— CHAPTER 6 —
LIGHTS ALL AGLOW

WEDNESDAY 9th NOVEMBER,
1983

OVERNIGHT, what had begun as a fragmented panic over their hatched plot to find Will (and, frankly, Mike's sanity) had manifested into something entirely different — a newfound excitement. She still didn't warm too much to the idea of them using this... really weird girl, and whatever strange abilities she appeared to possess. But Cath found herself with a spring in her step, a tingling of adrenaline keeping her on the edge all day as she anticipated their arrangements:

Meet Eleven at 3:15pm after school. And so the search party will begin.

     Dustin had even flashed a glimpse of his obscene stash of candy to her ("For stamina," he justified) in Mr. Clarke's class, when she sat down to take a seat in second period. She had managed a bashful smile, and for once, she found herself experiencing this wonderful sensation like she's part of something... for the greater good.

     Nevertheless, no persistent efforts of self-motivation can hide the shadow that falls on Will's empty seat when the sun re-emerges from behind the dull clouds. Her silhouette hunches over the wood like the protective wing of a mother bird, the seat still slightly warm from first period, but lacking in the warmth of the one person that matters the most in all of this. The desk is scattered with pencil shavings and remnants of an eraser; all Cath can think about is how Will would have cleaned that up straightaway, so the next kid sitting there wouldn't have to work in his mess.

     What if they really did find him tonight? Cath silently revels in the thought. If Eleven really knows where he is, then maybe — just maybe — this could be it. That beaming boy from the Science Fair photo in Mike's room would be back, with his big, generous eyes and his contagious grin. She remembers that grin from the last Science Fair...

Sandy Brooks was unmovingly convinced that that year, Spring 1983, was the year she would finally take the trophy home. For painstakingly long months prior, she had been rattling on about this levitating pen experiment, tested it out numerous times in the Science classrooms after school, and finally the day had arrived. The school gym was bursting at the seams with competitive banter, and the vaguely nauseating odours of un-distinguishable chemicals that, under any other circumstances, should not be mixed together. So they had set up, with the coloured shapes and notes in bubble writing on some cork board Cath had borrowed from the Hawk Theatre, and the day had commenced.

Around half an hour into the fair, Pam had turned to Cath: "Cath, you stay here," she told her, "We're just... going to go and see some of the other stalls. You know what to do, right?" — to which she nodded certainly, hiding the self doubt that began creeping in. What if she messed up and undermined their entire project? She couldn't even stand confidently within a metre of next-door's rowdy volcano experiment gone wrong...

Much to her dread, within a matter of minutes, two spectators had shown up in a matter of minutes to her stall. Her throat was suddenly parched, hands fidgeting meticulously at her cardigan buttons — the familiar lump in her throat had re-surfaced again, the one that always liked to make an untimely appearance when her brain went into overdrive. Don't panic, she tried to tell herself, to no avail as she unwillingly locked eyes with Will and Mike meandering through the crowd, you've got this.

     They'd greeted each other in a cluster of hellos, before Will piped up with a surprising confidence: "We just wanted to come over and see what you guys did this year. It looks... really cool." As if his shining beacon of leadership had run out of battery, his head hung a little lower and his eyes darted awkwardly down to the magnets attached to the pen. With two pairs of eyes observing her every move, she carefully ran through each step, calmly explaining what she was doing — and, to her disbelief, they seemed genuinely interested. She was pretty sure she even heard an impressed whoop from Mike as, after some trial and error, the pen began spinning without assistance in their contraption.

They'd had that same look in their eye when the winners were announced that afternoon, and for once, the girls' names were emblazoned on the first place trophy. Front of the school newsletter, prizes taken home, and Sandy insatiably looking for a way to one-up herself next year in '84. But, perhaps most important of all, she remembers the boys scuttling over to their stall to congratulate them. Dustin huffed as he shook their hands — "All in the name of good sportsmanship, RIGHT Sandy?" — and then it came to Will.

"Hey, um, well done!" They both giggled breathlessly as Will grinned, his eyes twinkling. "Seriously though, your project was so cool. It... it was my favourite."

"Thanks," Cath had replied, unable to contain her beaming smile any longer, "I loved yours too."

Reminiscing, Cath flexes the fingers on her hand and remembers the handshake they shared afterwards — gentler than Lucas's, which she's pretty sure almost broke her hand, but secure enough that she distinctly recalls not wanting to let go. The last thing on her mind before she tunes into Mr. Clarke's enthusiastic speech about atomic bonding is Will's friendly temperament, welcoming her like he always had been...

     By lunch, however, she's got other things to think about; namely introducing Andrea Sandoval to her friends. There's no time to delay it any further since they both brought packed lunches, and Gina always arrives to the table early. No turning back now. With a few bold strides, they've arrived, and before Cath can even clear her throat to get a word in, Andrea has already thrust her hand under Gina's nose.

     "Hey! I'm Andrea, nice to meet you."

     Startled, Gina peers up at the girl with an owl-eyed glance, taking her in before slowly shaking her hand in return. "I'm... Gina. Gina Lawson."

     "Thanks for letting me sit here, I hope you don't mind," Andrea chirps, scooting over so Cath can lower herself down on a sat next to her. "I'm new here and it's not exactly easy to make friends... good thing I've got people like Cather who're keeping an eye on me." At this, she slings an arm around Cath, to which she almost chokes on her mouthful of juice. It's so effortlessly friendly, and she's embarrassed to think it, but for a moment it leaves her breathless.

     "Yes, that's fine."

     As she begins unwrapping her ham sandwich, Cath observes Andrea pulling out a large packet of Lunchables from her bag and ripping the lid off. She stacks a few mini slices of cheese and ham between two crackers and pops it in her mouth, before pushing the tray in Cath's direction. "Want one?" she asks, shielding her mouth as she chews.

     "Oh, no, you have them, it's your lunch..."

     "C'mon! I'll make you one of my special creations," says Andrea, not waiting for an answer as she constructs another mini sandwich out of the Lunchables and passes it to her. "Here, Gina, you can have one too."

     "I can't, sorry. They get stuck in my braces."

"Touché.... hey, is that an IYS magazine?"

Slightly taken aback, Gina lifts her elbow and reveals the magazine she's been hiding in her opened textbook; a double-page spread titled 'International Youth Service' with blocks of text she's clearly highlighted herself. "Um, yes..." she admits sheepishly, taking her glasses off for a moment to clean the lenses with her shirt. "I'm thinking I might sign up to write with someone."

"Oh, it's so worth it," Andrea reassures her with an eager thumbs up. "I've already got two pen pals from there, and I'm thinking of getting a third once I'm settled in here."

"Really? How do you keep up with all those letters?" Cath asks.

"You just.... do. You make the effort for friends, no matter what the cost."

No matter what the cost.

"Let's see..." As Andrea pauses thoughtfully, Gina has already pushed her textbook to the side and is leaning over curiously. "There was my first one, Debbie from New Zealand, who I started writing to in 1980. Then recently I started writing to this Greek girl, Amara, who I got to meet last year. Where are you thinking of getting a pen pal from?"

"Well, I was thinking maybe... one of the Scandinavian countries?"

"What's going on?" Pamela's figure materialises next to the table, alongside Sandy — for all Cath knows they could have been standing there the whole time. She purses her lips with an expectant stare, looking Andrea up and down as though she were some kind of mannequin — lifeless and dry — when in actual fact, she was anything but those things.

Gina's laughter starts to die down, as she bites the side of her lip to hold back a smile. "This is Andrea, she's sitting with us for lunch today." At this point, she glares at Pamela sceptically, the look being magnified twice as large due to her spectacles. From the other side, Andrea pokes her head in and gives a lighthearted wave.

     Seeming to be outnumbered by opposition, Pamela sighs and squeezes in on Gina's side of the table with Sandy, in what is strangely beginning to feel like some bizarre face-off. The rest of lunch passes at an agonising snail's pace — Gina, thankfully, is active in making Andrea feel welcome, and eventually she manages to rope in Sandy when they start talking about Science class. But Pamela is the one to please, and she simply keeps her downcast eyes to her tray of sludge dished out by the lunch ladies. She just can't understand what is rendering her so intractable.

     She didn't think it would have to be this hard to get her liking someone like Andrea.

     Even the ray of sunshine seems to be losing her spark after a while, when she grows silent and starts playing with the empty packet of Lunchables and looking over her shoulder uncomfortably. Cath knows that look, because she's done it herself too many times — the look of self-awareness. And she doesn't know if she can bear seeing that in her new friend.

     Glancing down at her watch, only initially to save her and Andrea from this painful meeting, she claps her handover her mouth when she remembers where she is supposed to be. The boys. "I just remembered, I've got somewhere to be!" she blurts out without much thought.

     "Uhh, me too... thanks for the seat guys." Andrea hops up from the bench and shrugs her arms back into the sleeves of her denim jacket.

     She waits until they're well out of range of the cafeteria, the November air hitting their skin with fine pin-pricks of cold, before she turns to face an Andrea whose face has gained some more colour than before. "... Thanks for today, it was really great." she murmurs.

     "Oh God, I'm so sorry," Cath's face falls into her hands and she shakes her head. "I don't know why that was so..."

     "Tense? Yeah, I'm used to it." Andrea shrugs, forcing a bittersweet half-smile. "See, when you're the new kid, you either get one of two reactions — either everyone wants to be your friend, or no one does. And kids are pretty cliquey, I get that. But I'm a big girl. I've moved so many times, this stuff is just like clockwork to me now." She removes her hand from her backpack strap and places it on Cath's shoulder. "Thanks for looking out for me, Cath. I'm really happy you did."

     "Yeah... of course, it's no problem."

     "Alright. Well, I'll see you later."

     With Andrea wandering off quite happily on her own, she is left standing solitary in the middle of the school yard — her shadow stands tall against the afternoon sun on the gravel field. Little footsteps pound against hop scotches at one end, and at the other end hands hurtle basketballs into hoops, elated screams and chatter lacing the air... and where is she? Alone. Over her many years of experience in the unforgiving school playground culture, if there has one thing Catherine has learned, it is this: You never feel more invisible than in a crowd full of people who just can't see you.

     But not today. Not today, she scolds herself. She's making a friend, since that's what Andrea has called her multiple times, right? And besides, she has an important place to be... wherever the boys are, that is.

     After five minutes of helplessly scanning the school grounds, she finds them concealed behind the bleachers, trudging over grass as they pick up rocks to observe them quizzically. Dustin looks around and outstretches his arms, shrugging at her. "There you are! We were wondering when you'd come."

     "Sorry, I got held up," she murmurs, staring at the ground and the pile of small rocks they have started to accumulate at their feet. "... And what's all of this?"

     "Ammunition," says Lucas, un-jokingly.

     "Ammunition?! Since when do we need ammunition?"

     "It's for his slingshot," Dustin deadpans.

     Clearly irked by the misinformation, Lucas narrows his eyes at him and rubs his brow. "Dude? How many times? It's a wrist-rocket." Turning back to face her, he effortlessly adds: "I've also got binoculars, a Swiss Army knife, and a hammer. Just in case."

     She blinks at him. "In case of what, exactly?"

     "In case we run into the Demogorgon," Mike finally pipes in, "or worse..." He places the cold, ragged rock he'd found moments before in her palm; she isn't sure what he's trying to suggest, but it doesn't make her feel any better. With a perturbed gulp, Cath's fingers curl around the rock and her hands retreat up into her coat sleeves, after the unnerving shiver that inches up her spine like frost. She doesn't want to run into any demogorgons or bad men...

     "So, do you think Eleven was born with her powers, like the X-Men?" Dustin suggests: and then, grinning, "Or d'you think she acquired them, like— like Green Lantern?"

     "She's not a superhero..." Lucas asserts, sulking as he tosses a rock into the air. "She's a weirdo."

     "What does that matter? The X-Men were weirdos!" Mike retorts, taking on a defensive stance.

     "If you love her so much, then why don't you marry her?"

     "... What're you talking about?" No matter how much he's trying to hide it, though, she can see the way he squirms at Lucas's comment, like he's been put under a glaring light that catches his every move — the pretence of his annoyed stare, the light blush that starts at the sides of his cheeks and is slowly working its way to fully engulfing him.

     "Mike, seriously?"

     "What?!"

"You look at her all like..." Lucas begins fluttering his eyelashes at him dotingly, as he begins to impersonate a smitten Mike. Cath attempts biting back a smile, but even she can't withhold her giggles when he starts skipping around him. "Oh, El! El! El!" he coos, getting down on one knee and taking his hand, "I love you so much, El! Will you marry me?" She has to admit, Lucas wasn't too far off.

"Shut up, Lucas," Mike murmurs, trying to avoid eye contact as he looks around for bystanders, mortified.

"Yeah, shut up, Lucas!" The unwelcome voice sours the air with a tinge of toxicity — Troy Walsh and James Dante close in like vultures around them, faces distorted with amusement. The boys appear to immediately retreat into themselves, gazes downcast and fearful. She knew the pair weren't any good, but she doesn't like to think about what they had done to them to make them cower so much.

"What are you losers doing back here?" Troy spits, looking down on them like dirt; dirt that he could smash deeper the ground with one stamp of his foot. And then, noticing Cath, he smirks.

James chortles, nudging his partner-in-crime in the shoulder. "Probably looking for their missing friend!"

"That's not funny," Dustin fumes, fists clenching by his sides. "It's serious, he's in danger." Helplessly, Cath can only look between the back-and-forth exchange, uncertain of whether to intervene or not. But even she cannot hide her offence over their insensitivity, as she takes a step forward, protectively, in line with the boys.

"Hate to break it to you, Toothless," says Troy, "but he's not in danger... he's dead. At least that's what my dad days." Then, with a sickly grin, he turns to James. "Probably killed by some other queer."

"Leave them alone!" The words escape Cath's mouth before she thinks them, and a lot less confident than she'd planned in her head — the shakiness in her voice, a mixture of both the anger and the stupid lump in her throat threatening her with tears, only makes the pair laugh harder.

Pouting, James tilts his head at Cath, and she swallows her spit thickly — it's funny how much more intimidating they seem when their sharp stares are boring right into her own eyes.

"And what're you gonna do if we don't, huh? Cry about it?" God damn it. He'd noticed. She inhales a sharp breath through her nose, which releases some of the strangling at her throat and the stinging in her eyes. "Are you gonna cry like a little crybaby?"

Cath is sure she might just do that if James keep provoking her, and she hates it. Because maybe he's right — maybe she is just a stupid crybaby... she can't even stand up to a couple of foolish Middle School bullies.

     "It's alright, Cath. Just ignore them." Mike has appeared at her side, a tiredly crestfallen look in his eyes. As if he's endured this more times than he can count. In an attempt to appear brave, he starts making his way past them with his head held high; so high that he doesn't spot Troy's foot shooting across in front of his ankle before it's too late. Mike goes flying and, just as she notices the rock right in his line of fall, a worryingly loud CRACK is still heard over Troy and James's cackling as he groans in pain.

     Her nurturing instinct kicks in like second nature. Cath brushes past the pair of bullies without a second thought, immediately kneeling at Mike's side on the damp grass. "Are you okay?" she asks, snaking her arm under his elbow to help him up. Once he manages to steady himself, he winces as he dabs the small gash on his chin with his fingertips.

     "Y-yeah..." he whimpers, "I think so."

     As Lucas rubs his back reassuringly, she thinks back to their cowers earlier on: like they had been expecting the onslaught. "How... often does this happen?" she asks, picking off some blades of soggy grass from Mike's coat sleeve.

     "Every. Freaking. Day." Dustin sighs and adjusts his cap, "We're just used to it at this point."

     But you shouldn't have to be...

Cath doesn't recall ever being explicitly bullied like they are. But now she comes to think of it, there were different ways she was made to feel smaller than herself — more specifically, invisible. One memory in particular fades her colours to a dull grey and dampens her mood every time it resurfaces. At Stacy Albright's birthday party in Second Grade, she remembers how she couldn't understand why Stacy kept not hearing her when she tried to talk. Her head was always looking upwards, above her, at the other kids, and just when she started talking, she would run off elsewhere. She couldn't understand why she wasn't the only one not having fun there — surely there was something wrong with her?

Maybe she's just making a fuss out of nothing. At least she doesn't get pushed, shoved and name-called every day like the boys seem to.

     Dustin crouches down and picks another rock up off the ground, dropping it into Mike's hand. "How about this one?"

     "... Yeah," he nods, smiling weakly to pick himself back up again, "Yeah, this is it."

     "Oh yeah!" Lucas takes it from him with a Cheshire Cat grin, "This is the monster killer!"

     And remarkably, the weight seems to be lifted. Just like that. Cath can't quite understand how it happened so effortlessly. She's pretty sure she wasn't a part of it, but the warmth that trickles all over her body and loosens her tensed shoulders feels like one thing only: companionship.

━━━━━━

     DAPHNE'S head throbs with remnants of quadratic formula and trigonometry — calculations which are probably mostly incorrect, if done by her — and her eyes feel fuzzy with fatigue. She's pretty sure she destroyed another five brain cells, just locked in that stuffy room with nothing but a test paper, a battered pencil case and her dwindling hope of succeeding in Mathematics.

     But all of that seems unimportant today. Not when someone else's problems have been ebbing at her mind all day.

"What did you think of Jonathan today?" she asks Amy when, at long last, they get out of class.

"What do you mean?"

"Like, did he look really... tired to you?"

"Daphne, I look at his back every lesson. He was still conscious, so no, I guess." Amy retorts, shrugging away from an unruly jock pushing past her. "Why, did he look different to you?"

"Well, you know what he's going through right now..." says Daphne sadly. She's been quietly monitoring him from a distance since their last exchange, and his behaviour has only concerned her further. He'd never been the type to mingle in large crowds anyway, faking extroversion for the hell of it. But this is different — he appears so cut off from everyone, everything when she spots him, head hung low and his headphones on as he wordlessly slips into the darkroom to hide away.

He was never that bad when they used to be kids. They had both been painfully introverted — Jonathan, more so — and if it hadn't been for Daphne's imaginative games she magicked up for the both of them, their circumstantial play dates might have ended up a whole lot awkward.

Though somehow, she doesn't think their childhood fantasy world-building warrants some kind of Special Friend voucher he can cash in at any time.

As if called upon, a sullen figure speeds through the crowd past the two of them, keeping his eyes to the floor except for strangely suspicious sideward glances. "Well," says Amy, "If you're so panicky, then why don't you go ask him?"

"... Yeah. Yeah, I think I will. I'll see you tomorrow, Ames."

The door to the school courtyard flings open, a cold rush of air rolling in like the tide and waking up her senses. The flurry of students eager to get home almost seems to part, retreating to the sides to escape the breeze, through which she begins a soft jog to catch up to him. When she eventually falls into step with Jonathan, he's either unaware of her presence or trying to avoid it.

"Hey, Jonathan!" she tries to sound as lighthearted as possible, immediately wondering whether it sounded patronising afterwards.

     Jonathan's hands fidget around his bag strap, firmly sealing shut the flap which had been half-open before. "Uh, hey..." he stammers, appearing to not know where to look. What was up with him today?

     "So... how was your day?"

     "It was fine."

     "Good, good..." Silence. "Mine was good too, in case you were wo—"

     "Look, I'm sorry, now's really not a good... time." Jonathan's voice trails off, his gaze fixated on something in the distance. Something changes in his demeanour; a strange calm, but that of a deer looking in the face of a hunter with a loaded gun, judging whether it'll shoot or not. His steps become slower, but more purposeful, as he continues in the same direction. Daphne can't understand why he's acting so strange, until he sees them — the hunters — Steve Harrington and his stupid friends, sat on the bonnet of Jonathan's car. Once they spot him approaching, they hop off and corner him confrontationally.

"Oh, would you look at that?" says Carol, upon seeing Daphne. "Two freaks for the price of one."

"They come in packs!" Tommy guffaws.

Yeah, just like you schmucks do.

     "What's going on?" he asks, his voice so carefully controlled that it trembles slightly.

     "Nicole here —" Steve nods to the smugly pouting redhead to his right, "— was telling us about your work."

     "We've heard great things..."

     "Yeah, sounds cool!"

     "And we'd just love to take a look. You know, as... connoisseurs of art." There's something in Steve's tone that puzzles her. Something gravelly, like he knows more than he's letting on. And she bets whatever it is, it's the complacent-looking Nicole that told him. Truth or not, she isn't liking the look of where this is going.

     Don't encourage them. "Jonathan, let's just go..." she murmurs, her skin beginning to crawl after she accidentally makes eye contact with Carol. All she can think of is her screeching laugh when she shoved ice down the back of her neck in the Fifth Grade on the way to school, and she was shivering for the rest of the school day — not just from the cold.

     She's sure he knows the drill, too. Jonathan attempts to cut through past them to his car; but not before Tommy swipes his bag from his shoulder with a giggle.

     "Hey, give that back!" Daphne exclaims. She impulsively lunges forward to grab it, as Tommy dangles it mockingly above her head. He ducks from Jonathan's desperate attempt to retrieve it and throws it into Steve's hands like a basketball.

     "Oh man," Steve ogles at the distraught boy, looking him up and down suspiciously. "He's, like, totally trembling, he must really have something to hide." As he empties the contents of his bag onto the bonnet, Daphne's feet freeze to the ground, moulded into the tarmac. She's been in Jonathan's shoes too many times to count — this very feeling of helplessness, the one painted in the lines of self-doubt carved in his face turning paler and paler, defined her entire Middle School experience.

     And sometimes she just wishes she hadn't retreated so much. That she'd fought back now and then.

     "Oh, man..."

     Tommy snatches one of the photos, leaving fingerprints all over Jonathan's work as his brows knit together with what looks like disgust. "Dude? What the hell?"

"Guys, just give him his photos back," Daphne pleads, "and we'll go. Okay?"

      The remarks start circulating like a churning storm, scrunched faces and judgemental glares being shot his way. And surprisingly, Jonathan panics: "I was just looking for my brother!" he blurts out. Why does he feel the need to defend himself? Flashes of black and white pass her vision, but not for long enough to focus in on whatever was rubbing them the wrong way; whatever was prompting them to call him a creep, a pervert.

"Here," Steve passes the stack to her, "Why don't you take a look for yourself?"

Daphne slowly pries the photographs from his hands, holding them in her own. For some reason she's nervous, why is she nervous? And then it becomes clear. She sees exactly what she was afraid of seeing; the others were telling the truth. Picture after picture shows snapshots from outside Steve's house, the shadows of tree branches obscuring some parts. Still, she has seen enough — intimate moments, picturing them all swimming in his pool, drinking cans of beer by the side. But worst of all, a shot zoomed in on the bedroom window; Nancy Wheeler, in only a bra, locked lips with Steve in a full display meant for their eyes only.

     She can't believe it. One look at Jonathan says it all — shame searing his face, unable to look her in the eye.

     Why, why, why?

     "What's... going on?" Oh no. At her side, Nancy Wheeler's fingers open and close around the strap of her satchel, an uneasy chuckle slipping past her lips.

     "Here's the starring lady!" Tommy's tongue pokes the inside of his cheeks suggestively, glancing at Jonathan.

     "W-what?"

     "This creep was spying on us last night," says Carol. She takes a stride over to Daphne and takes the top one off the pile — the worst one — and adds, "He was probably saving this one for later..."

     The photograph trembles between Nancy's fingers as her gaze wanders over each part, digesting it with a punch to the gut every time. She looks to Jonathan, her jaw hanging loose as she seems lost for words. All Daphne can think of is that sweet, understanding look she'd only given him the other day — but now, those gunmetal irises seem streaked with hurt. Distrusting, betrayed... confused, more than anything.

Daphne likes to think she knows Jonathan Byers; she'll admit, not that deeply, but she knows he is so much better than this.

     "That's the thing about perverts..." Steve tugs lightly on the collar of Jonathan's jacket, "It's hard-wired into 'em, you know, they just can't... help themselves." As he starts ripping up the photos in his hands, fluttering to the ground piece by piece, Tommy wheezes through a laugh behind. "So, you just have to take away his toy."

     "Steve..."

     "No, please, not the camera—"

     "No no, wait! Tommy, Tommy... it's okay..." Halting Tommy from pouncing onto its restless owner, Steve weighs up the camera in his hands. He holds it out to him — and, relieved, Jonathan reaches out for it, his prized possession. His fingers have barely gazed the surface when Steve lets it drop to the ground, the resonate SMASH evoking an involuntary gasp from Daphne.

     She could think of a thousand words to yell in his face if her mind would just kick into action, all of them fairly colourful. Surprisingly, however, she finds Steve's own demeanour suddenly stinging with shame. "C'mon guys, the game's about to start," he mutters, his stare burning holes in the tarmac as he retreats. But he can't fool Daphne. She's noticed that same look on more than one occasion — it was the same look that slipped out when Tommy kept pestering her at the Hawk the other day.

Although he isn't there when Tommy passes her on his way over: "Aww, don't look so upset," he mocks her. "Why don't you go hug some trees, hippie?" Finally he leaves them alone, running over to Steve, who is still watching the scene from a far enough distance. Like a coward.

     Remnants of the photos catch in the wind, spinning cyclones around their ankles. Nancy is somehow still here; she kneels down next to Jonathan as his hands pass over fragments of torn up photos and shattered camera lenses. One strip in particular seems to catch her eye, for whatever reason — Daphne hopes it isn't that photo — and, after checking to see if the others are around, she stuffs it into the pocket of her bag, running off to join Steve again.

     In the debris of what has just happened, Daphne crouches before him. Jonathan sighs, his hands finding a place to rest for a moment on his lap.

     "I know. It's bad."

A sudden gust of wind dishevels a wave of honey blonde into her face, and she tries to comb it back behind her ear. "Is this..." she pauses, catching a shard of the bare-shouldered Nancy in a photo. "Is this about Will?"

He says nothing. He doesn't have to. She'll probably read him, anyway, and she does.

"You know, this is why you talk to people about things," Daphne says, staring at his hands. "When you keep it all inside, it just sits there and it... it rots, and you end up doing stupid shit like this; I know that, Jon. I've seen it firsthand."

There's nothing left to say. She turns her back on the torn pieces, the torn up boy, not bearing to face either of them any longer. Her heart thumps sickeningly fast, thrusting boiling blood all around her body; to her head, fingers, feet. She pedals even faster on her way home, uneven rhythms of the bike wheels tick tick ticking doing no favours for calming her.

     She's seen it firsthand. She has. Daphne remembers what grief — the relentless, crippling hopelessness — does to a person. She remembers all too well those first couple of years following her mother's death. The ones where her father was inconsolable, unreachable. The years where she would sit waiting on the steps, waiting for him to wake up. Snap out of it. After a while, she got tired of waiting for her father to break through, and tell her everything was okay. Instead she would wait for the friendly faces that took her in whilst he tried to sort through the aftermath — whether it was Judith "Call-Me-Judy" Jenkins (a childhood friend of her mother's), her grandparents, other neighbours or Joyce Byers.

     Joyce...

     Through the swaying trees, she sees the light is on in their kitchen. In the golden glow bobs the silhouette of her father; as he rides nearer, the faint, muffled melodies of Bill Withers drifting from the house. Daphne brakes in front of the house and watches for a few moments. She's pretty sure she can see him mouthing the lyrics — even singing them, though she can't hear him — as he waits for his coffee to brew, and she giggles to herself.

He really had stepped up. Maybe it was some years overdue, but he was trying his hardest.

And much of that wouldn't have been possible without people like Joyce.

"Screw it," Daphne mutters. She kicks the brake on her bike and pushes forward on her pedals, continuing to accelerate down the lane, down to the Byers home. Without the sun's presence, obscured by clouds, it seems to have grown darker more quickly today. The letterbox on their front door slams furiously in the wind as she hops off her bike when reaching it.

She balls her fist to knock on the door; mysteriously, on the first tap, it swings open an inch. It's unlocked... strange.

"Joyce?" she calls uncertainly. "It's me, Daphne! I think your door's unlocked."

The door opens a further few inches, and a pair of tired, bloodshot eyes still damp with tears stare out. She looks as though she hasn't slept for days. It's hard to believe it was only the Sunday just gone that she'd seen her, chirpy and smiling at the counter in Melvald's.

"Before you close the door..." Daphne sighs, watching as Joyce hovers in the gap, looking paranoia-stricken over her shoulder every now and then. "I'm here because you were there for me. You know, everything with my mom... and after... those are my fondest memories of that time. You know that, right?" She waits until she wills Joyce to nod weakly, before continuing. "And in the end we came out of the other side. So, I think it's only fair I try and return the favour — we'll come out of the other side of this. Will is going to be okay. And I'm here for you, we all are."

Joyce rubs her eyes with the back of her hand and manages a breathy laugh, smiling slightly for the first time. "Well, I don't know about all of you..." she murmurs. With another look over her shoulder, she tilts her head at Daphne, as if to judge her silently. "If I told you what I... what I've been doing... you're probably gonna think I-I'm insane."

Daphne smiles back now, raising an eyebrow at her. "Of all the stiff upper-lipped folks in Hawkins, do you really think I'm going to second-guess anything you say?"

"Well, only one way to find out..."

The door opens fully and Joyce steps to the side, letting her in. She steps onto the doormat and wipes her feet; their old dog, Chester comes running in slowly, and she runs her hand smoothly along his slightly matted fur.

And then she looks up.

She wasn't sure what she was expecting, but it evokes a surprised "Oh!" the moment she spots them. Rows, upon rows, upon rows of Christmas lights strung from the ceiling — all above the living room, coiled around hanging lampshades, winding into the kitchen and tendrils of them stretching into the hallway. The windows are boarded up with sheets of paper cello taped messily together, and some of the only illumination in the dim house comes from some shaky candlelight that fills the room with an aroma of melting wax and burning filament.

"You see these lights?" Joyce asks, lifting a shaky hand to the lights that drops a few cinders from the cigarette dangling between her fingers. Daphne nods slowly; how could she not see them? "Well, there's been something strange going on with them lately, and I think... I-I think... Will might be talking to me."

Oh. So it's this bad.

"I don't know how to explain it. I-I know it's him, I can feel it's him, I just— I need to know he's safe..." She suddenly turns and faces Daphne, stepping nearer to her with a surprisingly firm look in her eyes. "I know how this sounds... and looks... but please, I just need you to believe me. Can you do that? Do you believe me?"

Daphne's words vanish into thin air for what feels like forever. She wasn't expecting something this elaborate — would she be encouraging something deeper and darker than just a mother worried about her kid? But then she thinks of all those people at school; all of those kids talking dirt about Joyce, about Jonathan, about Will...

"I believe you, Joyce."

     A relief seems to wash over the woman — she closes her eyes, shoulders lowering down with the sigh. Daphne begins to wonder if she's the only person, even over Jonathan who has showed the slightest bit of understanding to Joyce's theories. Whatever gets her through, she guesses. The familiar motherly tone creeps into her voice again as she crosses to the kitchen.

     "Can I get you a drink?" she asks, fumbling for a mug.

     "Um... sure. Thanks," Daphne replies. Chester curls up down next to her feet, and she starts scratching his neck. "I saw Jonathan at school today."

     Joyce quickly spins around, a hopeful lightness in her. "You did? How did he look?"

     "He's... okay. You know, considering."

     "I really worry about him sometimes. He can be so..."

     "Closed off?"

     "Oh, very. He still hasn't talked to me much about... about all of this."

     A minute later, Joyce carries over two mugs of slightly lukewarm, but really good tea, setting them down on the wood table. Daphne finds herself lost for what to say next, dumbfounded as she looks at all the lights again. But she tries not to stare too much — she wouldn't want Joyce thinking she's judging her badly. The woman has gone through enough, she thinks, from the way she takes long drags from her cigarette and leans tiredly against her wrist as she blows the smoke out.

     It isn't until Chester starts barking that she perks up, and so does Daphne too. Over his sharp, alert barks, she hears a faint hissing — like metal being scraped — and after a couple of seconds, she realises there is an intermittent pattern.

Daphne turns around, and her jaw drops.

Her eyes become glued to the peculiar scene before her: the lights are now alive in their colours, each bulb in pink, yellow, green, orange blinking in succession, acting as wisps summoning them down a path through the living room, before going dark and repeating their pattern from the beginning once more. It really is like they're leading them somewhere. Joyce follows it meticulously, clambering over stray wires and cables on the floor. This is what she's been waiting for. Even Daphne can't deny the otherworldly pull that following the lights makes her feel.

"How the...?" She can't believe it. She cannot believe it.

     "Daphne, can you help me with this?" Joyce gestures to a medium sized cabinet against the wall. At first she doesn't understand, and then she realises: that's where the lights are guiding them. Daphne gets on the other side of the cabinet and, on the count of three, they both heave it to the side. It reveals a small storage space hidden in the wallpaper, which Joyce kneels down in front of and opens up.

     "So... what now?" Daphne whispers, not sure whether she's meant to be quiet for this. What if this really is Will?

     Joyce grabs a bundle of Christmas lights from the coffee table, giving her a hopeful gaze before she crouches down and crawls into the hole in the wall. She gets herself into a foetal position and hugs her knees to her chest, her fingers intertwined between each bulb and string of wire.

     Deep breath. She closes her eyes, holding the lights to her chest — to her heart. "Will..." she whispers, so lovingly that Daphne finds herself leaning in further with intrigue. "Are you here?"

     A moment of the emptiest silence passes.

     And then, cutting through the dark like a knife, they shine. No, not just shine — each glass bulb bursts with enchanting, brilliant white light, the rays shooting out between Joyce's trembling fingers and illuminating her overjoyed face. It's as if they have a mind of their own. Will's mind.

     "Oh! Okay, good, good..." Joyce whispers more eagerly now, clutching the lights as they fade away again. "Alright, um... blink once for yes, twice for no. Can you do that for me sweetie?"

     The lights glow again, holding out for one blink.

     Struggling to choke back tears now, she dotingly caresses the wires. "Good boy... baby, I need to know... are you alive?"

     ... One.

     He's alive. Daphne gasps, startling herself when she feels something damp on her cheek. Fresh tears. She doesn't even know where they came from, but all she knows is this: Will Byers is alive, and he is here. He has to be.

     "... Are you safe?"

     A pause.

     Then...

     One... two...

     She could swear she feels her heart drop all the way into her shoes; the feeling itself takes a physical form in the way Joyce's face shifts from relief to exhausted despair.

     "Oh, honey... I need to know where to find you, honey, where— where are you? Can you... can you tell me where you are? Can you..." At the longest silence between responses they've had, Joyce starts to crumble, tears brimming in her eyes as the lights tremor in her hands. "Please, baby... I need to find you, can you tell me what to do? Please..."

     "Joyce..." Daphne barely whispers, wiping her own cheeks.

     "No, he's still there, I know it! Will... Will...?"

     There is only deafening darkness.

━━━━━━

A/N;

at last, an update! HUZZAH!

i don't know why, but this chapter took so. long. to write. honestly i have a love/hate relationship with it, but nevertheless i hope it was enjoyable for you to read. there are also two other things i'd like to mention in this author's note...

the first is that today when this chapter was first published, on february 20th, it's CATH'S 50TH BIRTHDAY?? WHAT?? in theory, wee little cath is somewhere in the world, a middle-aged woman hopefully catching a break.... that's so crazy to think. anyway, happy birthday catherine martha delaney! keep getting older and wiser (and keep getting plenty of cats).

the second thing is i'd like to commemorate is that paranormal recently hit 1K reads! thank you all so much for taking the time to read this fic, i'm so glad to see people are enjoying and that already it has 1,000+ reads! whaaaat!!

— Imogen

[ Published: February 20th, 2021 ]