[ xii. makeovers and takeovers ]

november 10th, 1983. thursday.

⇝ ⇝ ⇝

MELANIE DID NOT GO to school that following day. Neither did Mike. Nor Lucas. Nor Dustin.

While their respective parents, teachers, and classmates assumed they were home, mourning the loss of their friend, the truth was quite far from that.  No, they were not staying home in the wake of grief.  They were staying home in the wake of a discovery.

Melanie's mind had been whirling since the night before, the echoes of Will's frail voice still reverberating in her skull. She could not shake the timid sound she had heard.  The wavering, ghostly tune of him singing, his cracked words slipping in and out as if he were teetering on the edge of consciousness. She had not seen him. She had not touched him. And yet, she knew.

Will Byers was out there. Alive. And he was waiting for them to find him.

And they would.

Now, with an empty household above them, the Party was secretly gathered in the Wheeler basement, a tight circle formed around Eleven, who sat cross-legged in the center of the floor. The girl was hunched over Mike's radio, fingers turning the dials with quiet precision as the device crackled and hissed with static.  The others stood, watching her, frozen with anticipation. Then—between the shrill pitches—came the unmistakable sound of a weak, pained whimper.

Melanie's stomach lurched again.

Wherever Will was, it was clearly not a good place. He was hurt. And they had no way of knowing how much time he had left. The weight of that realization pressed down on her narrow chest.  Will was the purest of them all. The friendliest, the smartest, the best of them. And he did not deserve this. Bad things were not supposed to happen to good people.

A sudden sharp yelp cut through the static, sending chills up Melanie's spine. She sucked in a breath.

"We keep losing the signal, but you heard it, right?" Mike asked, turning to the boys.

Lucas pursed his lips. "Yeah," he scoffed. "I heard a baby."

Mike blinked. "What?"

"Mike, you obviously tapped into a baby monitor," the Sinclair boy said flatly. "It's probably the Blackburns' next door."

Melanie shot him a stern look. "The Blackburns can't afford a baby monitor. They can't even afford the baby they just had—let alone the other five they already have. And even if they did have one, that didn't sound like a baby."

"Then what did it sound like, huh?"

"It was Will!" Mike exclaimed, frustration bleeding into his voice. "Lucas, you don't understand. He spoke last night. Words! He was singing that weird song he loves. I'm not crazy, and it wasn't from some stupid baby monitor. Melanie and El heard him too!"

Lucas groaned, throwing up his hands. "Oh, well, if the weirdo heard him, then I guess—"

"Do you think Mel would make this up?" Mike cut him off. He turned toward his twin sister, gesturing pointedly. "She's the bluntest, meanest, and most realistic of us all. If Will was dead, she'd be the first to accept it. If even she heard him, you have to know I'm not making this up."

Despite Mike's brutally honest words, Melanie knew he was right. If Will Byers had been truly dead, she would have been the first to accept it and force herself to move on. She was not one for impossibly false hope. She was a realist, a cynic when it came to logic and knowledge. Melanie Wheeler liked certainty. Black-and-white absolutes. Yes or no. Dead or alive.  Not maybe, not possibly. But now, for the first time, those crisp distinctions were smearing together, bleeding into each other like ink in water, and she had no idea how to stop it.

Dustin, who had been unusually quiet all morning, finally cleared his throat. His warm, chocolate-brown eyes locked onto Melanie's from across the circle. "Are you sure you're on the right channel?"

Mike's head snapped toward him before Melanie could answer. "You don't believe Mel?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

Dustin's cheeks reddened. "I didn't say that," he insisted quickly. But Melanie felt her stomach tighten at his hesitation. The Henderson boy raised his hands in defense. "Melanie is clever. She's a genius. If one of us got poisoned, I'd only ever trust her to make the antidote. But this—" He swallowed. "This isn't science. This is beyond even her. Beyond all of us. Will is supposed to be gone. We saw that last night."

"I didn't," Melanie countered, her voice hard, matter-of-fact. "I didn't see a body. I have no reason to believe Will is dead. I heard his voice. He's one of my best friends—I know his voice. Do you think I'd lie about Will? Do you think Mike would? After everything that's happened?"

"I know neither of you is lying," Dustin said earnestly. "I just think there's more to this. You know what you heard, and you're certain of it, but I'm not. All I hear is a shitty frequency on what's probably just the wrong channel."

Mike shook his head. "I don't think it's about that," He murmured. "I think it's more than just a wrong channel. It's like . . . I think, somehow, El is channeling Will."

"Like Professor X?" Dustin prompted.

"Yeah!" Mike nodded eagerly.

Melanie shifted her contemplative gaze across the circle to Lucas. He was hunched forward, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands. His steely eyes were locked on Eleven, who was still twisting the radio dial, oblivious to his cold stare. Another shriek of static filled the room, and upon registering the sound, Lucas exhaled sharply, leaning back, his irritation clear.  Then he turned to Dustin. "Are you actually believing this crap?" he snapped at his friend.

Dustin swallowed meekly. "I don't know," he admitted. "I mean . . ." He trailed off for a moment, as if searching for the proper words, an adequate explanation. "Do you remember when Will fell off his bike and broke his finger? He sounded a lot like what we just heard on the radio."

"Did you guys not see what I saw?" Lucas demanded. "They pulled his body out of the water! Will is dead." He turned to Melanie, his expression tightening into a scowl. "You're lucky you weren't there, Mel."

Lucky?  She did not believe that for a second.

"Maybe it's his ghost," Dustin offered quietly. "Maybe he's haunting us."

"There's no such thing as ghosts, Dustin," Melanie muttered, rubbing her temples. A headache was beginning to brew behind her eyes, and her ponytail had started to come loose, strands of hair slipping free.  Sighing, she pulled the ribbon entirely from her hair and let it fall around her face, shielding her from the boys' gazes. But she felt them, all of them, watching her, waiting for a reaction. She snapped her head up. "What?" she barked. "Did you honestly expect me to say anything different?"

Dustin and Lucas quickly looked away. Melanie exhaled tightly, letting her attention drift back to her cast.  Beside her, Mike cleared his throat. "It's not his ghost," he assured.

Lucas frowned. "How do you know that?"

"I just do."

"Then what was in the water?"

"I don't know! All I know is that Will is alive. Will is alive! He's out there somewhere. All we have to do is find him."

Lucas inhaled sharply despite Mike's reassuring words directed at him. For a flickering moment, Melanie saw something shift in his dark eyes.  Fear. Doubt.  His defensive walls were not just cracking; they were crumbling. But he was not trying to be the bad guy in this conversation. He was only trying to properly grieve, unlike, in his eyes, the rest of the Party.  Because Will was his best friend, too.

His eyes glossed over with unshed, unwanted tears. Yet Melanie knew, just as he did, that he would not let them fall. Not here. Not in front of everyone. Lucas was too strong for that. That was why he was always the Ranger in their campaigns.  Fierce, independent, and undeniably loyal.  The kind of friend who cared too much to let his emotions show, to let them be a distraction or a conflict all their own.

Without a word, Melanie reached across the feeble circle and grasped Lucas's hand. To her quiet relief, he did not pull away from her. Maybe he needed a friend's steadying touch just as much as she did.

In the ensuing minutes, the basement became thick with silence again, save for the occasional crackle of static from the weak radio. Then, the noise sputtered out completely, and Melanie let go of Lucas's hand, leaning back as well. She glanced toward Eleven and noted that Mike was still watching too. He considered, then gently reached over and touched the girl's wrist, stopping her before she could fidget with the dials again.

"This isn't going to work," he grumbled. "We need to get El to a stronger radio."

Dustin's face lit up with sudden inspiration. "Mr. Clarke's Heathkit ham shack," he announced.  Mike nodded his agreement.

"The Heathkit's at school," Lucas smartly pointed out. "There's no way we're sneaking the weirdo in there without getting caught. I mean . . . just look at her."

He gestured toward Eleven, and the others followed his lead. Eleven, sensing their inquisitive eyes on her, glanced up uncertainly, her beady gaze flickering between them. She looked as out of place as ever amongst their scene—swallowed in oversized boy's clothes, her small frame made even more fragile by the sharp angles of her shorn head.

Melanie huffed. "Well, this should be fun."

A plan quickly formed. A disguise was their only shot at getting Eleven inside their middle school unnoticed.  So, Melanie and Mike would raid Nancy's room upstairs for anything remotely useful, while Dustin and Lucas scoured the basement for anything salvageable. Eleven, blissfully unaware of the makeover heading her way, was left sitting by the radio.

Poor girl.

Melanie tried not to dwell on the inevitable hellfire her older sister would unleash as she tore through her dresser drawers. Despite Nancy being petite, her clothes still dwarfed Eleven. Even Melanie's own things would be too big. After several minutes of desperate searching, the twins returned to the basement with a pitiful haul—a beauty kit, a pair of Mike's long socks, and a pair of Melanie's white slip-on shoes.  Thankfully, Dustin and Lucas had fared better. Laid out before them was a surprisingly well-kept blonde wig and a pink dress that looked like something the middle Wheeler daughter might have worn when she was ten.

Melanie planted her hands on her hips, eyeing the unsuspecting girl in front of them. "So," she mused aloud, "where do we start?"

Suddenly, there was no "we." Without hesitation, Mike shoved the beauty kit into her hands.

"You're kidding," Melanie deadpanned.

"You're the girl!" Mike insisted. "Girls like makeup and . . . dress-up."

Melanie shot her brother a glare that could kill. "I didn't realize you thought I was Nancy all these years," she sneered as she rolled her eyes. "Seriously, Michael, I'm only your twin sister. Do I look like I know anything about makeup? Have you ever even seen me put any on in my whole life?"

Lucas snorted. "Yeah, Michael," he drawled, emphasizing the name just to irritate him. "That's presumptuous of you."

"Shut up," Mike snipped at the Sinclair boy, then turned back to Melanie, all but pleading. "Come on, Mel. We obviously don't know what we're doing. Hasn't Nancy or Mom or even Holly ever done your makeup before? It can't be that hard."

Melanie shot a doubtful look at the beauty kit before flipping it open. The moment she laid eyes on the sheer number of colors, powders, and strange little tools, her stomach dropped. She really did not know the first thing about this stuff. What were half these brushes even for?

"This palette is more complex than the entire periodic table."

Dustin, ever her personal cheerleader, even when she did not ask for it, grinned at her out of the corner of her eye. "Remember what I said.  You're a genius, Mel. If you can't figure it out, no one can."

Melanie only rolled her eyes in response.  Grabbing the beauty kit, wig, dress, and shoes, she turned to Eleven and beckoned her closer. "C'mon, El," she instructed.  Eleven noticeably hesitated but eventually stepped beside her. Lowering her voice so only Eleven could hear, Melanie added, as they walked across the basement, "If you hate whatever you see in that mirror, just remember—blame Mike."

Eleven swallowed hard.

The two girls disappeared into the bathroom, and Melanie guided Eleven to sit on the edge of the tub while she took the closed toilet seat, balancing the beauty kit on her lap. She stared at Eleven's face openly, searching for a place to start. After several minutes, she carefully picked up an eyeshadow brush, dipped it in a random color, and paused.

Could you mix these things? What went where?

Well.  No time for doubt now.

With no guidance, no instruction, no instinct at all, Melanie proceeded to work with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no idea what they were doing. She smeared on eyeshadow—some colors she was sure were not supposed to mix at all. She brushed on a shade of blush, then another until Eleven's cheeks were visibly pink. She hesitated at the lipstick, comparing a glossy pink and a deep red tube, then swiped on a single coat of both, hoping for the best.  Through it all, Eleven twitched and flinched at every touch of pressure, every brushstroke, dodging the bristles like they were knives.

When Melanie finally pulled back, nearly half an hour later, she braced herself for disaster. But to her surprise, Eleven did not look like some ogre from one of their campaigns. In fact, she looked almost . . . nice. The eyeshadow had relatively stayed in place, the blush had settled along her high cheekbones, and instead of making her look ridiculous, the makeup seemed to bring a warmth to her usually pallid face.  There was a light behind her brown eyes now, a vibrancy that had not been there before this morning.

Melanie turned away as Eleven changed into the borrowed clothes, but when she finally glanced back, her breath caught.  The transformation was startling.  The pink dress, bright and innocent-looking, hung just past her scabbed knees, the cuffed sleeves and white collar giving her a strangely doll-like appearance. The knee-high socks, striped in green and white, looked almost comical against her thin frame. The only thing remotely normal were the worn, white slip-ons on her feet.

And then came the wig.  Eleven flinched as Melanie carefully adjusted the blonde strands over her nearly bald head, smoothing it down until it sat naturally on her shoulders. It should not have worked.  It should have immediately looked ridiculous. But somehow, it did not.

Melanie stepped back, hands on her hips, scrutinizing her work. After a long beat, she sighed. "Like I said," she finally conceded, unable to decide for herself between the pros and cons of Eleven's fresh state, "blame Mike."

"Blame . . . Mike," Eleven echoed, her voice stiff.  Much like the rest of her body was in her new attire.

Melanie adjusted one last strand on the girl's wigged head before turning toward the bathroom door. When she opened it, she was not at all surprised to see Mike, Dustin, and Lucas practically breathing against the threshold.  She shoved them back with a single wave of her hand before stepping aside, gesturing dramatically. "May I present . . . El!"

Eleven stepped forward beside Melanie, the former's gaze immediately dropping to the floor.  To Melanie's internal, knit-picking standards, the dress was loose, the wig slightly too perfect, but none of that mattered to the boys. The second she stepped into the basement light, time seemed to slow.

Dustin's breath hitched. "Whoa."

Lucas blinked. "She looks—"

"Pretty," Melanie's twin brother murmured before anyone else could finish the thought.

Mike's voice was soft, almost reverent. A quiet kind of awe had settled over him, his pale lips twitching upward as he stared at Eleven like she was something wondrous, something magical.  In turn, Eleven finally lifted her stare, and when their eyes met, something passed between them.  A moment only they could understand. 

And then, as if realizing himself, Mike suddenly stiffened. His entire face ignited in a deep red flush, and he all but stumbled back, clearing his throat with forced nonchalance. "I mean . . . good," he corrected. "You look pretty . . . good."

Melanie groaned at the fumble.  Dustin and Lucas, meanwhile, were exchanging incredulous looks, biting back their laughter at Mike's painfully obvious crush.  But Mike did not notice. Despite his own embarrassment, he was still staring at Eleven, his lips parted like there were a thousand words he wanted to say but could not possibly organize the newfound jumbled language within himself.

What a whirlwind to witness such silly, genuine emotion.  Melanie had never felt that kind of intensity for anyone.  Never experienced that quiet, almost electric moment of being truly seen.  Sometimes she wondered if anyone had ever looked at her that way.

She shook the thought away.  Certainly not.

Eventually, Eleven pulled herself away from Mike's starstruck attention and wandered toward the mirror on the far wall of the basement. The moment she caught her own reflection, she froze.  For the first time in what must have been a long time—perhaps for the first time ever—Eleven truly saw herself, too.

Her fingers hovered over her tiny face, grazing her cheek where blush still lingered. Her dark eyes flickered over the silky pink dress, the wig, the faint color on her lips. There was something in her expression that none of the onlooking Party had ever seen from her before.  Wonder.  A slow, almost disbelieving smile crept onto Eleven's face, small but undeniably real.  She was entirely entranced by herself, and as her grin grew, Melanie felt a prideful one of her own forming, too.

Eleven exhaled gently, and her voice, soft as a mere breath between painted lips, broke the stillness of the basement.

"Pretty."

~~~~~~~~~~

edited 02/06/2025.