Chapter Text
“Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.”
—Sir Walter Scott
The sun blooms on the horizon, gradually spreading warmth throughout a mildly chilly morning in Hawkins, Indiana. Mild enough that Dustin Henderson has the windows of his red 1996 Toyota Tercel rolled down as he drives to school, and he finds himself occasionally sticking his hand out just to enjoy the crisp air against his skin as he passes by acres of cornfield.
A waitress at the local diner assured him yesterday that the weather in Indiana was fickle in March. “Yeah, well, they say it’s gonna be freezing again next week, so I wouldn’t get used to it just yet—but what can I get for you?” she had said, with her pen and pad at the ready to take his order, not seeming the slightest bit interested in carrying on with any more small talk.
In hindsight, Dustin may have been a bit too excited about the fact he didn’t need to grab a sweater before leaving home—because she had looked at him with a slightly raised brow and a plastered on smile, and nodded along with a few uh-huh’s thrown in between, all while he marveled about how clear the skies were and how perfect the weather was, and so now, he’s convinced she probably only expected a simple one-word answer after asking him how he was doing, and that she didn’t actually care about anything other than what he planned to order—but in his defense, he did just move from Alaska less than a week ago. And if he were still there, he wouldn’t be seeing weather like this in Fairbanks—not until at least late April, or early May. So sue him for being ecstatic that he doesn’t have to suffer through temperatures well below freezing for another month or two.
Dustin drives into the parking lot, choosing a spot near the back to give himself a wider view of the school. He sets his car into park, but keeps the engine running to continue listening to his music, which is currently playing “Weird Al” Yankovic’s Close But No Cigar, from the album Straight Outta Lynwood. He flips his sun visor back into place, swaps out his sunglasses for his regular glasses, then leans forward to peer at the building.
Hawkins High School—he’d bet all of his mint condition X-Men comic books that it’s the smallest public school he’s ever been enrolled in. But to be perfectly fair, Dustin expected as much. Because Hawkins, Indiana was a small town that featured one of the smallest Air Force bases he’s ever lived on, so really, the odds of his new school being anything other than small were essentially slim to none. Oh, and another thing—the school didn’t even have a website. He tried to search for one on Google before he had to pack up his computer, but with no success. Seriously, there should be a website—it’s 2007! Get with the times! Of course, his search hadn’t been completely fruitless though, since he managed to find a handful of news articles that featured a few low quality photos of the front entrance, and some interior shots of the gymnasium taken during a random basketball game, as well as a couple classrooms, but there wasn’t enough to help him imagine the true scale of the school. And now that he’s looking at it directly, it’s just plain underwhelming. Again, all things considered, it makes perfect sense.
But honestly, the school could’ve been the most extravagant in the country and he’d still have ended up feeling disappointed. Mainly due to the fact that he had to be uprooted so close to the end of his senior year of high school and how he had to waste his entire spring break packing and moving—and adding almost four thousand miles to his car’s odometer in the process—to a Podunk town like Hawkins. So the school being less-than-stellar really is just the cherry on top of it all.
And okay, Dustin isn’t a stranger to abruptly starting over. He’s used to it—it comes with the territory of being a military brat. In fact, he’s had to change schools nine times since kindergarten. And despite being only seventeen years old, he can already say that he’s lived in four different countries on a total of twelve different military bases—the majority of which had been located within the United States. And of course, it's just the damn luck of the draw that his mother was given a new assignment to head up some top secret research project at Hawkins National Laboratory now instead of after he graduated—which would be in about two months! But unfortunately, that’s not how it works. Orders are orders. So, yeah—been there, done that, got the t-shirt. But still, starting over sucks. At least this will be the last time he ever has to make this change. His mother’s current assignment is anticipated to take roughly two years to complete, but thankfully he’ll be in college by then—which he already applied to MIT during the early action window back in November and been accepted.
As for his current, less than ideal circumstances and general disappointment, well, there’s really nothing he can do about it except to stick it out and make the most of it…somehow. The optimist in him hopes they have an A.V. Club that he could get involved in to help pass the time, though he isn’t expecting the most up to date equipment or anything too exciting out here in rural Indiana.
Only one way to find out, he thinks.
Dustin drums his fingers on the steering wheel for a beat longer then checks his watch. It’s 7:22 am. He has exactly thirty-eight minutes until his first class starts, which is ridiculously early, but it’s as his mother always says; To be early is to be on time, to be on time is to be late, and being late is completely unacceptable. Being punctual was a strict Henderson Household rule—number four on the list, actually. And so naturally, just like every other time he’s had to start over at a new school, his mother encouraged him to leave extra early for his first day, simply to account for any possible unknown variables that could potentially make him tardy. Besides, he had to meet with the guidance counselor to get his class schedule anyway.
He sighs, rolls his windows back up, then he cuts the engine off and exits the vehicle. But seconds after he locks the car door and removes the key, he hears screeching tires and turns around in time to watch a forest green 1993 Jeep Grand Cherokee—with the windows rolled down, blaring the song Rock the Casbah by The Clash—pull into the open parking spot right next to him.
A girl about his age, with long wavy chestnut brown hair, wearing a floral dress with a purple cardigan and red ballet flats, jumps out of the passenger side and slams the door shut. “Thanks!” she barks at the driver, although her tone doesn't sound remotely grateful. And it seems she isn’t paying attention—or simply doesn’t notice he’s standing there—because she takes a step backward and lightly bumps into Dustin. The girl flinches at the collision, quickly spinning around to apologize to him (and sounding much more genuine than she did a moment ago), “Oh, I’m so sorry!”
Whoa.
But Dustin only gets a brief moment to gawk at her before she dashes off toward the school in a hurry and she’s halfway across the parking lot before he even manages to mutter the words, “I…don’t mind—it’s…it’s—”
I don’t mind at all.
In fact, he’d be happy if she bumped into him again. Any day of the week. Because she was really pretty.
It’s only once she’s completely out of sight that Dustin looks over at the driver of the Jeep—a boy with brown hair (styled in a shaggy mop-top—very retro ‘60s, early Beatles era), wearing a green and white letterman jacket with two patches sewn on the sleeves; one that reads ‘Class of 07’ and the other of a foot with wings. He appears to be the same age as the girl—maybe they’re twins?
The boy continues to linger in the idling vehicle, blasting his music loudly, and from what Dustin can see through the open window, he’s sketching something aggressively in a notebook, almost as if he were angry at the paper. But then he stops moving his pencil and slowly turns his head toward Dustin, brow furrowed and gaze piercing, almost challenging.
Dustin waves, but instead of waving back, the boy continues to glare at him, so Dustin reaches his hand up further to adjust his hat as he looks away.
Well, he seems…friendly.
He shakes his head and starts to make his way across the parking lot toward the main entrance of the school…
Jane is practically out of breath by the time she enters the girls bathroom, but it’s absolutely not her fault—she had no choice but to hightail it from the parking lot since someone took their sweet time driving to school today. She sets her robin’s-egg blue backpack down on the edge of the sink and hastily fishes out her makeup kit. Her heart is racing and her hands are shaking and her brother is completely to blame for all of this.
Seriously, what is Will’s deal?! It’s Monday! This isn’t something new. He totally knows she has student council meetings every Monday at 7:30 am sharp and that she preferred arriving ten minutes early to prepare, yet for some reason, he insisted on dragging his feet this morning. And now it’s 7:24 am and she has less than five minutes to apply her makeup or else she’ll be late—and she can’t be late—being late is irresponsible, which could get her kicked off the council. And she’s spent way too many hours dedicating her time and energy this year as class historian to lose her spot over this now, especially with graduation right around the corner. At least they can’t take away her cords if it were to happen—she’s earned those fair and square.
Unfortunately, five minutes really isn’t enough time to try and apply any foundation, so Jane opens her makeup kit and goes straight for her blush palette. She cracks open the clear lid and removes the brush, then gathers some of the rosy color onto the bristles and swipes it lightly just under the highest point of her cheekbones. Jane turns her head to the right, then left, checking for evenness. It seems decent enough, so she moves along, swapping out the blush for some eyeshadow—she definitely can’t do anything too fancy, so she keeps it simple, swiping only a small bit of an icy light purple color on her eyelids and using her finger to blend it in as evenly as possible, then she applies eyeliner to her lower waterline, adds a single coat of mascara to her lashes, and finally finishes off her look with a bit of shimmery pink lip gloss.
Jane puckers her lips and turns her head side to side—she hates having to apply her makeup at school, especially in a rush, but it’s either this or nothing since her father won’t let her wear any to school and applying it in a moving car is a recipe for disaster (she tried it once—didn’t end well). Today’s look certainly isn’t perfect and she wished she could do more—she even feels a little naked having to forgo her foundation—but it'll have to do for now. She can try and fix it between classes or at lunch, but at least she looks less tired for now since she didn’t sleep well last night.
Although, if Will hadn’t refused to get out of bed this morning she wouldn’t be in this predicament. She absolutely hates relying on him like this—her life would be so much easier if she could drive. But every single time her father tries to give her a driving lesson, the very second she puts her hands on a steering wheel, she ends up having a panic attack.
Jane smiles at her reflection and whispers to herself, “Remember—you can do anything.” But then she frowns and sticks out her tongue.
She shoves her makeup kit back into her backpack and quickly checks her cell phone for the time. “Shit!” Jane hisses, stomping her foot. She slings her backpack strap over her shoulder and races out of the bathroom and down the hallway toward the library. It doesn’t matter how fast she runs—she’s already late.
Dustin manages to find the guidance counselor’s office easily enough. And the placard on the door confirms he’s in the right place;
Mr. Bauman
Guidance Counselor
The door had been propped open with a stopper, but Dustin still taps his knuckles twice before walking in. “Excuse me, sir?”
A balding man with dark curly hair and a full beard—who Dustin naturally assumes to be Mr. Bauman—is sitting in front of a computer desk and typing hastily. “Can I help you?” he asks, not bothering to look away from the computer screen.
“Yeah, I’m Dustin Henderson—the new transfer. I was told to report to your office to get my class schedule, sir.”
“Of course. Have a seat.” He gestures to a set of empty chairs in front of his desk, then returns to typing.
Dustin nods and moves toward the chair closest to the door, then he slips his backpack from his shoulders and sets it on the floor before sitting down.
“I’ll be right with you.”
He nods again and starts to drum his fingers against his knees. It feels a bit too awkward to just sit and stare at Mr. Bauman, waiting for him to finish up whatever it was he was working on, so he peers around at everything else in the office to occupy himself.
As for his desk, it’s a mess—littered with random papers and stacks of manila folders, and Dustin figures the only reason he had an empty pencil holder was because it didn’t seem like he ever put any of them back. And the rest of the office looked just as chaotic—the walls were tacked with accolades, framed newspaper clippings from the Chicago Sun-Times, and cheesy motivational posters, and he had a bulletin board next to the door with dozens of colorful flyers for school outreach programs and sign-ups for college application reviewal, and the top surface of every filing cabinet was cluttered with stacks of binders and various knickknacks, and he also had a couple plants on the window sill in dire need of water.
“Okay. Let's see what we got here.” Mr. Bauman eyes him briefly through a ridiculous pair of retro gold-framed aviator spectacles, then he grabs a manila folder from one of the stacks on his desk. He opens it and begins to skim through the pages. “Mr. Henderson comma Dustin…transferring to us all the way from…West Valley High School in Alaska.” He clicks his tongue, then hums. “Hmm-hmm-hmmmm…well, well, this is quite the record, young man. Did I count correctly? Nine schools in the past twelve years?”
Dustin nods.
“Army brat?”
“Uh, yeah, my mom is—“
Mr. Bauman holds a hand up. “Let me stop you right there.”
“Uh?”
He sets the file back down on his desk and returns his focus to his computer again and starts typing. “Look, you can spare me all the boring details—I don’t care. I’m an incredibly busy man, so no sense wasting my time.” After a couple mouse clicks the printer behind his desk starts up. “Besides, I’m sure you’ve done this whole introductory charade more than enough times to know this school won’t be any different than the previous one—full of the same ol’ bullshit as always. Am I right?” Mr. Bauman looks up at Dustin again and flashes him a shit-eating grin just as the printer finishes its task with a chime.
Dustin quirks an eyebrow.
“Yeah, I know. I’m always right. What can I say? It’s a curse.” Mr. Bauman laughs. “But anyway, moving along—yada, yada, welcome to Hawkins High, yada, yada. And now, with that all said and done—” he spins around in his chair and reaches for the pieces of paper from the printer tray behind him, then he spins back around and gives them a quick glance before he offers them to Dustin, “—here’s your locker information, class schedule, and a map.”
“Aw, shucks—forgot my compass at home,” Dustin says as he reaches out to take the papers, but Mr. Bauman doesn’t let go just yet.
“Hey. Don’t be a smart ass. Just use your brains if you have any or ask one of your peers for help. Capisce?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He lets go and waves at him dismissively. “Now scram.”
It’s entirely possible that Dustin got carried away with his thoughts for a bit longer than he should’ve—the main one being; Who the hell let this guy work at a school? Because Mr. Bauman reaches across his desk and claps his hands together, mere inches from his face. “What’re you still doing here?! Quit daydreaming and get a move on! Snap-snap! I’ve got deviants to see!”
“Yes, sir,” he says again, even though he really wanted to flip him the bird and tell him he was nuts.
Of course, Dustin also didn’t want to wait around a second longer for Mr. Bauman to tell him thrice, so he quickly grabs his backpack from the floor and moves to leave the office, but he stops short when he encounters a human blockade standing in the doorway—another student around five or six inches taller than him, with pale freckled skin and dark curly hair that just barely touched his shoulders. He’s wearing a weathered black leather jacket over a plain white t-shirt, with black jeans and a pair of well-worn converse sneakers, lugging his backpack over only one shoulder.
And he isn’t moving out of the way.
Nope—not bothering to budge an inch or show even the slightest bit of intention in letting Dustin leave this damn office. Instead he just continues looming in the doorway, eyeing Dustin up and down. It’s rather unsettling…and awkward. And Dustin’s got the feeling he’s probably one of the deviants Mr. Bauman claimed he needed to meet with.
“Mike, quit being an ass and let him through, or I’ll write you both up for wasting my time,” Mr. Bauman grumbles.
The guy blocking the doorway, Mike, throws both hands up in surrender with a smirk and finally steps aside so Dustin could move past him and get the hell out of there.
Did he walk under a ladder or break a mirror and just forget? Not that he actually believes in any of that superstitious stuff, but there’s got to be some explanation for his luck so far. Between Mr. Bauman, Mike, and that rather unfriendly guy who glared at him in the parking lot (heck—even the waitress from yesterday), he’s had nothing but weird encounters and school hasn’t even officially started yet…
Mike doesn’t bother to sit—meetings with Mr. Bauman never lasted very long. He remains in the doorway, choosing to lean against the frame while playing with one of the cords of his backpack strap.
“Mike Wheeler—I haven’t even finished my first cup of coffee and you’re already terrorizing your peers. And right in front of me, no less. Have you no shame?”
Jeez, Mike thinks. It’s not like he asked me to move or anything. Why am I the bad guy? “What? I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Mr. Bauman leans back in his chair, folding his arms. “Right. Just like you didn’t do anything wrong with that whole lunchroom fiasco the last day before spring break. Which, by the way, you were supposed to see me after school to discuss that little incident before disappearing for a week, and yet you stood me up. What happened, man?”
“I had to pick my little sister up from school.”
“Cute story, but I don’t care. Do you know what happens when you don’t show up?”
“You miss me a lot?” Mike smirks.
“No, dipshit. When you don’t show up, it means I have to waste my time informing the principal, and then I also have to call your mother, and then I get stuck doing extra paperwork—basically it’s an entirely avoidable pain in my ass.”
“My bad,” Mike says, pushing off the door frame and taking a few steps further into the office. “So how can I make it up to you?”
“Well—” Mr. Bauman starts searching his desk until he produces a thick manila folder and cracks it open, then he plucks a piece of paper from the very top of the stack and gestures to it, “—you can start by telling me what happened in the lunchroom—says here you exposed yourself. What’s that all about?”
“I was just joking around with my friends, I swear.”
“Oh, really? How so?”
“It was hotdog day! Y’know? I put it like—” Mike waggles a pointed index finger next to his crotch. “But clearly no one else in this school has a sense of humor.”
“It would appear not,” he says flatly, “and unfortunately for you, disturbing your classmates during lunch with your crude little joke, and then skipping out on your appointment with me, has rightfully earned you a spot in internal suspension today.”
“Aw, come on, Mr. B, my mom already permanently took away my allowance.”
“Hey, man, I don’t make the rules. That’s all courtesy of Principal Higgins, so take it up with him. Of course, I keep telling him that any form of punishment outside of expulsion won’t make a damn difference when it comes to you, seeing as you’re in here practically every other week to the point it’s become something of a ritual. Have you learned nothing from all our time together?”
He shrugs. “What can I say? I just really love our chats.”
Mr. Bauman crumples up the paper and throws it at Mike—he misses. “Oh, cut the crap, Wheeler. Next time, try and exercise some common sense. Or at the very least, for my own sanity, keep your jokes about phallic-shaped foods and other such objects to yourself, okay?”
Mike nods once. “Sure.”
“Good.” He extracts another paper from the manila folder—a detention slip signed by the principal—then he holds it out to Mike. “Now take this and get the hell out of my office.”
Mike snatches the paper from Mr. Bauman. “As you wish,” he says with a bow, then he turns on his heels to leave.
Dustin stands in the main hallway outside of the administrative office consulting his new class schedule and map.
“So you’re the new kid.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. “I’m Lucas.”
He looks up to put a face to the voice—another student around his age—a boy with dark skin, hair braided in cornrows, and wearing a mostly white zipped up athletic jacket with green and orange accents and HAWKINS printed on the front, and matching track pants. It didn’t take a genius to piece together that the school’s main colors were green, white, and orange, or that the mascot was a tiger. And he’s smiling and seems genuinely interested in making his acquaintance, which is a welcome relief considering the way everyone else has been toward him so far. It was actually starting to concern him—like maybe there’s something strange in the water here.
“Yeah—Dustin,” he says, pointing to himself and offers a smile in return. “Uh, how’d you know?”
Lucas smirks. “Haven’t seen you before.”
“Guess you don’t get a lot of new kids around here, huh?”
“Nope. We’ve had like, five in the last ten years and I'm one of them. My family moved to Hawkins when I was in the fourth grade after my dad retired from the Army.”
“No kidding? My mom’s in the Air Force—she’s still active duty though. It’s why we're here, actually. She just got a new assignment over at Hawkins National Laboratory.”
“Yeah, I remember those days—we moved around a lot before we settled here. It’s not the most exciting place, but my dad wanted a quiet town with a low crime rate and Hawkins fit the bill. Don’t worry though, there’s still enough going on around here to keep you from dying of boredom, just as long as you know where to look.”
“Noted.”
“So, what’s your first class? I can help show you where it’s at, and since we have a little time I can even give you a quick tour, if you want?”
“Yeah, sure—thanks.” Dustin nods, glancing down at his class schedule again. “First period…AP Bio with Mr. Clarke.”
“Oh—you’re with me then!” Lucas grins. “Mr. Clarke is kinda cheesy, but he’s cool. Now c’mon, follow me. I’ll show you what’s what.”
Lucas leads him through the school, pointing out whatever he deems significant—cafeteria, library, gymnasium—and every so often he leans in a little closer to give him a rundown of a few of the more notable cliques as more and more students begin to flood the hallways. And along the way, they pass underneath a large banner that reads, 27 Days Until Prom, just as someone on a ladder pulls off the number 28, and plastered along the walls in between rows of lockers are various posters of campaigns for prom court—the most flashy and eye-catching of them all were the ones promoting Angela Cunningham for prom queen. In fact, her posters were so prominent and abundant that Dustin couldn’t tell if she even had any competition, which left him with the impression that no one else except Angela had any chance in winning that crown.
A soft breeze passes through the windows of Will’s Jeep and the wind kisses his cheeks and gently ruffles his hair. He stares down blankly at his sketchbook, thoughts stuck in a spiral, while Who Are You by The Who plays loud on his stereo, dampening the sounds of the bustling student parking lot;
“…How can I measure up to anyone now, after such a love as this?…”
Ms. Gillespie, his art teacher, told him once that she was worried about him—something to do with how a good portion of his class projects seem to be too dark and gloomy, or full of despair. And okay, she’s got a point, some of his work can be rather off-putting, only there’s really nothing to worry about.
Except…it’s also true—that on occasion—he experiences these strange little moments where he gets carried away while he’s working on something. Honestly, he’s really not sure how to explain it. It’s like; one minute everything’s okay, but then something happens—something else takes over, and after it lets go of him, he’s left with a piece that’s completely overwhelmed by darkness—more so than he intends—and sometimes to the point it’s lost all focus. But it doesn’t happen all the time though. Only sometimes. Not enough to be so concerned or justify jumping to horrible conclusions like she did. Which is of course why he assured her he was fine when she brought it up—telling her all about how it’s just his style and that there’s nothing to worry about. But even though she nodded along to all his claims and made it seem as if she believed him by forcing a smile afterward, he’d sometimes catch Ms. Gillespie looking at him with a slight crease between her eyes whenever it was time to critique something new he created.
Will isn’t dumb, though—he knew what she was really thinking without her ever needing to say it. After all, it’s what everyone else thinks.
Anyway, the only reason he’s even thinking about her at all to begin with is because it’s her voice that had popped into his head a few minutes ago, and it’s still there, echoing in his mind as he sits here, staring down at the page in his sketchbook. Because it happened again—that thing took over. At least, after Jane stormed off, he’d opened his sketchbook, hoping that working more on his latest sketch would calm him down before class, but now it’s a complete mess.
Are you sure you’re okay, Will?
Yeah, I’m fine—there’s nothing to worry about. This is exactly what I was going for…
He sighs. Maybe he could fool her with that bullshit, but it’s not working on himself—not today, at least. Because he can’t stand it. It was supposed to be a peaceful serene sketch of two cowboys herding sheep on a mountainside and yet he turned it into something out of a nightmare. And not in a good way—it looks like absolute garbage.
So really this is all Jane’s fault—well, mostly. But Will would like to state for the record, that hitting the snooze button on his alarm clock more than once is a far lesser crime than barging into your sibling’s room in the morning—without knocking—in order to drag them out of bed. He could’ve been naked, for Christ’s sake! And she wasn’t remotely sorry for it, either. And then she spent the whole goddamn morning like a gnat in his ear, going on and on about how he wasn’t getting ready fast enough, or that he took too long eating a goddamn Pop-Tart, or how he was driving too slow, and then whining about how he knew she needed to be at school at least thirty-five minutes before the first bell on Mondays because she had to attend her weekly student council meeting, and how she’s told him that a million times, and that it’ll be his fault if she’s late—blah, blah, blah—they always get to school with plenty of time to spare, especially since her meeting doesn’t actually start until 7:30 am anyway, so he’s not sure what she needs all the extra time for, or why she’s making such a fuss and acting like it’s a matter of life or death, because no matter what she says, he got her to school before the stupid meeting started! She’s so goddamn annoying. And he wishes she could just drive herself so he doesn’t have to deal with the headache and all, but unfortunately that won’t be happening anytime soon, and so he’s stuck putting up with all her nonsense until—
Jesus H. Christ!
Will flinches, torn from his bitter reverie, as his best friend Max opens the passenger side door and climbs into his Jeep.
The first thing she does is turn down the music, then she looks over at him, glaring as she says, “I see you’re still alive—guess this means I can call off the search party.”
Will frowns, closing his sketchbook.
She tilts her head at him. “Hey, don’t make that face. You’re the one who didn’t call or text me last night when you promised you would. What else am I supposed to think?”
“Yeah, sorry…”
Max rolls her eyes and then instantly perks up. “So?” she says, a smile now gracing her lips, essentially proving to him that she was never really mad to begin with. “Any word on CalArts?”
“Nope. I would’ve said something. I promise.”
“Well, I’m sure it’ll come this week. And then we can celebrate, and before you know it we’ll be putting down a deposit on our new place and getting to watch the sun set over the ocean,” Max says, like it’s already a done deal and there’s no way his application could possibly be rejected and throw a wrench into their plans.
It’s easier for her to say, of course—she wasn’t waiting on a college acceptance letter to justify moving all the way to California. Because even though they’ve talked about renting an apartment off campus together for the past couple years, he knew Max would end up there with or without him, college or no college.
For her, it’s a simple matter of moving back to her home state—she’s been homesick for California ever since her family moved here in late December of 2003, right in the middle of freshman year. Of course, he’s really only known Max since the beginning of sophomore year—that’s when they actually became friends—it’s complicated, honestly. Because what had initially brought them together was the both of them being forced to attend a grief counseling group in school.
See, the thing is, Max only lives in Hawkins because her former stepfather Neil had landed a new job that required them to uproot their lives and travel two thousand miles from everything she’d ever known. But they hadn’t even lived here more than seven months when her stepbrother Billy died after wrapping his Camaro around a tree right in front of Brimborn Steel Works on July 4, 2004. His death led Neil to skip town not long after, and Max’s mother Susan couldn’t afford to keep the house on her own, which is why they were evicted by October after it went into foreclosure and they wound up living at the Trailer Park over in Forest Hills. And they’re still living there—Susan works two jobs, but it hasn’t been enough to dig them out of the hole they fell into. So you can see why she can’t wait to get the hell outta here and put it all behind her. But even before all that ever happened, Max already hated Hawkins just because it wasn’t California.
She misses it all—the lifestyle, the food, the weather, the beaches, and of course, when the sun sinks down into the Pacific. Will’s watched a sunset while fishing out on a lake before, but Max says it’s not the same thing and that pictures don’t do California sunsets justice—especially in the afterglow—and that he’ll understand what she means once he sees it for himself. Will believes her—he’s looking forward to it, really. After they get settled, one of the first places she wants to take him to is Santa Monica Pier—supposedly it’s less than an hour drive (depending on traffic) from Valencia, but they plan to make a whole day of it as part of their post-move celebration, sticking around for the sunset and all…
But still. It’s different for Will—they might share a mutual hate for Hawkins, and see it as a reminder of all their grief, but it’s all he’s ever known—he was born here. And sure, he wants out just as much as her—he wants a fresh start, someplace where no one knows his history—but he doesn’t have any extended family to fall back on in California like her if things don’t work out. So he’s not as willing to take the risk in moving to another state without a solid college plan in hand first, whereas Max wants to take a gap year while waiting tables and maybe try her luck at doing stunt work in the film industry before she even considers enrolling in college (since she’s still not sure college is meant for her).
And look, it’s not that he doesn’t believe in himself, he just doesn’t have the same level of conviction as her. He has a lot riding on a goddamn piece of mail, so he’d rather temper his expectations with a little bit of doubt rather than get his hopes up so high that he crashes down if it doesn’t pan out the way he expects. It’s called being realistic.
But he also knows she doesn’t want to hear any talk of doubt right now, so instead he just says quietly, “Of course.”
It makes her smile, at least.
“So was Jonathan sad to see you go?”
“Most definitely,” he says with a chuckle. “And I think he actually thought he could convince me to change my mind about not applying for NYU—really pulled out all the stops.”
“Sounds about right.”
They talk a little more about their spring break—they hadn’t had much opportunity to chat on the phone since Max had picked up some extra shifts at Benny’s, and whenever she was available, Will had other plans with his brother.
He tells her all about how he explored the city, but that he spent a good chunk of exploring on his own since Jonathan unfortunately still had classes (because his spring break had been two weeks ago—which actually made Will feel a little like a Holden Caulfield at times, seeing as Mr. Callahan had expected his English class to read The Catcher in the Rye over their vacation, and so the book had been very fresh in his mind), and then Max tells him how she finally landed a hardflip and also that she spent most of her free time at the arcade trying to beat her own high score on Dig Dug.
The first bell rings and Max sighs. “C’mon,” she says, “I can’t be late again—Kaminsky’s got it in for me.”