Your parents decide to relocate after an incident the summer before your freshmen year of high school, one that leaves you irrevocably changed.
But after three years away, you decide to stop running from your demons and return to Hawkins High for y...
"Munson? Really?" Steve Harrington says, leaning over the Scoops Ahoy counter, forehead winkled in confusion.
"What?... Stacy, what the fuck?" you turn to her. "You TOLD Steve?"
"I didn't tell Steve anything...He guessed," she shrugged, her curls bouncing once around her shoulders.
"Guessed?" you say sarcastically, turning to Steve, waiting for him to answer.
"I don't know, Y/N, there was kind of a... vibe...when you two sat next to each other."
"Since when are you so woo-woo, Steve?" you roll your eyes, hoping it discredits his theory.
"Since Naaaancy," Stacy sing-songs, bobbing her head side to side and taunting Steve.
He gives Stacy a warning look. "Anyway," he begins slowly, taking his eyes off Stacy and back to you. "I asked Stacy about it and..."
"Look," you interject, putting your hands up. "I grabbed his hand during a jump scare. It's a very normal fear response. It doesn't mean anything."
"You held hands?!" they both yelled at the same time. This was too good. The return of one of their best friends, and she's all of a sudden paired up with the big-hearted freak of Hawkins.
"FUCK," you yell. "I thought I told you, Stac---"
"Nope. But this is too good," she laughs shaking her head in amusement.
"I swear," you point your finger at both of them, "if you get involved I will kill..." You stop yourself, dropping your finger. "Nope, because there's nothing going on. Nothing to get involved in. He's nice and all but I'm tutoring him and he's teaching me guitar and we have mutual friends but that's it.
As Steve hands you your mint chocolate chip on a cone, Stacy interjects. "Would you like a scoop of delusion on top of that, too?"
*************************************
In English class the next day, you're trying your best not to look over at Eddie, and his hands, every 5 seconds.
Somewhere in the middle of Mrs. O'Donnell's discussion about Shakespearean dramatic irony, you hear the crinkle of paper land on your desk.
"When is your first lesson? 🎸" He draws a small guitar on the note underneath his barely legible scribble.
"I'm free tonight if you are," you write back, hoping that's not too...available. Why does this feel like a game of cat-and-mouse-dating? You throw it back to him when Mrs. O'Donnell turns her back to the class to write on the blackboard.
"Let's do the lesson tomorrow. Gig at The Hideout tonight," he writes back.
You give a small nod; you can feel the sense of disappointment and embarrassment prickle up your arms.
He makes sure Mrs. O'Donnell still isn't looking before he snatches back the paper, writing something beneath his last message.
"Wanna come see the most metal concert in the history of the world tonight?"
You smile. "Oh yeah," you mouth enthusiastically.
*************************************
You've actually never been to The Hideout before, despite the fact it was Stacy's favorite spot to scout for men. It was just a dive bar in town but it had a legit stage for acts and bands to play on.
You stressed out that evening about what to wear. You told your parents that you were going to meet Stacy for a concert...but you also had to find something to wear that would be appropriate for the venue...that you actually owned (since you really didn't dress "metal") and something your dad wouldn't ground you for.
Mixing your plaid skirt with all the black items you owned seemed to do the trick...
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"Are you sure you want to go to The Hideout, honey? That's kind of a rough crowd," your dad asks, concerned. "And that skirt is a little too short, no?"
"Dad I wear this skirt to school all the time," you say, which is true. Although it's usually paired with a crisp white sweater. Or something a little more...wholesome.
"I'm also not sure I like the idea of you listening to that type of music," he continued.
"Dad!" you said, walking over to him, putting your hands on his cheeks. You usually weren't affectionate with him because he never was with you, but you really wanted to go to this show. "Everything is going to be okay. I'm driving. I'm not drinking. I'll be home by 9 p.m. sharp. No boys. I promise."
"Well, okay, then," he says, briefly putting his hands over yours. "Have a good time."
"Thanks!" you yell, as you swipe the keys to your Beetle and head out the door.
