Chapter Text
School restarts in January, leaving me with very little to do. Despite the constant reminders that I should spend time with Eleven, given her similar situation, I can’t say the suggestion ever gets more appealing. Now I’m just on the couch, wrapped up tightly in a sweater, staring at the wall.
There must be something…
I glance around the room, eyeing my box of things. I reach over, pulling open the cardboard and peering inside. Books. I have books to return. I stand up, pack the various novels and textbooks into a bag, put on my boots and coat, hoist the bag (with difficulty) over my shoulder, and head out.
I remember the way from Jonathan’s house to the main road and I remember the way from the main road to the library. Efficiency be damned, I’m not getting lost. I wonder if I could get a map.
The air outside isn’t too bad, a thin layer of snow over the road. There’s a cold breeze, the frigid air biting at the skin around my neck and cheeks, but otherwise decent. It gets better when I start walking and get my blood pumping, so to speak. I should get a bike. Could I ask Joyce for a bike? How much money does Owens give her, anyway?
Even the main street is quiet, unsurprising for Monday morning, especially in this weather. I pull my hood down low and continue moving, finally arriving at the library. It’s blessedly warm inside, the heaters turned on but not too high. I approach the front desk.
The woman glances down at me, glasses perched on her nose. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“I’m homeschooled… just here to return some books. I’m sorry, they’re kind of late.”
“Hmph. Name?”
“...they should be under my dad’s name. Peter Ballard.”
She pauses. “Oh? The nice blond man?” She flips open a large book, finding his name. “He used to come here quite frequently, but hasn’t been back…”
I place my books on her desk, letting her check them out. “He… had to go on a business trip for work. He’s been away for a while. I’m staying with a… a family friend.”
“He should return his books before going away.”
“Yeah… he uh, he told me to, but I forgot. It’s just been very confusing moving my stuff into a new house and stuff. Completely slipped my mind.”
She releases a breath. “I’ll let you off with a warning.”
“Thank you so much, miss. Do you mind if I take out these textbooks again? I didn’t get the chance to finish them.”
She scoffs. “You may.”
I hurry away, choosing out a new fantasy novel, and bring that back. She checks out the books and waves me off. I’m behind now, only just starting the tenth grade curriculum when I should be in eleventh. If I hurry… maybe I’ll be able to catch up with Jonathan. Then I could just steal his work.
Alas, for now, I go to the photocopy machine. I print out some of the textbook pages, sitting at one of the tables to do practice. I wish I had someone to study with. Barb would’ve helped me, I bet.
My memory of what I’d been learning before is fuzzy, which doesn’t help. Already behind, I have to go further backwards, practicing stuff I’d done years ago. It’s frustrating.
Later, back home and having made myself something to eat, I sit cross-legged on the carpet. Holding the textbooks open with my abilities, a few feet off the ground, I read out passages to the empty house while blood drips down my lips. If I really focus, stay absorbed in the work, I can pretend that I’m fifteen again. I can imagine Henry sitting across from me, congratulating me and comforting me when I fail.
I can practically feel his hand on my shoulder, or the sound of his voice that’s not quite deep and not quite soft. My concentration pulls taunt and finally snaps, the book hitting the floor. I wipe my face off and try again.
* * *
By February, I’ve figured out a routine.
I wake up early, before anyone else, just to fold my bed back into a couch. I don’t like people seeing it… it’s too public, like I’m just on display in the living room. I’m the first to shower, changing in the bathroom and wrapping my hair up in a towel before getting started on breakfast.
This is what I’m used to. This is what I’m good at. I can make food for everyone, figuring out pretty quickly how the people in the household like their meals. I’m already setting the table when Joyce rushes out of her room. She pauses when she sees me, slowing down, and I realize she’d been stressed about making food. I gesture for her to sit down, putting down a plate of eggs and toast in front of her.
Jonathan is out next, walking out of his room with damp hair and a thrown together outfit that seems a bit too similar to the one he had on the day before. He knocks on Will’s door first, poking his head in to make sure his brother is getting ready, then walks towards the kitchen. He sits down next to his mom, rubbing his eyes. I hand him a plate as well.
Will is last, face bright, excited that he’ll soon see his friends. He sits down next to Jonathan, talking excitedly about this thing called ‘Dnd’ that he acts like is the greatest thing in the world. Maybe it is, I don’t know what it is. I put a plate down in front of him.
“I have this great idea for a new campaign! Mike’s been hanging out with El a lot after school, but he says we’ll play when school eases up on all the tests,” he says excitedly.
Jonathan nods, hunched over his food. “Sounds great.”
I sit down quietly with my own food and Joyce turns to me. “Thank you for making breakfast, Tina. I swear, you really don’t have to. You’re welcome here no matter how much you do.”
I shrug. “I cooked frequently before. I’m used to this.”
“Well, I appreciate it. You’re very self-sufficiant.”
I place my fork in my mouth, chewing thoughtfully, and swallow. “I was raised well.”
I feel Jonathan’s eyes on me when I say that, narrowed like he’d beg to differ, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he changes the subject.
“You’re a fan of fantasy books? I noticed some on the coffee table.”
“Oh, yeah, they’re fun.”
“Maybe you’d like dungeons and dragons, then?” he says, nodding towards Will.
That is all it takes to have the small boy explaining everything to me, the rules, the different classes and species, even his past campaigns. Jonathan has to drag him along so he isn’t late for school and Joyce freaks out over the time, saying she’ll clean up when she gets home.
I watch them leave, then clean up.
* * *
March arrives, the weather warms, I get a bike.
I still follow my routine, waking up early, making food, but now I bike alongside Will on his way to school. He’d usually do it alone, but Joyce doesn’t want to leave him alone, so I volunteered. I head to the library after to read and study. The woman at the front desk greets me by name.
News has been circulating around town, talk of a new mall being built that will apparently open in the summer. It sounds interesting, talk of flashing lights and more mainstream stores being invited. The small business owners seem wary, but the mayor is adamant that this project is going to be good for Hawkins.
I put the newspaper aside, bored, and return to trying to teach myself the next topic in math. It’s nonsense, I’m sure of it. The textbook isn’t helping, it feels like everything written needs to be decoded first. Maybe I’ll ask Bob tonight, he usually comes over for dinner. He’s always done his best to be very nice to me, saying I saved his life. I’m sure he would’ve been fine.
I lean back, staring at the ceiling. I wonder if Henry could’ve helped. It was always hard to figure out how much he was learning alongside me rather than teaching me. I suppose the percentages changed as I got older.
Can he even survive in the Upside Down?
Pictures of it flood my mind: the constant lightning, the freezing air, the smell of rot and blood, the spores in the air, the slime-coated vines–the slime-coated everything. Is there clean water? Is there food? Something pulls at me, a guilt at having not considered this. I can’t even say that it’s because I just don’t think about him much, I’m not that deluded.
Is all that I can stomach just the good times? Maybe he died there, maybe I killed him and now all I can think about is studying together. I told him I’d be right back. Is he waiting for me? Still?
I lean back too far in the chair, the flimsy wooden legs sliding against the carpet. I fall with a crash, head thudding against the floor, and slump to the side. Ow. The librarian calls over, telling me to stop playing around. I yell back an apology. At least the chair didn’t break.
I force myself back to my feet, cleaning up and packing my things back into my bag. It’s almost 11am now anyway, may as well go home. Could I check on Henry? It’s not for lack of ability that I haven’t yet… not for lack of desire either. Fear, then. Fear.
Pathetic.
I stumble out of the library, poking at the back of my head with the tips of my fingers. I hit the carpet, so it’s really not that bad. My head has probably–definitely–been through worse, in any case.
I fumble for the handles of my bike, throwing my leg over one side, and start on the route back home. I’ll eat lunch, clean up a bit, and try to find him in the dark place. That should be alright. I pedal faster, the wind pushing against my face, hair loose over my shoulders.
It doesn’t take long, my journey much expedited by this bike. I drop it off in the front lawn, open the door with my spare key, and walk to the kitchen. My head still kind of hurts.
I open up the fridge, peering inside. It’s pretty dire. The two end pieces of the white bread loaf, some condiments, two slightly off baby cucumbers, maybe one egg. I should’ve asked Joyce for money in the morning, then I could’ve gone shopping.
It reminds me of being with Him. The demonic entity didn’t care much for going shopping, anyway. It’s fine. I just won’t eat. I’d rather just go find Henry anyway.
I grab an old dish towel and leave the kitchen, turning towards the living room instead. Kneeling down by the television, I fiddle with the controls until I hit static, wrapping the cloth around my eyes and sitting down. It’s like I’ve done this a million times, picturing blond hair and blue eyes, the image etched into my brain.
When I open my eyes in the dark place, I find it empty. I walk forward, straining my ears, searching for any sort of sign that someone else is here. I call out his name, run, peer down into the inky ground.
Is he-?
No-
But-
My legs falter and I drop, my body going limp, a ragdoll. There’s no way. He has to be here somewhere. He’s not- he’s- he’s not fucking dead.
I wrap my arms around myself, keeling over on the ground, nails digging into my sides. My heart jumps into my throat, choking me, beating sporadically against my teeth until I throw it up. Droplets of water fall into the ink, the surface rippling with each little splash.
I would know if he died. I’d have felt it. Something in me would have snapped. I wouldn't just keep moving, keep living, keep existing…
It’s just because I’m hungry, because I’m tired, because my head hurts. If I practiced more, I’d be able to find him easily.
The doorbell rings, knocking me out of my thoughts. I sit up, pulling the blindfold off. Who the fuck could it be? It’s not even noon, everyone else has a key anyway.
I rub my face off, stalking towards the front door and throwing it open. A man stands there in an artificially perfect white button-down, buttoned right to the neck, and matching smile. His brown hair is short, the lines straight and clean, and he holds some sort of pamphlet.
His lips move, words hitting my ears and bouncing off before I can make sense of them. He doesn’t stop talking, gibberish pouring from his mouth a mile-a-minute. I stare at him, watching the thin wrinkles move around his cheeks, the skin bunched from all his previous grins.
He doesn’t seem to blink enough, his eyes big and dry, and when he does finally close them, it’s not for long enough. His skin is slightly tan, probably from being outside and bothering people. He does this for a living. A professional nuisance.
I glance past him. There’s no one around.
He has a watch ticking just slightly too loud around his wrist. It’s dull, a small face with numerals instead of numbers and a thin, brown, fake-leather band. Somehow, he gets to exist.
His voice blurs even further, everything suddenly sounding like it's underwater. I focus on his body, the bob of his throat, the shallow rise and fall of his chest. I can almost hear the steady beat of his heart, the rushing of his blood as it stretches out through his veins.
He finally lifts the pamphlet, waving it my face as if to entice me. I take it, the words mushing together on the page, and watch his expression brighten. His teeth are shiny and evenly placed in his mouth, though his two front ones look a bit big.
I can almost picture what he’d look like if he died, the dullness in his brown eyes, the way he’d fall limp, how his head would lull to the side, blood dripping from his thin lips.
With one quick tilt of my head, his neck snaps. He’s dead instantly. One second, he’s upright, the next, he collapses. He lands in an unnatural heap, a bone lightly poking out through the skin in his neck, blood dripping down.
I don’t feel anything.