INGRID TYCHO IS NOT A QUITTER. She intended to make her time slinging ice cream at some measly minimum wage job count. Even if it meant driving Hawkins former golden boy, Steve Harrington, off the walls insane.
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╰┈➤ ❝ I'll fake it e...
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THE UNIVERSE WAS SICK, VIALL EVEN FOR THE STUNTS IT HAS PULLED IN INGRID TYCHO'S LIFE. Her actions were not thought out methodically, and she never anticipated that going to a juvenile party her peers threw for an end-of-the-year hurrah would spiral into a domino effect, resulting in her standing in an overstimulated shopping mall. The sweet smells of the treat made of dairy caused her stomach to hurl as an expanding feeling formed within her gut, reminding her of her sister's stale weed they almost got caught with by their parents last fall.
It was taking her back to a room hazed over by a flimsy excuse for the mind-boggling drug that she swore off for that very reason. Well, that and the diminishing insecurities of never being good enough to be truly loved by those around her because of a small event when she was at the ripe age of thirteen, seemingly defining her every move, appeared to be just as responsible.
She was hyper-focused on getting plastered with the cheapest beer possible that was obtained by emphasizing her boobs to the teenage cashier, with more zits on his face than stars in the sky, in the checkout line the day before. With every nauseating sip she took of the fowl liquid, the more the taste of the putrid-smelling alcohol became bearable through the effect it had on her alone.
Lights had a beam visibly around them as the images flowing through her vision raced across her eyes just as fast as her first semester of Junior year did. Within two months, she went from nothing to having the superlative title of her class's favorite at the fall formal and winning a flashy spot in the yearbook just under Mr. and Ms. Hawkins High and the opposite of the Homecoming queen who was crowned a week after. Her boyfriend told her it was probably because she finally grew into the green skirt assigned to her and the cheer squad every year.
She didn't ask to be a cheerleader, but her mother threatened to take away her gymnastics classes because the High School didn't provide a competing team. The hobby was expensive, and despite the encouragement from her coaches, she caved into the idea of replacing her leotards with pompoms. Soon after, her genuine smile was followed by a superficial gleam that made any student weak in the knees as she passed them by in the halls, taking up her entire being.
Her veins burst as the negative thoughts were replaced with a light, airy feeling of hope that blocked out the perception others had of her when she encountered them. She was thankful for conversations when liquid courage was in the mixture of her actions, and the consequences were to be worried about tomorrow. Now was the time for bliss, and I love you's were exchanged through sloppy kisses to her drop-dead gorgeous boyfriend, who was getting special treatment later that night.
Troy Crawford was what one would call a 1980s heartthrob with a stunning resemblance to Rob Lowe's piercing eyes but a touch of Ralph Macchio's youth and charm. Dark curls wildly styled with slick hair gel, making them too suitable not to have her fingers through when showing affection. He was built like the next Olympic athlete, setting the school record for the 1200 meter on their state-winning swim team and a killer pitching arm when playing baseball in the spring semester. How could she not want to win his doting approval?
