Chapter Text
The whole babysitting thing starts when he’s fifteen-years-old, at the fault of his mom.
She’s been on the phone with Joyce Byers for what feels like hours, her voice lilting through the house in a particular way it does when she’s performing generosity. Steve’s sprawled carelessly on the couch, flipping through channels and watching The Dukes of Hazzard, when she appears in the doorway with her hand over the receiver.
“Steve, Honey.” She smiles. He almost immediately knows whatever is about to come out of her mouth, he’s not going to like. “Joyce Byers needs someone to watch her youngest for a few hours on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. Just while she takes up some extra shifts at… oh, wherever she works.”
Steve looks up. “What?”
“Babysitting,” she says, as if Steve is an idiot and doesn’t know what she’s getting at. “You’d be perfect. He’s nine, very sweet, very quiet, so she says. It’s only a couple of hours, Joyce will pay you.”
“Mom—”
“Your father will like it,” she adds, and that’s the clincher. Dad’s been on his ass lately, saying he needs to take initiative and show character. Except Steve isn’t too sure how babysitting necessarily helps him do either of the two.
Steve huffs begrudgingly. He doesn’t really want to spend his Tuesday and Thursday nights watching some random kid, but arguing with his mom when she’s already made up her mind is like trying to stop a freight train with brute force. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
His mother’s smile widens. “I’ll let Joyce know. You’re such a good boy, Steve.”
He isn’t sure that last part was true, but he lets it be.
Tuesday comes far, far too fast.
Steve pulls up to the Byers’ house just after five, the late September sun transforming almost everything in Hawkins into shades of orange. The house is strikingly small, set back from the road with a cluttered yard and a worse for wear front porch. It certainly isn’t the place Steve usually finds himself, and he feels weirdly conspicuous as he gets out of his mom’s car. He realizes, he’s never really seen the shitty part of Hawkins too much. A small surge of rare gratefulness rushes through him.
Joyce Byers answers the door before he cam knock. She’s tiny and wiry, with dark hair that looks like it’s been cut with kitchen scissors and eye bags that are nearly concerning for a woman who can only be, what, a smidgen over fourty, but she still holds a particular charm to her.
“Steve! Hi, come in, come in.” She steps aside, ushering him into a living room that smells like it’d gotten blasted by floral air freshener a few minutes before. “Thank you so much for doing this. I know it’s last minute, but this shift came up and my other son stays after school a bunch and your family is so close, I didn’t know who else could be available.”
“Oh. It’s cool,” Steve responds. He doesn’t actually know what he should say — he doesn’t talk to middle-aged women with children too often.
”Will!” Joyce calls toward the hallway. “Come meet Steve.”
There’s a brief spell of awkward silence, and then a kid emerges from the hall. He’s small, definitely smaller than Steve had expected for nine, with a bowl cut and wide, sickeningly sweet eyes. He clutches an action figure that Steve momentarily thinks he might recognize.
“Hi,” the kid greets quietly.
“Hey there, little dude,” Steve says back. He tries to remember if he’s actually ever met a nine-year-old apart from his cousins before, and if that’s why he feels so awkward. “I’m Steve.”
“I know, Mom said you’re gonna watch me.”
“Uh, yeah,” Steve replies. Jesus, he really can not tell if this kid likes him or not! “That… cool with you?”
Will nods, though he doesn’t look entirely convinced.
Joyce is already pulling on her jacket, grabbing her purse, and talking to Steve a mile a minute. “There’s leftovers in the fridge if he gets hungry, he’s got some drawings he’s working on, or you can put on a movie, whatever’s easiest. I’ll be home by eight-thirty, nine at the latest. His brother should be home before then, but just in case—”
“Mom,” Will interrupts, his voice is patient, especially for a nine-year-old. Apparently Joyce goes on tangents a fair share at the Byers residence. “It’s okay.”
Joyce stops and looks down at her son, letting out a soft sigh as she prepares to leave her boy, even for only a few hours. “You’re gonna be good for Steve?”
“I will.”
And then Joyce closes the door behind her, and Steve is left alone with a kid that looks like he could get blown away by a strong wind.
“So,” Steve starts, scratching the back of his head and dragging the ‘o’ out longer than needed. “What do you wanna do, kid?”
Will holds up his action figure — a wizard, Steve notices, with a tiny painted staff. “I was drawing.”
“That’s cool. Can I see?”
Will’s face brightens, like he didn’t intend Steve to ask. Which offends Steve a bit. He is incredibly attentive.
The small boy leads Steve to the kitchen table, where a stack of papers is spread out, covered in crayon and pencil sketches. Steve sits and pulls one closer.
It’s good. Great, actually, better than anything Steve could do. Better than most people Steve’s age could do, in total honesty. The drawing shows a castle on a hill, surrounded by trees and mountains, with a dragon curling around one of the towers. Steve definitely wouldn’t consider himself an art guy by any means, but even he can tell this kid has got talent.
“This is awesome,” Steve says.
Will’s little cheeks flush a bright shade of pink. “Thanks! It’s for a campaign. Do you know what Dungeons and Dragons is?”
Ah, Steve gets it now. This kid is a total nerd. Maybe thats why he’s talented.
“Sort of. Like… wizards and stuff?”
“Yeah.” Will sits down across from him, suddenly more animated than Steve’s mother described. “Me and my friends play. I’m usually the cleric, but I’m making up a new character. He’s a sorcerer and he’s gonna have a dragon companion.”
Will goes on for another ten minutes, and Steve nods along, even though he understands maybe a quarter of what this kid is talking about. His enthusiasm is a bit contagious, admittedly.
At some point, Will pushes a blank piece of paper across the table. “You wanna draw something?”
Steve hesitates to even consider it and laughs. “I don’t draw, little man.”
“That’s okay. You can try.”
So Steve tries.
And he does, really, but he falls flat like he expects himself to. He draws a lopsided castle and a curiously shaped blob that’s supposed to represent a dragon, and Will watches with solemn concentration, occasionally offering Steve tips. “The wings should be bigger,” he says, pointing. “And dragons have horns.”
“Right. Horns.” Steve adds two crooked triangles to the blob’s head.
When Joyce comes home at eight forty-five, apologizing profusely for being late, Steve realizes he hasn’t checked the time once.
Two days later, Thursday evening, Steve shows up without needing to be reminded.
He tells himself it’s because his mom will nag him if he bails, but that isn’t entirely true. The weekend prior to Tuesday, Steve had expected babysitting to be a chore, but he wasn’t bored once. Either he’s extraordinary with kids, or Will Byers is an extraordinary kid.
Steve walks into the Byers house to see Will in the living room, already spreading a new drawing out on the coffee table.
“Hey, kid,” Steve greets, dropping onto the worn out couch. “What’re we working on today?”
“A forest map,” Will replies, sliding the drawing towards Steve for him to inspect. “For the campaign. Do you think this tree is big enough?”
Steve squints at it and musters up all the art knowledge fifteen years of living has given him (which is close to none). “Maybe… make it a little taller? Like, if it’s supposed to be magical or whatever.”
Will considers this seriously, like Steve’s just handed down some profound artistic wisdom instead of talking completely out of his ass. He picks up a green crayon and carefully extends the trunk upward, adding more branches that spiral out in ways that actually look sort of cool.
“There’s gonna be a fortress here,” Will explains, tapping a spot near the center of the map. “Hidden in the trees. Only my character knows about it because he found it when he was exploring.”
“That’s pretty smart,” Steve says. “Like a secret base.”
“Exactly!” Will’s entire face lights up with pride. “Mike says we should put traps around it, but I think that’s kinda mean.”
Steve huffs a laugh. “Who’s Mike?”
“My best friend. He’s the Dungeon Master most of the time.” Will flips to another drawing, this one showing what looks like four kids standing together. “That’s him, and Lucas, and Dustin.”
The kids in the drawing are all holding different weapons — swords and bows and what looks to be a mace (Holy shit is this what kids do nowadays?). Will points to the smallest figure, holding a staff. “That’s me.”
“You guys are super into this game, huh?”
Will nods. “We play every week. Sometimes more if we can. Jonathan doesn’t really get it but Mom says its good that I have friends.”
Steve catches on the name. “Jonathan’s your brother?”
“Yeah. He’s in high school,” Will says, like high school is some distant, unreachable realm, which makes Steve feel ancient even though he’s only a freshman himself. “He’s always busy with photography stuff.”
Steve has a vague recollection of a Jonathan Byers. Some quiet kid he’s seen around school, maybe. Dark brown hair, keeps to himself, one of those people unremarkable enough to vanish into the background. Steve doesn’t know him, he doesn’t think he really cares to. High shool’s already sorting itself into categories, and Steve’s figuring out pretty quickly which side he’s landing on. It sure as hell isn’t the side that includes guys like Jonathan Byers.
“Photography,” Steve repeats, because he feels he should probably say something.
“Oh, he’s really good,” Will says with unshakable confidence Steve figures only a little brother could have. He wouldn’t know. “He took pictures of me and my friends for our party portrait. He even helped me pose my cleric mini.”
Steve hasn’t a clue in the world what exactly a cleric mini is, but he nods anyways. “Cool.”
Will goes back to his map, adding tiny details. Individual leaves on trees, stones along what might be a path. His tongue pokes out slightly in concentration.
“Do you have any hobbies?” Will asks, without looking up.
The question catches Steve slightly off gaurd. He thinks about basketball practice, about Tommy getting them to sneak beers from his dad’s garage two weeks ago, about the way Carol Perkins looked at him yesterday. None of that seems like the answer a nine-year-old is looking for.
“Um. I don’t know. Sports, I guess,” Steve says finally. “I’m trying out for JV basketball.”
Will’s eyes widen a little. “Are you good?”
“I’m alright.” Steve shrugs, playing it off even though he knows he’s better than alright. He’s been good at basketball since middle school, and now that he’s in high school, he can actually play on a good team. “Coach seems to think so.”
“That’s cool,” Will tells him. “I’m not really good at sports.”
“Well, that’s okay. You’re good at other stuff.”
Will ducks his head, smiling into his drawing. Steve wonders if anyone tells this kid that enough. He seems the type to get overlooked — small, not so loud, into strange roleplay games. Steve knows how Hawkins works. He’s watching it happen in real time at school, seeing who gets elevated and who gets stomped on.
Truth be told, he’s just glad he ended up on the right side of it.
“Hey, Steve. Can I ask you something?” Will questions.
“Fire away.”
”Do you think it’s weird? That I play D&D?”
Steve pauses. His honest answer is yes, Will is weird. Kind of. It’s just not what most kids are into. But Will’s looking at him now, with those big beady eyes, and the sentence that comes out is a big fat lie.
“No.”
Will’s shoulders relax a tad. “Okay.”
“Why? Is someone giving you crap about it?”
“Oh, not really. Some kids at school just think it’s silly.”
Steve furrows his eyebrows. “Okay, well, they’re idiots. I’m sure dragons are a lot more mature than whatever they do.”
Will grins at him and goes back to his map.
When Joyce returns at quarter past nine, she’s profusely apologizing breathlessly once again, fumbling with her purse. “Steve, I’m so sorry. The manager kept me late, I tried to leave—”
“It’s fine,” Steve says, standing up from his spot on the couch.
Joyce pulls out a few bills and presses them into his hand, still apologizing to him. Steve pockets the money and heads for the door with Will trailing behind him.
Steve crouches down to Will’s level. “I’ll see you Tuesday, kid,” he says.
Will lets out a mhm and nods, clutching his map to his chest. “Bye, Steve.”
Steve drives home with the windows down even though it’s cold now that the sun’s gone. The radio plays Wild Horses by the Rolling Stones, a song he’s never really liked before now. He parks in the driveway and sits there for a moment (it’s moments like these where he’s grateful his parents don’t care about him driving by himself even though he only has a learner’s permit) before heading inside where his mother will ask how it went and his father won’t look up from the newspaper.
Monday comes, as it always does, with an unfortunate inevitability.
Steve’s at his locker before first period, unfocused and mostly listening to the rambunctiousness of the hallway, when he sees Jonathan Byers for the first time since Will mentioned him. Or maybe he’s seen him before but just never registered it. That’s the thing about people like Jonathan, they’re easy to miss and forget about. He’s at the far end of the hall, hunched over his locker, wearing a jacket that’s seen better days and jeans that sit wrong on his frame. His hair hangs dark and unkempt in his face, and he’s got his head down like he’s trying to miraculously disappear.
Steve watches him for a second, then closes his own locker and heads to class.
He doesn’t think about it again until third period, when he’s cutting through the library to avoid the crowd in the main hallway — a trick he learned last week. The library is always empty except for kids who have nowhere else to go and eat lunch there. Steve’s not one of them, obviously, but it’s a faster route to the gym, and he’s running late.
Jonathan’s there.
He’s sitting alone at one of the far tables, bent over something Steve can’t see. A notebook, maybe. A camera sits next to him, a big one with a fancy lense, and Steve wonders how he managed to afford it, knowing the Byers are particularly well off. No one’s paying Jonathan any attention. The librarian is at her desk, flicking through a magazine, and some older girls are whispering and giggling near the door. Jonathan might as well be invisible.
Steve isn’t even sure why he’s looking. Jonathan Byers isn’t anyone. He isn’t popular, not athletic, not loud or funny or interesting. He just exists, taking up space. Steve should walk past him the way everyone does, but the way Jonathan’s shoulders are hunched, the way his head stays down, it reminds Steve of Will. It’s that same smallness, figurative or literal.
Except Will’s nine, and Jonathan’s got to be, what, fifteen? Sixteen? Old enough that the smallness about him seems pathetic rather than cute.
Steve keeps walking and pushes through the library doors and makes it to gym with a minute to spare. Coach is already yelling about something, and Steve falls into line with the other guys, letting the noise swallow him up.
Tuesday comes, and Steve shows up at the Byers house at five. Joyce thanks him for coming over as if it isn’t routine by now and tells him she’ll be home by nine, though Steve doubts her shift wont drag on a little longer than that.
The kid’s in the living room, drawing like usual. He smiles when he sees Steve walk into the room, which is kinda nice.
“Hey,” Steve says, taking his place next to the younger boy. “What’cha doing?”
Will holds up a piece of paper covering in pencil lines. “A character sheet. For my sorcerer.”
Steve feels like their babysitting sessions have gotten repetitive: Will draws, Steve asks what he’s drawing, Will says it’s some D&D shit, and Steve knows practically nothing about it. Maybe he should do some research?
No. He definitely shouldn’t.
“Hey, maybe we should do something different. Wanna watch a movie?”
Will thinks for a minute, then enthusiastically says, “Yeah! We have tapes. I’ll get them.” and jumps up from the couch and shuffles away. He disappears down the hallway then comes back with a small stack of VHS tapes.
It’s not an extraordinary collection, to tell the truth. A bunch of kids’ movies and a few older ones that look like they’ve been taped off TV. He picks one that doesn’t look entirely unwatchable, some adventure thing, and Will puts it in.
The movie isn’t terrible. It isn’t great, but it’s not terrible. Will is completely absorbed in it, leaning forward when something exciting happens and gasping during plot twists. Steve finds himself watching the kid moreso than the movie.
About ten minutes from the end, Will turns towards steve. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Anything.”
“Do you think Jonathan’s weird?”
Maybe anything didn’t include that. It catches Steve by surprise and he scours his mind trying to figure out what to say. “Why?”
“Some kids at school said he is. They said their siblings are in high school and that he’s, I don’t know, not like all the other kids.”
Will’s voice is small, like he’s worried about what Steve’s going to say. Steve thinks about Jonathan in the library, hunched over a book, alone. He thinks about what Tommy might say about him and how everyone would laugh.
Jonathan is weird. And that isn’t Steve being a dick, everyone knows so. But Will is right next to him with those eyes and Steve just doesn’t have the heart to tell this little boy his older brother’s a complete loser.
“Well, I don’t really know him,” Steve says. “He just goes to school with me. But he’s your brother, so he’s probably alright.”
Okay, well, he didn’t lie per say. He doesn’t know Jonathan. But he knows enough to know what people think of him, and that’s pretty much the same thing.
Wednesday at lunch, Steve’s sitting with Tommy and Carol and a couple other people whose names he’s still learning. The cafeteria’s loud, packed, everyone shouting over each other. Carol’s telling some story about her cousin getting caught shoplifting, and Tommy’s laughing, and Steve stopped listening maybe ten minutes ago.
He’s looking around the cafeteria without really meaning to when he spots Jonathan.
He’s sitting alone at a table in the back, eating something out of a brown paper bag. His camera’s next to him like always, and he’s got his head down, again, like always.
“—so she tried to run, but she was wearing heels and she totally broke her tailbone,” Carol’s saying, laughing.
“Your cousin’s a fucking idiot,” Tommy responds, shaking his head, with the venomous tone of voice that somehow seeps its way into all of his words.
“I know.”
Steve takes a bite into his sandwich and grins subconsciously when Tommy says something else that’s probably really dick-ish. This is good. This is exactly where he wants to be.
“Speaking of idiots,” Tommy starts, “Check that one out.”
Steve follows his gaze. Jonathan’s getting up from his table, slinging his camera bag over his shoulder. He’s moving towards the exit, trying to slip out without anyone noticing.
“Byers,” Tommy announces, loud enough that people at the next table over turn to look. “That guy’s such a creep. Always with that camera.”
Carol wrinkles her nose in disgust. “I heard he takes pictures of dead animals.”
“Ew, seriously?” one of the lesser known girls at the table exclaims.
“That’s what I heard.”
“He probably jerks himself off to them or something.” Tommy is nearly laughing himself to death thinking about the possibility of that, and a couple people chuckle with him.
Steve watches Jonathan disappear through the cafeteria doors. It’s almost like he’s in that moment with Will again, the little guy asking him if Jonathan was a freak, how he looked at him, waiting for an answer. He thinks about how Jonathan never really does anything to anyone.
Mostly, Steve thinks about how good it feels to be sitting here with people who actually matter, people like him.
“Yeah,” Steve says. “Dudes totally serial killer material.”
Steve’s in the middle of history class, zoning out while Mr. Kaminsky drones on about the French Revolution, when an office aide walks in with a note. She hands it to the teacher, who glances at it and then looks up.
“Steve Harrington?”
Steve straightens in his seat. “Yeah?”
“You’re needed in the office.”
A couple people turn to look at him. Tommy mouths what’d you do? from across the room, grinning like Steve’s about to get his ass handed to him. Steve groans and grabs his stuff, following the aide out into an empty hallway.
The office is busy with phones ringing and secretaries typing away at their computers. The aide points him toward the front desk. “Wait here.”
Steve stands there, arms crossed while the secretary finishes whatever she’s doing. Finally she looks up. “Steve Harrington?”
“That’s me.”
“Joyce Byers called. She needs you to pick up her son from Hawkins Elementary and bring him home. She’s stuck at work and can’t get away.”
Steve blinks. “Wait, what?”
“Will Byers. She said you babysit him regularly and that you’d be able to help. The school’s releasing him early. He’s sick.”
Steve glances behind him, like maybe there’s some alternate Steve Harrington that could do this for him. “Uh. Okay, yeah, I can do that.”
The secretary scribbles something on a slip of paper and hands it to him. “Don’t worry, your excuse will be excused for the rest of the day. Joyce said she’ll pay you extra for the trouble.”
”Thanks.”
Steve walks out to parking lot, gets in his car, and pulls out into the main road. Being out during school hours is odd, with how small Hawkins is, it feels like a ghost town.
The school secretary at Hawkins Elementary is older, gray-haired, and looks at Steve like she’s trying to figure out if he’s old enough to be trusted with a child. “You’re Steve Harrington?”
“Yeah.”
“And Joyce Byers asked you to pick up Will?”
“Yes. She called my school.” Steve hands her the slip for proof.
The secretary presses her lips together and raises an eyebrow but ultimately doesn’t argue. “Alright, someone will bring him out in a moment,” she says while dialing a number into a phone.
Steve nods and stands there with his hands stuffed into his pant pockets while he waits for Will to be released. There’s a bulletin board behind the desk covered in construction paper cutouts of turkeys. One of them has a missing googly eye. Steve stares at it until the door to the back hallway opens and a nurse walks out with Will trailing behind her.
Will looks, to put it plainly, like shit. His face is pale, his hair’s sticking up oddly on one side, and he’s clutching his backpack like a safety net.
“Hey, kid,” Steve says.
Will looks up at him, and his face flashes with a mix of both relief and immense embarrassment, mortified that Steve has to see him like this. “Hi, Steve.”
The nurse smiles at the older boy. “He threw up twice, but he doesn’t have a fever. Probably just a stomach bug. Just make sure he drinks water and gets some rest.”
“Got it,” Steve replies, even though he has no idea what he’s supposed to do if Will starts throwing up again.
The nurse pats Will’s shoulder. “Feel better, sweetheart.”
Will mumbles something that resembles a thank you and follows Steve out to the parking lot, walking like every step takes all of his effort. Steve unlocks the car and Will climbs into the passenger sear, slumping against the door after fastening his seat belt.
Steve gets in and starts the engine. “Okay, there’s only one rule when you’re in this car. Under absolutely no circumstances, will you puke. Even under a circumstance like this.”
“I won’t throw up.”
“Are you sure? Because my mom will kill me if theres vomit in here when I get home.”
“I’m sure.”
“But if you do, please aim for the floor and not the seats.”
Will makes a noise somewhere between what might be a laugh and what might be a groan. Steve can’t tell.
He backs out of the parking lot and heads towards the Byers house. The radio’s on low, playing some The Beatles song his mom probably likes. Will’s in the next seat with his eyes closed. Steve glances over at him every few seconds to make sure he doesn’t hurl.
“So your mom’s stuck at work?”
“I guess.”
“When’s she getting home?”
Will shrugs without opening his eyes. “Late. Maybe seven.”
Shit, that’s like five hours from now. “Jesus. Okay.”
“She said she’d pay you extra.”
“I’m not worried about the money, dude. I’m worried about you puking.”
This time Will definitely laughs, even though it sounds weaker than his laughs usually do. “I’ll try not to.”
When they pull up to the Byers house, Steve parks and gets out to help Will get inside. The kid is all hunched over like an eighty-year-old man with arthritis and moving at the speed of a snail. Steve opens the door with a spare key Joyce had given him after his second time babysitting Will, and opens the door for him to shuffle inside.
Steve flips on one of the light switches. “You wanna lie down or what?”
“Yeah.” Will heads straight for the couch and collapses onto it face-first.
Steve grabs a blanket over the back of an armchair and tosses it over him. “You need water or anything?”
“Yes please,” Will says, muffled by the cushions.
Steve goes to the kitchen. The sink’s full of dishes and there’s a grocery list stuck to the fridge with a magnet. Bread, milk, coffee, toilet paper. He fills a glass with tap water and brings it back to the living room.
Will’s rolled onto his side now, curled up with his knees to his chest. Steve sets the water on the coffee table. “There.”
“Thanks.”
Steve drops onto the floor, leaning back against the couch. He grabs the remote and flips through channels. Soap opera. News. Some Western. He leaves it on the Western even though it really doesn’t look interesting.
“Steve?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry you had to leave school.”
Steve looks back at him. Will’s got the blanket pulled up to his chin, and he looks miserable. “Oh, it’s fine. I was in history. Kaminsky’s about as entertaining ad watching paint dry, anyway.”
“Still.”
“Seriously, don’t worry about it.”
Will’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, “I threw up in the cafeteria.”
“Oh. Damn.”
“In front of everyone.” Will’s voice gets smaller. “It was really bad. Like, I didn’t even make it outside or anything. I just…right there on the floor.”
Steve winces. “That sucks, man.”
Will pulls the blanket up over his head. “I wanted to go home but the nurse said I had to wait for someone to come get me. Mom couldn’t leave work and I didn’t want them to call Jonathan.”
Steve frowns. “Why not?”
“Because.” Will’s voice comes out muffled. “Because then he’d have to leave school and everyone would know and people already think he’s weird enough.”
“That’s not your problem,” Steve tells him.
“Yes it is. He’s my brother.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Do you think it gets better?” Will interrupts. “When you’re older?”
Steve looks at him. “What do you mean?”
“Being different. Do people stop caring?”
Steve wants to lie, as if he hasn’t done that to this poor boy enough. Steve wants to tell him everyone in high school holds hands and sings Kumbaya. But he’s in high school right now and he knows that’s bullshit. Tommy’s in high school. Carol’s in high school. Half the people Steve eats lunch with and laughs with spend their free time tearing people who are different apart. And he doesn’t stop them.
“I don’t know,” Steve says instead.
Will frowns, and Steve knows that he wanted to hear something different, even if it was a lie.
“I’m only a freshman,” Steve adds. “So, like. I don’t really know yet.”
“Okay.” Will pulls the blanket over his head and tries to get comfortable. “Do you think I’m gonna end up like Jonathan?”
Steve’s jaw tightens. His life would be a lot easier if this boy knew when to stop asking questions, as if Steve had any answers.
“Alone,” Will clarifies, but Steve knew what be meant without him having to say that. “With everyone thinking I’m a freak.”
Joyce had told Steve that Will was a sensitive kid, that a lot of it came from her husband, his dad, who apparently ran off to Indianapolis when Will was somewhere around six without even asking for a divorce. But Steve didn’t expect a nine-year-old boy to be this self-conscious. But here he is, listening to a nine-year-old boy, indeed, be this self-conscious.
“You’ve got friends,” Steve says.
“Yeah, but so does Jonathan. Or he did. In middle school.”
Steve didn’t know that. He’d just sort of assumed Jonathan had always been the way he is now — invisible.
“Mike and Lucas and Dustin,” Will continues. “What if we all end up like that? What if we’re fine now but then we get to high school and everyone decides we’re freaks?”
Steve rubs his hand over his face. This is way too much for a Thursday afternoon. He didn’t sign up for this when Joyce asked him to babysit. He didn’t even sign up to babysit, his mom did. He was supposed to just hang out with a kid who draws dragons, not have a conversation about whether or not Will’s entire future is already decided.
“I don’t think it works like that,” Steve says, which is maybe the most pathetic answer he’s ever given.
“It does, though. You know it does.”
And the thing is, Steve does know. He’s watching it happen in real time. He’s watching himself get pulled up while other people get shoved down, and he’s not doing anything to stop it because why would he? It feels good, being on top. It feels good having people laugh at his jokes and invite him to parties and treat him like he matters.
But there’s Will, curled up under a blanket, asking if he’s doomed to end up like his loser older brother, and Steve doesn’t know how to deal with those two things.
“Jonathan’s fine,” Steve says, and even as he says it he knows it’s a load of crap.
Will doesn’t respond and only stays under the blanket, and after a while his breathing evens out and Steve realizes he’s fallen asleep.
Steve stays on the floor. His back’s starting to hurt but he doesn’t move. The Western’s been over for a bit now and has been replaced with some black and white show with an annoying and grating laugh track.
When Joyce finally comes home around seven-thirty, she’s dropped the apologizing she usually does when she’s late, and just hugs Steve and thanks him. Steve tells her it’s no problem, takes the money she practically shoves at him, and drives home.
The sun’s gone down and the streets are dark. Steve turns the radio on but nothing good’s even playing, so he turns it off again. He drives in silence and doesn’t think about anything, which is a lot harder than he wants it to be.
At home, his mom’s in the kitchen. She smiles when she sees him. “How was your day, honey?”
“Alright.”
“Joyce told me what you did. That was very sweet.”
Steve just nods and heads upstairs. He lies on his bed and stares at the ceiling.
Do you think I’m gonna end up like Jonathan?
Probably.
Steve shuts his eyes tight and lets a much needed sleep pull him in.
It’s a Wednesday, and Steve’s in the library during lunch, which isn’t something he usually does, but he forgot his English essay in his locker and Mr. Patterson’s gonna lose his shit if Steve shows up empty-handed again. The library is nearly dead and only occupied by a couple of girls gossiping at a table near the windows and the librarian doing a crossword at her desk.
Steve finds a table in the back and pulls out his notebook. He’s got maybe twenty minutes to pull a conclusion paragraph about To Kill a Mockingbird straight out of his ass, which he didn’t finish reading because the last third was about the literary equivalent of doing laundry, though Steve’s almost sure laundry would be more interesting than a book.
He’s chewing on his pen, staring at a (probably) poorly put together sentence about justice or morality or whatever, when he notices Jonathan Byers two tables over.
Jonathan’s bent over a textbook and jotting stuff down. His camera’s next to him, as always, and there’s a stack of photographs spread out in front of him. Steve can’t see them clearly from here, but they look like the same black and white stuff Jonathan’s always carrying around.
God, Steve should focus on his essay. He really should. But his eyes keep drifting back to Jonathan, and he doesn’t really know why. It’s not like Jonathan’s doing anything interesting. He’s sitting there and writing, hair falling in his face, completely engrossed in whatever he’s working on.
He’s probably writing something about his photos. Or maybe it’s something else entirely. Maybe it’s got nothing to do with photography at all. Steve wouldn’t know. He doesn’t know anything about Jonathan except what other people say, and what other people say is usually bullshit.
The one reliable person he can go off of is Will, and that kid talks about Jonathan like he’s a superhero, even when he knows he’s a total loser. He goes on and on and on about how good he is at photography, how cool his music taste is, how he helped Will set up some photo for his D&D group. Will says it with an unwavering pride in his voice, like having Jonathan as a brother is the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
Steve doesn’t have siblings. He has no idea what that’s like, having an older or younger brother. Will’s the closest he’s ever gotten to one. But he knows what it sounds like when someone looks up to another person, and that’s what Will has with Jonathan. Complete faith in his brother.
And here Jonathan is, sitting two tables away, totally alone.
When Steve goes back to his essay, he realizes he’s written the same sentence over three times and crosses two of them out because he stupidly wrote with pen instead of pencil.
He looks up again. Jonathan’s gathering his stuff now — okay then, Steve thinks, he wasn’t here very long — sliding the photographs back into a random pocket in his bag. Steve watches him stand and watches him pick up his camera. Jonathan walks toward the exit, and as he passes Steve’s table, one of the photographs slips out of his notebook and lands on the floor.
Steve kind of just stares at it. He could ignore it. Well, at least he should ignore it, probably. It’s certainly not his problem. Jonathan will realize it’s missing later, or he won’t, it doesn’t look too significant, and either way it’s got nothing to do with Steve.
But he picks it up anyway.
It’s a picture of the woods near the Byers house. Black and white, kind of grainy. There’s a deer in it, hidden behind the trees and only barely visible. Steve doesn’t know the first thing about photography, so he couldn’t be the judge of whether or not it’s a good photo, but it seems like one.
“Hey,” Steve says, holding up the photo.
Jonathan takes a pause and turns himself around. The look on Jonathan’s face isn’t necessarily surprise more than fear. As if Steve’s holding something Jonathan can’t afford to lose and Steve might destroy it just because he can.
“You dropped this,” Steve finishes.
Jonathan walks to Steve slowly like hes a stray cat that can only be observed from afar and not pet and takes the photo from his hands like Steve might yank it away last second.
Steve lets it slip from his fingers. “It’s good.”
Jonathan looks at him and raises an eyebrow, the most emotion Steve thinks has ever crossed the other guy’s face. He clearly doesn’t believe him.
“The, uh, picture,” Steve clarifies, “It’s good.”
Jonathan brushes a lock of hair from out of his face while narrowing his eyes at Steve. “What do you want?”
“What?”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing, dude. I’m just saying it’s a good picture.”
“Right.” Jonathan rolls his eyes and slips the photo into his bag. “Sure.”
“I’m serious.”
“Okay.”
Steve is trying to be nice here. He complimented Jonathan’s stupid photo. He didn’t have to do that. He could’ve just handed it back and shut his mouth, and Jonathan’s acting like Steve is insulting him.
“Are you always this paranoid?” Steve asks.
Jonathan presses his lips together in frustration. “Are you always this full of shit?”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I’m being nice to you! That’s it.”
“Right. And tomorrow you and your friends will all laugh about it together.”
“No, I’m not—“
“Yeah, you are.” Jonathan adjusts his bag to sit better on his shoulder. “That’s what guys like you do.”
Guys like you. Steve isn’t sure why that phrase pisses him off so much, but it does. “You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.”
“From what? Sitting alone in the corner and staring at people?”
It comes out harsher than Steve meant for it to. Jonathan’s face goes blank, and for a second Steve almost feels bad.
“Yeah,” Jonathan says quietly, turning around to leave. “Something like that.”
Steve watches him walk away. The library doors swing shut behind him, and then it’s just Steve standing there with his mediocre essay and the weird taste in his mouth that he can’t quite place.
The thing is, Steve had tried. He actually tried to be decent for once, and Jonathan acted like Steve had just spit in his face. What was Steve supposed to do? Grovel? Apologize for Jonathan’s own insecurities? Jonathan’s the one who has a problem with everyone. Jonathan’s the one who sits alone and glares at people and acts like the whole world’s out to get him.
This is what Steve decides that day: it’s easier to hate Jonathan Byers than feel sorry for him.
Tommy gets hungry around nine-thirty, which means everyone else is getting food whether they want it or not.
Steve’s in the back seat of Tommy’s car with the windows down, watching the streetlights flicker over and over. It’s late March, warm enough that the windows can finally be rolled down, and Carol’s got her feet up on the dashboard, bare toes pressed against the glass while she messes with the radio.
“I’m starving,” Tommy announces.
Carol doesn’t look away from the window. “You ate like three hours ago.”
“And? That was lunch.”
“That was dinner. We got pizza.”
“No it wasn’t.”
Steve watches a dog chase a car down Maple Street and disappear around the corner. In his humble opinion, he’s gotten excellent at belonging. A year ago he wouldn’t have been here. A year ago he barely knew Tommy Hagan’s name.
They end up at the diner because it’s the only place in Hawkins open past nine (excluding the gas station, but even Tommy is above gas station food). The parking lot’s mostly empty if not for a couple of trucks and someone’s beat-up sedan. The booths are red vinyl with the stuffing coming out in places, and there’s a jukebox in the corner that hasn’t worked since probably before Steve was born.
“I’m getting a milkshake,” Carol decides, not looking at the menu.
“Get whatever you want, I’m not paying for it,” Tommy says.
“I didn’t ask you to pay for it.”
“Good, because I’m not.”
“I heard you the first time, Tommy.”
Steve picks up a menu even though he already knows what’s on it, this diner has been here since, what? The ‘50s? His eyes move over the words without actually reading them to give himself something to look at while Tommy and Carol do their thing.
The menu works as a distraction from the two lovebirds in front of him, but not from something significantly less pleasant a few feet away.
Jonathan and Will Byers sitting in a booth in the back corner near the kitchen.
Steve’s stomach nearly drops straight to his ass.
It isn’t that he forgot Will existed or anything. How could he? He’s been babysitting the kid two times a week since September. But he’s gotten so good at keeping that life seperate from this one. Will exists in Byers house with their worn out couch and drawings spread across the kitchen table. Will exists in a completely different part of Steve’s life, one that doesn’t touch the part where he’s eating greasy food with Tommy Hagan and Carol Perkins.
Except now those two parts are in the same room.
Will is talking, his hands moving like they usually do when he’s explaining something particularly complex. Jonathan is listening, or pretending to, picking at a plate of fries without much interest. Steve looks back at the menu before either of them can see him.
“Are you okay?” Tommy asks.
Steve glances at Tommy and turns his attention from the menu to the boy in front of him. “I’m fine.”
“Then what do you want?”
Steve hums in thought. “I don’t know.”
Tommy raises his eyebrows in confusion. If there’s one thing Steve knows, it’s that Tommy is by no means a considerate dude. He hasn’t been since he met Carol in middle school, as far as Steve’s heard. But Tommy is good at reading people, so Steve doesn’t know if he bought that Steve was so engrossed in the menu. “Dude, there’s only been like six things on the menu for thirty years.”
“I know that.”
The waitress comes over with a writing pad in hand in no time. She’s about middle-aged and tired looking. Tommy orders a burger, fries, and a Coke. Carol changes her mind about the milkshake flavor about three separate times before setting on what she wanted first of all anyways, chocolate. Steve just orders fries because it seems like the path of least resistance
Steve prays to God that the brothers don’t notice him. Maybe they’ll finish eating and leave and Steve can get through tonight without even Carol or Tommy noticing them.
“Oh my god,” Carol says, leaning forward with both elbows on the table. Steve knows from her tone that something detrimental is about to happen. “Is that Jonathan Byers?”
Tommy swivels in his seat as fast as the speed of light to look. His face lights up with that expression he gets when he’s found something entertaining. “Holy shit, it is.”
Steve steers his gaze to what he’s sure is a week-old ketchup smear on the linoleum table.
“With his little brother too,” Tommy continues, loud enough that an eldery couple two booths over glances at them. He’s grinning, settling back against the vinyl like he’s getting comfortable for a show. “Friday night dinner with you and your kid brother. Can you think of anything more sad?”
Carol wrinkles her nose, tilting her head to get a better look. “God, I can’t even imagine. Like, what would you even talk about?”
“Probably nothing. I’d be pissed if he was my older brother.”
“That whole family’s weird, though.” Carol’s playing with her straw’s paper wrapper, tearing it into little pieces. “My mom knows Joyce from Melvald’s. She says Joyce is like, batshit. Always talking a mile a minute.”
“Yeah, well, the apple doesn’t fall far.” Tommy leans back, arms spread across the top of the booth.
Steve stares at the wall where someone’s carved initials into the wood. R.B. + T.T. The letters are crude, done with a pocket knife probably. He wonders who R.B. is. He wonders if they’re still together.
Tommy turns his attention to Steve, raising his eyebrows expectantly. “Right, Harrington?”
Steve doesn’t really have a clue what he’s supposed to be agreeing to, and he doesn’t even wanna look up because he feels this sense of shame bubbling in his throat and Carol and Tommy are so loud and Will can probably hear them. “I guess.”
“You guess?” Carol laughs. “Come on. The guy doesn’t talk to anyone, he’s always by himself, he’s got that creepy stare thing going on.”
“The stare is the worst part,” Tommy adds, gesturing vaguely with his hand. “Like he’s torturing you in his mind, or whatever.”
“Ugh, yes. He did that to me in the hallway last week and I literally got chills.” Carol shudders dramatically. “Not the good kind.”
“Is there a good kind of Jonathan Byers chills?”
“You know what I mean.”
Steve picks up his water and takes an uncomfortaby large sip. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Jonathan and Will’s booth, and he sees the exact moment Will turns around.
Their eyes meet.
Will’s face goes through about five different expressions in the span of a second. Confusion first, like he can’t figure out why Steve’s here. Then recognition. Then something that looks horribly like hurt
Steve looks away first.
“I mean, someone should probably say something to him,” Carol continues, examining her nails like this is a casual observation. It is for her, Steve supposes. Lately, it is for him too. “Like, ‘Hey, you’re making everyone uncomfortable, maybe try being normal.’”
“Like he’d listen.” Tommy shakes his head, reaching for the ketchup bottle and spinning it idly on the table. “Guys like that think they’re too smart for everyone else. They think they’re above it all.”
“Tortured artist bullshit.”
Steve glances over again. Jonathan’s staring down at his plate now, his shoulders rigid and jaw clenched tight. One hand’s gripping his fork hard enough that his knuckles have gone white. He’s heard everything. Of course he has. Tommy and Carol aren’t exactly being subtle.
“God, and those clothes,” Carol starts, “Does he own anything that actually fits?”
“Probably all hand-me-downs. Or thrift store shit.” Tommy shrugs. “I mean, everyone knows the Byers don’t have money.”
“He doesn’t have to advertise it, though. There’s being poor and then there’s looking like you don’t own a mirror.”
They’re both laughing now, and Steve knows with a sinking certainty that they’re not going to stop. This is entertainment. Jonathan Byers is entertainment. Jonathan Byers is just something to pick apart when there’s nothing better to do.
Steve could stop it. He could tell them to knock it off, that Jonathan’s just sitting there eating dinner with his little brother. He could get up and leave.
“Come on, Steve. Back us up here. Guy’s a complete disaster, right?”
He could do literally anything other than sit here.
“Yeah,” Steve says. “A total disaster.”
The waitress shows up with their food and Tommy immediately starts talking about something else. Steve picks up his burger and thinks it’s karma when it tastes like nothing.
He doesn’t look at Jonathan and Will again. God, he can’t. The knowledge that Will’s sitting there trying to make sense of what he just saw, trying to fit together the Steve who helps him draw dragons with the Steve who just called his brother a total disaster, it kills
him.
When Steve finally does glance over — ten minutes later, maybe fifteen — the booth’s empty.
“They left,” Carol observes, wiping milk from her upper lip with a napkin. “Thank god. That was depressing to look at.”
Tommy scoffs. “This town seriously needs to raise its standards.”
Soon enough, Tommy pays the check and they’re out the door to pile into his car.
The parking lot’s darker now. Steve’s reaching for the back door handle when he hears it.
“Steve.”
He turns around.
Will’s standing by the diner entrance, just outside the circle of light from the doorway. Jonathan is behind him, one hand on Will’s shoulder, his face unreadable in the shadows.
“Hey, kid,” Steve says, and it comes out all wrong.
Tommy and Carol are already in the car. Tommy’s got the engine running with the radio playing something almost ridiculously loud.
Will takes a step forward so that Jonathan doesn’t hear them. His face is blotchy and his eyes red.
“I heard you,” Will says.
Steve’s stomach drops. “Will—”
“He didn’t do anything to you,” Will continues. His voice cracks. “He was just sitting there.”
“I know.”
“Then why were you being mean to him?”
“I wasn’t—”
“You said he was a disaster.”
Steve flinches. He didn’t think Will had heard that. “Look—”
“Jonathan’s not a disaster.” Will’s crying now, tears running down his face. “He’s really nice. He helps me with my homework and he takes care of me and Mom and he doesn’t…” Will’s voice breaks. “He doesn’t deserve people being mean. You were being so mean.”
Steve feels like the worst person alive. “You’re right.”
“Then why were you?”
“I don’t know.”
Will wipes his face with his sleeve. “I thought you were different.”
Steve winces.
“But you’re not. You’re just like the kids at school.”
“That isn’t true.”
“Yes it is.” Will frowns. “You’re nice to me at my house but then you’re mean about Jonathan everywhere else. You pretend.”
“I do like you.” Steve says finally. “Hanging out with you, that isn’t pretend.”
Will looks at him. “But you don't like Jonathan.”
“Will, this isn’t about Jonathan.”
“You either think someone's a freak or you don't.”
“I don't think Jonathan's a freak.”
“You acted like you did.”
“I know!” It comes out sharper than Steve wanted it to and it makes Will flinch. “Sorry. I just don't know how to explain it.”
“You don't have to,” Will replies quietly. “I get it.”
“You don’t.”
“Yeah I do. You’re mean to people so your friends will like you.”
Or maybe Will does get it.
“It isn’t that simple,” Steve responds. He doesn’t know what else he has to say.
“Steve!” Tommy calls from the car. “Let’s go, man!”
Steve looks at Will. He looks at Jonathan standing there silent behind him. He looks at the way Will’s looking at him like Steve just broke something that can’t be fixed. In a way, he has.
“I have to go,” Steve tells him quietly.
“I thought you were different,” Will says again.
Steve doesn’t have an answer for that. He turns around and walks to the car and gets in the back seat. Tommy peels out of the parking lot, talking to Carol about something, making her laugh like a woman gone mad. Steve sits there and watches the diner disappear in the side mirror.
The last thing he sees is Will, still standing there in the parking lot, getting smaller and smaller until he’s gone.
Steve doesn’t go back to babysit that Tuesday.
He calls Joyce Monday night and says he’s super sick. She sounds concerned, asks if he needs anything, and tells him she hopes he feels better soon. He says thanks and hangs up and spends Tuesday night lying in his bed and drifting in and out of sleep.
Thursday he calls again. He tells her he’s still not feeling great. Joyce says she understands, tells him to take care of himself, and that he really shouldn’t worry about it.
The following Tuesday, he doesn’t call at all.
Steve’s bedroom is too hot and too quiet, and he’s been staring at the same page of his summer reading for the past twenty minutes without absorbing a single word.
It’s mid-June. School’s been out for three weeks and already the days are starting to blur together. Basketball practice doesn’t start until July. Tommy’s family went to their lake house for the week. Carol’s grounded for something Steve didn’t really pay attention to when she called to complain about it.
His mom is at some luncheon. His dad is at work, or golfing, or wherever his dad goes during the day. The house is empty save for Steve and the distant murmur of the air conditioning that doesn’t quite reach the second floor.
Steve closes the book — A Separate Peace by John Knowles, which he’s supposed to have finished by August — and tosses it right onto his nightstand. He lies back on his bed and stares at the ceiling. There’s a water stain up there shaped like Ohio. Or maybe Michigan? He’s been looking at it for sixteen years and still can’t decide.
The phone rings downstairs.
Steve doesn’t care to move. It’s probably for his mom anyway. Some other woman calling about some other luncheon or charity thing or whatever it is his mother spends her time organizing.
It keeps ringing.
Steve sighs and hauls himself up, padding downstairs in his mismatched black and white socks. He catches it on the seventh ring.
“Hello?”
“Oh, Steve! Hi, honey.”
He recognizes the voice immediately. It’s Joyce Byers.
“Hey, Mrs. Byers.”
“I am so glad I caught you. Is your mom home?”
“No, she’s out.”
“Oh.” There’s a short pause and the sound of rustling paper in the background finds its way to Steve’s ears. “Well, I was actually calling to talk to you anyway. I just thought — well, never mind what I thought. How are you, honey? How’s your summer going?”
“It’s going good.”
“That’s wonderful. You keeping busy?”
“Um, sort of. I’m doing some basketball stuff next month.”
“That’s right, you play basketball. Will used to talk about that,” she says. “Listen, Steve, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
Steve leans against the kitchen counter. Through the window he can see the Hendersons’ sprinkler going, making rainbows in the afternoon sun.
“Sure,” he says.
“I know you must be so busy with school ending and everything, but I was wondering if you might be available for some babysitting again? Just here and there, nothing regular if you don’t want! I picked up some extra shifts at Melvald’s for the summer, and Jonathan’s been working more hours at the photo lab, and Will’s home all day and…” She’s talking faster now, that way she does when she’s anxious. “I just hate leaving him alone so much, you know? He’s ten now so he’s old enough, but I worry, and he really seemed to like having you around before, and—”
“Mrs. Byers,” Steve interrupts gently.
“Yes?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
There’s silence on the other end. Steve believes he can almost hear the disappointment on her face. “Oh. Okay. Can I ask why not?”
Steve pulls the phone cord taut then lets it spring back. “I’m just really busy. With basketball and stuff.”
“I’d pay you more. Fifteen an hour?”
“It’s not about the money, Mrs. Byers.”
“Then what is it about?”
He doesn’t have an answer for that. Or he does, but he just can’t say it. He can’t tell her that her son looked at him in a parking lot and saw exactly who Steve for who he really is.
“I’m just busy,” he repeats.
Joyce is quiet for a moment. When she speaks again, her voice is much softer. “Steve, honey, did something happen? Between you and Will?”
“No.”
“Because he hasn’t mentioned you in a few weeks, and when I asked him about it he got really quiet. And that just is not like Will, you know? He talks about everything. But he wouldn’t talk about you.”
Steve closes his eyes. “Nothing happened.”
“Okay.” She doesn’t sound like she believes him. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find us. The offer’s open, anytime.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Byers.”
“You take care of yourself, Steve.”
She hangs up. Steve stands there with the phone pressed to his ear, listening to the dial tone until it turns into that awful beeping sound, and then he hangs up too.
Four days later, Steve’s at the grocery store with his mom because apparently she needs help carrying things, which is code for she’s bored and wants company but would never actually say that.
He’s pushing the cart while she examines tomatoes like she’s a jeweler appraising diamonds. Steve’s job is to follow her around and not hit any old ladies with the cart. So far he’s only come close twice.
“These are terrible,” his mom announces, setting down a tomato with visible disappointment. “Absolutely terrible. I don’t know what they’re doing to these tomatoes, but it’s criminal.”
Steve makes a noncommittal sound. He’s perfected this over the years. The precise art of seeming like he’s listening without actually listening.
“We need coffee,” his mom says, abandoning the tomatoes entirely. “The good kind, not whatever your father keeps buying that tastes like dirt.”
Steve pushes the cart in the direction of the coffee aisle, going on autopilot. He’s been to this store a thousand times. He could navigate it blindfolded.
Which is why he doesn’t see Will Byers until he’s almost run him over with the cart.
“Whoa!”
Steve jerks the cart to a stop. Will jumps back and drops the box of cereal he was holding.
Will looks different than he did all those months ago. Taller, maybe, or maybe Steve’s just forgotten how small he is. He’s wearing a faded Star Wars shirt and gray shorts that are probably hand-me-downs from Jonathan. His hair’s gotten longer and falls into his eyes when he bends down to pick up the cereal box.
“Sorry,” Steve says automatically.
Will straightens up and clutches the box against his chest. “It’s okay.”
His voice is quiet, almost like he’s talking to a stranger. Which, Steve guesses, he kind of is now.
“Where’s your mom?” Steve asks.
“Cleaning supplies.” Will gestures vaguely toward the back of the store. “She sent me to get cereal.”
“Cool. Cereal. Cool.”
This is excruciating. Steve wants to abandon the cart and leave. He wants to say something that will fix this. He doesn’t know which impulse is stronger.
Will shifts scratches the back of his neck like the awkward boy he is. “How’s your summer?”
“It’s been fine.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah.”
Silence hangs between them. The store’s PA system crackles to life, announcing a sale on ground beef. In this moment, Steve swears it’s the loudest thing he’s heard in his life.
Will’s staring at the Lucky Charms now, running his thumb over the leprechaun on the front. “My mom called you.”
“Yeah,” Steve acknowledges.
“I’m sorry. She shouldn’t have done that. I told her not to.”
“What? It’s fine.”
“No, it’s—” Will looks up at him finally. His eyes are the same as Steve remembers, big and dark. “I know you don’t want to anymore. Babysit me. It’s okay.”
Steve’s throat feels tight. “Will…”
“I get it,” Will continues, talking faster now, like he’s been holding this in and it’s all coming out at once. “You have your friends and your basketball and stuff. And I’m just — I’m just some kid. And that’s fine. I have my friends too. We’ve been playing D&D every day and Mike’s running this really cool campaign where we have to—” He stops himself. “Sorry. You don’t care about that.”
“I do care,” Steve says, and he’s surprised to find that he means it.
Will looks at him skeptically. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not just saying it.”
“Then why…” Will’s grip tightens on the cereal box. “Why’d you do it? At the diner?”
Steve doesn’t have an answer. Well, really he has too many answers, all of them true and none of them good enough.
“I don’t know,” he says finally.
“Were you trying to impress them? Tommy and Carol?”
“Maybe.”
“Did it work?”
Steve goes back to that night. Tommy laughing, Carol grinning. It felt so easy in the moment, it felt so good be part of something, even if that something was so cruel.
“Yeah,” he admits. “It worked.”
Will nods slowly, processing this. “Was it worth it?”
“I don’t know,” Steve answers pathetically again. How many times can he say I don’t know before it stops being an excuse and starts being an indictment?
Will shifts the cereal box to his other arm. “Jonathan says people like you don’t change. He says you’re all the same. Popular kids, I mean. He says you just get meaner as you get older.”
“Maybe he’s right.”
“I don’t think he is, though.” Will’s voice goes quieter. “I think you’re different. Or you were. Or you could be, maybe. I don’t know.”
Steve doesn’t know either. He’s sixteen years old and he doesn’t know anything except that he hates himself a little bit more every day and he doesn’t know how to stop it.
“Steve!” His mom’s voice cuts through the aisle. “I’m waiting for you!”
Steve glances back. His mom’s standing by the coffee display, tapping her foot impatiently.
“I have to go,” Steve says.
Will nods. “Yeah. Okay.”
Steve starts to push the cart away, then stops and turns back.
“Hey, Will?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry. About the diner. About all of it.”
Will looks at him for a long moment. “Okay.”
Steve can work with that. Or he can try to, anyway.
He pushes the cart toward his mom, who’s now examining coffee beans with the same critical eye she gave the tomatoes. He doesn’t look back at Will, but he can feel him there, standing in the cereal aisle with his Lucky Charms.
His mom hands him three bags of coffee to put in the cart. “Who was that?”
“Just a kid I used to babysit.”
“Oh?” She sounds mildly interested. “The Byers boy?”
“Yeah.”
“Joyce’s son.” His mom picks up another bag and squints at the label. “She’s had such a hard time, that woman. Husband leaving her like that. Two young boys to raise on her own. And they don’t have much, from what I understand.” She sets the bag down. “It was nice of you to help her out, Steve.”
Nice isn’t the word he’d use. Steve babysat Will because his mom told him to and he had stopped because it was easier than facing what he’d done.
He’s a coward, really.
August arrives. Basketball practice intensifies. Back to School ads pop up at grocery stores. The end of summer hovers just out of reach, too close to pretend it’s not coming.
Steve goes to parties. He goes to the pool and lets his shoulders burn pink and raw. He hangs out with Tommy and Carol. He does all the things he’s supposed to do, is all the things he’s supposed to be.
He’s going to be fine.
Sophomore year starts in three weeks, and Steve Harrington is going to walk into that building as someone who belongs.
A nearing ancient bookmark stays pressed between pages eighty-four and eighty-five of a book about boys at boarding school destroying each other. Steve still hasn’t figured out how it ends, but he’s pretty sure neither of them makes it out okay.
He never does finish it.