Chapter Text
The linoleum of Hawkins High was always polished to a shine that felt aggressive. It reflected the fluorescent lights in a way that made Nancy’s head ache if she looked down for too long, so she kept her gaze level, her posture perfect, and her bag gripped firmly in her hand.
Everything about Nancy Wheeler was intentional. The way her hair was pinned back, the steady rhythm of her footsteps, the precise way she checked her watch between periods. Control was the only thing that kept the floor from falling out from under her.
She was rounding the corner toward her locker when the sound hit her first.
It was a voice. It was fast, rambling, and slightly cracked at the edges, punctuated by a nervous, breathless laugh.
"I’m just saying, if the map is upside down, are we technically lost or just directionally challenged? It’s a philosophical question, really."
Nancy froze. The air in the hallway suddenly felt thin, like it had been sucked out by a vacuum. She turned her head slowly, her heart beginning a frantic, uneven beat against her ribs.
Standing by the office was a girl. She was tall, limbs appearing a bit too long for her body, shifting her weight from one foot to the other in a restless, constant motion. She was wearing an oversized shirt and fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve, her fingers twisting the fabric in a way that made Nancy’s vision blur.
The girl turned her head, and for a split second, Nancy saw her profile.
It wasn't just the face. It was the way she carried her shoulders, like she was trying to take up as little space as possible while simultaneously vibrating with energy. It was a ghost. A ghost from a place with white walls and heavy doors that locked from the outside.
Nancy’s stomach dropped, a cold, sickening weight settling in her gut.
No.
The thought screamed through her mind, deafening and sharp. This wasn't possible. Her parents had been so careful. They had driven hours away, past three different counties, specifically so she would be a stranger in those hallways. They had paid for the privacy, for the distance, for the guarantee that Nancy Wheeler’s "rough patch" would never follow her back to the quiet streets of Hawkins.
The girl laughed again, and the sound was like a key turning in a lock Nancy had buried years ago.
Nancy didn't wait. She didn't think. She spun on her heel and bolted.
She didn't care if people were looking at her. She didn't care that she was breaking her own rule of never appearing rushed. She reached the girls' bathroom, shoved the heavy door open, and ducked into the furthest stall.
The door slammed shut with a metallic bang that echoed off the tiles. Nancy threw the latch, her hands shaking so violently she had to try twice to get it to click.
She was here. She was actually here.
What is she doing here? Why is she here?
The thoughts raced, a million miles an hour, crashing into each other. Her secret was supposed to be safe. It was supposed to stay in that building, in that hallway, in that life. If that girl was here, then the wall Nancy had built around herself wasn't a fortress anymore. It was a cage.
Nancy’s breath came in ragged, shallow gasps. Her lungs felt tight, as if they were refusing to expand. She leaned her back against the cold metal of the stall door and slowly, her strength failing her, she slid down until she was curled on the floor.
She pressed her palms into her eyes, trying to block out the light, her chest heaving as she fought to keep the panic from tearing her apart.
The cold tile seeped through the fabric of Nancy’s skirt, but she barely felt it. All she could feel was the frantic thrum of her pulse in her throat, a rhythmic reminder that the past was no longer dead. She pulled her knees to her chest, tucking her head down, trying to breathe through the suffocating weight of the memory.
But the memory was stronger than her grip on the present.
The polished linoleum of the school bathroom faded, replaced by the dull, scuffed gray floors of the unit. The air stopped smelling like industrial soap and started smelling like bleach and unwashed hair.
Nancy was fifteen, a ghost of a girl with hollow cheeks and skin that felt too tight over her bones. She was sitting in the corner of the common room, her cardigan wrapped tightly around her shivering frame. The doctors said her heart was tired. Nancy just felt empty.
Across the room, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of a small, boxy television, was a girl who looked like she was made of sharp edges and nervous energy. She was fourteen, her hair a tangled mess, and white gauze was wrapped thickly around both of her wrists.
The television was humming with static, the reception poor, but the colors on the screen were unmistakable. A girl in a blue gingham dress was stepping out into a world of technicolor.
"I’ve seen this movie thirty-four times," the girl with the bandaged wrists said suddenly. She didn't turn around. Her voice was smaller then, but it had that same frantic, melodic quality Nancy had just heard in the school hallway.
Nancy didn't answer at first. She wasn't supposed to be making friends. She was supposed to be "recovering."
"Thirty-five," Nancy whispered back, her voice raspy from disuse.
The younger girl turned then. Her eyes were wide, shadowed by dark circles that told a story of a bottle of pills and a mother’s scream, but for a second, they sparked. "The book is better. But the shoes in the book are silver, not ruby. They changed them for the movie because of the color technology."
"I know," Nancy said, a tiny, fragile smile touching her lips. "I prefer the silver."
"Me too," the girl said, shifting closer. "I'm Robin."
"Nancy."
They sat together on the floor that afternoon, two broken things leaning toward the glow of the screen. For two hours, they weren't the girl who wouldn't eat and the girl who wanted to sleep forever. They were just two kids following a yellow brick road, looking for a heart and a brain and a way to get back home.
In that sterile common room, under the watchful eyes of the night nurses, they had found a momentary peace that felt more real than anything outside those walls.
The static on the TV screen in the memory grew louder, merging with the sound of the bathroom fan in the present. Nancy gasped for air, her fingernails digging into her palms as the flashback receded, leaving her trembling on the floor of the stall.
Nancy took a shuddering breath, the air finally reaching the bottom of her lungs. She reached up, trembling fingers finding the cold metal of the latch, and threw it back. The door swung open with a harsh, echoing clatter against the partition.
She moved to the sinks, her movements mechanical and stiff. In the mirror, the girl looking back was a stranger, eyes rimmed with a telltale redness, hair slightly mussed from the frantic rush. Nancy turned the tap, the water icy as she splashed it onto her face. She took a paper towel and dabbed her skin dry with clinical precision, then pulled a small makeup bag from her purse. A quick swipe of powder, a touch of mascara, and the mask was back in place.
The girl from the common room was gone. Nancy Wheeler was back.
She straightened her skirt, took one last deep breath to steady the vibration in her chest, and pushed through the heavy bathroom door.
The hallway was quieter now, the bell for first period having already rung. Nancy adjusted her bag on her shoulder and began walking toward the history wing, her eyes fixed straight ahead. She just had to get to class. She just had to disappear into her notes.
"Um, excuse me? Hi! Sorry, hello!"
The voice was closer this time. Much closer.
Nancy’s boots skipped a beat on the linoleum, but she forced herself to stop. She turned slowly, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
Robin was standing there, holding a crumpled schedule in one hand and a charcoal pencil in the other. Her hair was even messier up close, a chaotic bob that looked like she’d been running her hands through it all morning. There was no recognition in her eyes, only the wide, slightly frantic look of a new student who was hopelessly lost.
"I am so sorry to bother you," Robin started, her words tumbling over one another. "I’ve been wandering in circles for ten minutes and I think this school was designed by someone who hated teenagers. Do you know where the art wing is? Room 104? I’m supposed to be there but I ended up in the gym and a coach yelled at me about my shoes, which was a whole thing..."
Nancy stared. She couldn't help it. She was looking for the shadows she remembered, the gauze on the wrists, the girl who liked the silver slippers. But Robin was just looking at her, waiting for an answer, her head tilted to the side like a curious bird.
Nancy’s throat felt like it was filled with sand. She tried to swallow, her mouth opening and closing before she could find her voice.
"Art is... it's the other way," Nancy managed. Her voice was clipped, higher than usual, and frozen with a coldness she didn't entirely mean but couldn't stop.
Robin blinked, her smile faltering just a fraction. "The other way? Like, back past the gym?"
"Down the stairs. Turn left. It’s labeled," Nancy said sharply. She didn't look Robin in the eye. She couldn't. She felt like if she did, Robin would see the common room reflected in her pupils. "You’re late."
The silence that followed was heavy. Robin’s shoulders slumped, just a little, and she pulled her oversized vest tighter around herself. The bubbly energy dimmed, replaced by a confused, slightly hurt expression.
"Right," Robin said quietly, her voice losing its frantic edge. "Labeled. Left. Got it. Sorry for... sorry."
Nancy didn't say anything else. She didn't offer a "good luck" or even a nod. She simply turned and walked away, her heels clicking a sharp, dismissive beat against the floor.
Robin stood in the empty hallway for a moment, watching the girl disappear around the corner. "Okay," she whispered to herself, the word barely audible. "Okay then."