PRETTY SICK!
— are we still friends? ☆

Mother and daughter is a complicated term, far too complex for most to understand, yet it seemed simple enough at first glance; mother takes care of daughter, and daughter becomes a mother — problems arose when the mother forgot where mother ended and daughter started. It's an endless cycle, one Angie couldn't seem to shake off.

She liked her mom — sometimes, and her mom liked her — sometimes. Angelica had to be careful, most of the time.

Her ears got used to listening for the slightest sigh, or the miniscule movement of the corner of her lips; contempt, Angie learned from a psychology textbook. Contempt is what she felt when she would stare at her daughter when she was having one of her bouts of catatonia, or when the rage wiped through their small trailer home. It came in flashes; in screams that ripped at the throats of anyone who dared fight it, in colorful words that no sane mother would use against her child — it was a constantly burning match, one that never got put out, but was not always destructive. The rage visited often.

When it "wasn't destructive", Julie tried to be good — she gave her daughter parts of her disability money to "Buy something nice." as she claimed, or pretended to be the Cool Mom to her friends, the one who bought them booze and let them bum around in her living room before a party. Angie's friends were Julie's friends — mi casa tu casa. Some nights, Julie felt bad. She felt bad about the things she said to Angie, when she would point out how much food she had, or when the rage came back.

Julie swore it'd never happen again, she swore it would stay away this time — just like all of the other times as Angie sat stiffly and held her mother, like a mother should a daughter. But the daughter held the mother like she wanted to be held. Maybe one day she'd return the favor.

Once the rage stopped coming around.

Her mom blamed her mother, for the ache that always lingered in Angie's chest, for the monsters that plagued her brain and the shadows that were there. Angie never saw them. She did, however, meet her grandmother on multiple occasions — not many, but multiple. Belladonna Olsen loved to dote on her grandbabies, especially the girls, as she twirled their hair and kissed their heads like children, no matter how old they were.

Angie saw the rage fester everytime Belladonna's silver strands would tickle her granddaughter's face. It was a gaping wound only visible to mother and daughter, and Belladonna loved to stick her fingers in it until Julie wanted to pull at her hair and scream at her daughter. Because — why wasn't it her?

She imagined her great-grandmother was the same, and then her mother, and the mother before that. A cycle of rage and subsequent placation that came with old-age and bearing children, passing on the curse of a Mother's Rage. Angie feared for the day and reached out for her; its spindly fingers would press into her neck and rip out her throat, and the only way for her to heal would be to scream.

Mother's Rage visited Angie early, it seemed, as she felt the gaping blue holes that belonged to her mother trail her around the kitchen.

"What are you wearing?" Julie asked from the blue recliner that sat in front of the television — she always asked this. Family Feud played from it, and the sound of the buzzer went faintly throughout the house seemingly 24/7.

"My work uniform," Angie muttered in response as she didn't dare face her mother — fear of pouring kerosene on an already burning match made it easy to recognize the signs of the rage in Julie Bell.

Her mother narrowed her eyes towards the younger girl, then softened as she beckoned her over with the wave of a hand. "Oh, right... let me do your hair for you, monkey — you have bumps." There was one thing that echoed in the back of her mind like little baby angels that sang hymns in her ears, the imaginary clouds parted and rays of sun beamed down as an illuminated image of her mother reminded her that the rage never came on Sundays.

Sundays were a time to play sainthood in the sanctuary of the Bell family home, none of them were going anywhere close to heaven, but they could act like it for a day to keep their mother from flinging herself off of the ledge of the quarry.

Angie sighed, almost in relief, when she grabbed her hairbrush from the rickety second-hand side table and patted the open edge for her to sit. She couldn't even protest the embarrassing nickname that Julie knew pushed Angie's buttons, but she loved to embarrass her — especially around other people. No one understood why the blonde teenager got so angry when her mother would call her 'monkey', especially in front of her friends.

They didn't know it was the straw that broke the camel's back, because Angie knew if she dared try anything similar to that, there would be hell to pay. And God, did Julie know how to raise hell.

She sat in front of her mother, both fit snugly on the recliner as they were both petite women — though, it groaned pathetically with the extra weight. She felt Julie's thin fingers stroke her sandy blonde hair for a moment, and Angie imagined that she had a wistful look on her face — Julie Bell's hair was long past due, its curls became brittle with time and ailment, and it spent most of its days pulled into a taut bun at the back of her neck. Each fly-away reminded her of her youth that slipped through her fingers.

It was a miracle, really, how Julie Bell had managed to live 42 years and bear three healthy children given the cards she was dealt. Angie thought it was unfair how her mom had to spend her teenage years locked in a doctor's office doing countless tests and pumping herself with dozens of medications — it started to catch up with her.

"Karen is taking me out to my mist chamber today," she spoke softly, as if it was a big secret that someone would use against her, "She's bringing casserole for us, isn't that fun?"

"Yeah, mom," Angie mumbled.

Angelica was sure that Karen hung around her mother because she felt bad, or because the much more likable and popular Tabitha Olsen-Brahms made a passing comment about her to the Wheeler. Her aunt Tabby was like that. Not that Angie complained, honestly, it was less money she had to spend on food, because neither her nor her mother ate enough for the casserole to last anywhere less than a week.

"You never hang out with her daughter, Nancy, she's a sweetheart... very smart," she gushed, as if this would convince Angie (it did the exact opposite.), "She's dating Steven, too. You should talk to her, maybe you'll finally pick up some good habits."

There it was, the straw that broke the camel's back as Angie decided to stay passive with her mother instead of starting an argument that felt impossible to win. "I dunno," she replied shortly once she felt Julie let go of the hair tie, "I need to get going."

And she left as soon as she said it.

Her mom called after her something about picking up Little Debbie's on the way home, but she didn't bother to listen closely, too preoccupied with shutting the door and bee-lining for her light green Ford Pinto, which had definitely seen better days. It barely ran, sometimes she worried that the engine might blow up with her inside of it. But nevertheless, she got in and began her short trek to her job at the restaurant.

Named Ricky's Diner, it opened sometime in the 40's after everyone celebrated that the war was over by having ten billion children; it was a breakfast all day type diner. Ricky, who died a few years back, left the restaurant to his dickhead son who was one of those ten billion babies born. Richard Jr., or more commonly known as his fitting nickname, Dick, spent most of his shifts in the back of his office doing God knows what or bothering the female staff with unwanted sexual jokes, or just plain looking down their shirts by towering over them.

If Angie wasn't so desperate to keep her job, she might have punched him until she broke his nose. She could dream. The most she'd ever be able to do was give him a pained smile and tell him that she was in the middle of work and not to bother the customers, who were never actually bothered, or even appalled by his behavior. People loved Dick, they thought his jokes were hilarious and that the staff who looked uncomfortable (women) should "lighten up".

She would rather bash her head against a wall than play along with one of his jokes. But she also felt like she couldn't say no, so she was stuck between a rock and a hard place as she got forced to chuckle awkwardly while he made a comment about her age.

Her car bounced a little as she pulled into the parking lot and got out, then headed inside to start a long, grueling Sunday of hard work to get paid.

On days when Dick felt merciful and decided to sit in his office until closing, Angelica felt at peace, and could focus on doing her best at work. She was thankful she didn't have to deal with the after-church rush that happened every weekend, or even that many tables, to be honest. She was put on the cash register and hostess for the day instead.

Most times when she worked that position, she spent it sat on a stool at the milkshake bar drawing in her sketchbook, or writing poetry about how miserable her days felt. Today, she sketched a portrait of Merrill Wright while he ate his food with one of his farmer friends, this was for her own amusement, but also to ignore the group of teenagers sitting in a booth at the back.

Carol Perkin's laugh reverberated off of the walls of the diner, unforgettably shrill and recognizable. She probably laughed at some shitty joke Tommy made, or at some outfit she recalled that she didn't like, maybe Steve made her laugh, or whatever semi-popular person they decided to drag around that day. Angie's lips pursed at the sound, and she tried her best to ignore it.

A part of her wished she could be sitting with them, the one laughing, or the one telling the joke — that just wasn't feasible. They made their choice. They made it and left her behind to make themselves look good.

It got lonely.

Her first and only friends were the ones she made in Hawkins, so it felt bittersweet for them to abandon her when all she needed was a little bit of support. But if they only stuck around because they had an idea of what she should be in their head, she found the loneliness more tolerable. So she would sit in silence and sketch while she ate sour gummy worms to ignore the grating laughter of her former friends, a feeble attempt to feel better about her situation.

Angie wished she could go to California, she wanted to feel the crashing waves and sun that beat on her pale skin, she wanted to be sunkissed with sand beneath her feet. She thought it might make her feel whole. The cold void in her head would dissipate and she could feel at peace for a little while. She wanted Pete to come with her. And maybe a few friends. She had a lot that she had to get done, so she couldn't focus on what Tommy or Carol thought of her, even if it always sat in her subconscious. Pete said he went to California, he liked it, he had a photo —

"Hell-o!"

The sound of snapping fingers and an exasperated tone startled Angie out of her thoughts and she glanced at the source. Carol. The redhead looked at her with an expectant look, and Angie stood up slowly, her lips forced themselves into a quivering smile as she strode over to the table. "How can I help you?" she asked, Tommy's eyes flitted from her face, to her chest and back again as if he was being slick.

Steve looked embarrassed.

"I don't like this, I think it got messed up," Carol explained and held out her half-finished strawberry milkshake, "and I couldn't see our server, so."

"Um. Yeah, sorry about that. She probably went out for a smoke." She took the milkshake and cursed her coworker for forgetting to give the blonde a heads up. "What was the order? I can just go make you another one." Angie pulled out a notepad from her pack and set the milkshake back down on the table.

Carol's fingers drummed in front of her as she recalled her order, a strawberry milkshake with no whipped cream and extra strawberry. There were no strawberries in the shake. Angie refused to mention it. "You know, we loved your little speech on Friday —"

"Carol," Steve cut her off, his tone made it seem like he tried to warn her.

"I'm just telling her," she snapped back, giving him a glare. The more Angie thought about it, the more she realized she hadn't seen much of Steve around Carol and Tommy, and with that she noticed the uncomfortable tension around the table. "I hope that when he comes back from... whatever kind of year long bender he's on, he'll thank you for it."

If Angelica had a loaded gun, she would use five of the bullets on Carol, and then the last one on herself.

Her jaw trembled as she bit her tongue to keep her customer service smile from faltering, because she feared that if it did, a spew of the worst things she could imagine would come up with would spill out of her mouth. Tommy howled like a hyena, and Carol's shit eating grin made her see red, she wanted her to feel how she felt. Physically and mentally. She wanted to stomp on her head until she couldn't grin any longer.

Instead, she took her milkshake in silence, and retreated to the bar to remake the sweet drink. She longed to pour it all over her and scream, just scream the worst profanities at her, and then cry — she could cry for hours if she wanted to, every mean word felt like a punch to the gut and every insult made her feel as if she could explode. Angie tried to ignore Carol's amused giggles as she dumped the remnants of the milkshake into the sink and started a new one.

Angie wasn't a violent person, or she thought. She would never act out her thoughts, and she always became disgusted with them when she thought about them a second time. She almost felt bad for thinking about them; she didn't want to hurt anyone.

She just wished someone would understand.

No one understood her. How could they? Half of the time, she barely understood herself.

The anger subsided and the sadness set in. She regretted ever being friends with Tommy, or Carol, and any instance where she'd been vulnerable with or around them. Angie didn't comprehend what made her so much different now than before Pete went missing. Carol used to help her do her hair, and Tommy drove her to the hospital without a license when she broke her arm. And then Steve.

Steve was still himself, she thought. Just one hundred thousand miles away from her now, mentally — like they were on two different islands. She couldn't find the voice to speak to him, at least the things she felt like she had to say, and he was too busy with basketball and swimming, or Nancy, or something else to talk to her. He probably didn't want to be seen with Angie; she couldn't blame him. How could she? He was kind at his core. Sometimes she hated him for it, but at the end of the day, she got why he wouldn't want to be near her. Or why he grew uncomfortable whenever they spoke.

She filled the shake glass and stared into it, tempted to spit into the thick liquid and stir it in.

"I won't tell if you do... I mean, I'm guessing you're thinking about spitting in it." A voice from behind her knocked her out of her trance of thought. Steve's voice.

Angie sucked in a breath and mustered up a half-hearted chuckle, "Could you blame me?"

"No... not really," he laughed and shook his head. She feared it was forced so the conversation could remain lighthearted. "Tommy and Carol ditched, so I just wanted the bill. I can take the milkshake, I mean, if you didn't already spit in it."

"Oh...um, just pay your part. I can add it onto their parent's tab, I guess." She sighed and set down the milkshake on the counter so she had her hands free to type up a receipt for him. Her fingers hit the keys clumsily and she struggled to ignore Steve as he sat down across from her, where her sketchbook and package of nearly empty sour gummy worms laid out.

"Don't bother," Steve languished quietly and reached for the milkshake after he put a 20 into the tip jar, Andrew Jackson stared blankly back at her through the glass as she gaped. "It's like, 5 dollars extra, I can deal with it."

Angie nodded and cleared her throat quietly as an awkward silence fell over both of them. Never the adverse typer, she felt almost embarrassed to have him watch her attempt to write something up as fast as she could, because she moved like a slug. At least he looked to be preoccupied with his shake. "Um..."

"So..." he followed up, pushing the thickness around in his glass with his straw, "I'm sorry. I didn't know they were going to do that, I thought she was just going to try to get another free shake or something. I- I liked your speech... I wasn't like, there, but I heard from Nance that it was good.  And if she liked it, then it was definitely good... not that I didn't want to go or anything, I just, it's—"

"It's fine, Steve."

He made it really hard for Angie to keep her distance. If he got too close, he would leave again.

"Oh, good." She watched his doe eyes widen and his mouth fall into a small 'O' shape, then he flicked his gaze downwards onto his shake. Steve struggled to find the footing to talk to her. Had she become that unapproachable? Not that she was surprised. But bubbly, charming Steve, who she thought could talk to anybody, had trouble speaking to her.

Angie's brows furrowed and she nodded slowly as she grabbed a rag to wash out Carol's dirty glass. She tried to shake the dejected feeling from her shoulders.

"Oh, man," Steve started, and she just barely glanced over her shoulder to look at him from the sink, "You're really good. You've always been good, but, man. It looks just like Merrill." He leaned over the counter to look at her open sketchbook.

She blushed and shook her head, thankful that she preoccupied herself with cleaning before he said that. "Thanks... it just comes easy. Um, my paintings are better... I don't get to do it a lot — but you know how Montoya is about the amount of paint he gives us."

"He's a stickler for anything that comes in a bottle, I guess, have you seen that man's hair?" he chuckled, "it hasn't seen enough shampoo since the 60s."

"It gleams under the lights — I basically need sunglasses," Angie giggled back and spun around to face him as she dried her hands.

Steve smiled at her, and the blonde cleared her throat and shut her sketchboard. Her stomach twinged with an odd feeling between nausea and nostalgia, and his smile faltered, something inside of her screamed for her to say something to him. Anything. But he beat her to it.

"I missed that, Ange — us. I miss things being good, you know? I'm sorry —"

"Steve," she cut him off, apprehensive, "I can't... not right now. I can't do this right now." The look he gave her felt worse than what she imagined someone ripping her beating heart out of her body felt like. Just an absolutely, gut-wrenchingly, agonizingly sad look that reminded her of a kicked dog. Angie paused, and she opened her mouth, closed it again, then spoke, "I can't talk about this right now."

His hands found themselves in his perfectly set hair as he blew out some air. "O-Okay. So when?"

"Um, I dunno... I mean, I'm on the clock right now." Smooth attempt at procrastination, Angie. Smooth.

"Tomorrow," he said. And she remembered how impatient he was. "Tomorrow after school. No... no, Tuesday."

Angie sighed shakily, and she nodded as if her head were made of steel. "Okay. I'll just like, wait by my car, or like, yeah. I dunno."

"See you then." He laid some money out on the counter and stood up, then stopped at the door and glanced back at her, "Don't get cold feet, okay?"

She gave him a half nod, and by the time her head was back up to it's normal level, he had disappeared with the ring of the doorbell. "No promises," Angie whispered, and she wondered how many excuses she could make to avoid that conversation.

———
— AUTHOR'S NOTE

they're so GREWAAAAAA
i love heteros i wish they were
real fr

next chapter you see a bit of
raymond and the chaoter after
that i introduce gen 😈 get
ready or perish. also sorry
not sorry for the long ass
chapters LMAOOO i write
like an animal once i get
going

PRETTY SICK!
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