, Wheeler. You’re making noise all over the neighborhood,” Max remarked, stopping. “What, they don’t let you see El?”
Oh shit. As always, she hit a nerve. Mike pursed his lips.
“Shut up, Max. It’s not your business.”
Nancy’s clear voice came from behind him.
“Mike, it’s not just a bad idea. It’s a mockery of one’s own head. Mom’s going to kill you.”
“It’s gonna be cool!” Mike insisted, but his confidence was fading a little. “It’s… It’s bitchin’.”
“It’s bitchin’ for some Chicago jerk that El met once, but not for you, Mike!” Nancy disagreed, appearing in the doorway. Abruptly she stopped talking once she saw the redhead as if she didn’t want her brother to be humiliated already.
The words “Chicago” and “jerk” suddenly echoed in Max’s head. Fragments of past conversations with El came back to mind. El’s sister. Some guy with a flash look who greatly impressed her…
“Hold on,” Max drawled, and a predatory smile lit up her face. “You wanna get a mohawk? A red one? Seriously?”
Mike blushed slightly. “Yeah. So?”
“So, you want to look like some clown from another town that El once met,” Max said, grinning. “This is a new level of desperate attempts to impress a girl. Even for you, Mike.”
At that moment, a curious little girl Holly came running from the back of the house. She was holding an orange marker.
“Mikey, do you really wanna become a clown?” she asked, her eyes wide. “You want your hair to be like Max’s but to stand on end?”
Mike looked at the marker in his younger sister’s hand, then at Nancy’s annoyed face, and then at Max, who was about to start laughing devilishly. Something familiar flickered in his eyes — a kid who had been bullied for years at school for his looks and oddities, bullied for not fitting in. That kid was him. Mike never wanted to be invisible, but now he was going to make himself a target that everyone would aim at again. The thought of his first day in high school, the taunts flashed before him. Nancy noticed the change in his face.
“Mike…” she said in a lower voice, but still firmly. “You’re not going to do a mohawk because it’s stupid. And because I promised mom I’d make sure you didn’t do anything dumb before school started. That’s it.”
There was not only the authority of an older sister in her voice, but also the brutal truth about the school hierarchy, which Mike knew all too well. Max, who was listening from the side, stopped smiling. She was invisible herself. A new, strange one, from the group of nerds. It didn’t bother her yet she never was a target. Meanwhile Mike almost put that target right on his head.
Wheeler wilted. All of his determination and audacity evaporated, leaving him the one who only tried not to be himself again.
“Okay,” he muttered. “I won’t.”
“Great,” Nancy exhaled, and with a nod to Max, retreated into the house, taking Holly with her.
The teenagers were left alone on the porch. An awkward silence fell between them. Max put on her headphones, but didn’t turn on the tape.
“So, ‘cool Chicago guy,’” she finally said, but her voice had lost its usual venom. All that remained was a light friendly sneer. “You’ve just been saved from possibly the greatest social humiliation in your life.”
“Fuck off, Max,” he said without a trace of malice.
“Nope,” she put her foot in the skateboard. “Who, if not me, will remind you that you are you, and not someone else. It’s like my mission, you know.” Max shrugged her shoulders.
“The hot orange mohawk… That would be too much, wouldn’t it?” Mike asked, more to himself.
“Totally.” the redhead replied. “Anyway, I’m outta here. See you later.”
She pushed off and raced forward along the sidewalk.
Mike just watched her go. Trace. People always leave traces on you. Whether it’s people from Chicago or people from California, who won’t let you forget who you truly are. He turned around and entered the house, running a hand through his hair as he went. Dark curly hair.