I can't wait until tomorrow...
El would been lying if she said she'd been able to think about anything else all morning.
Granted, she's only been awake for like twenty minutes but that's beside the point. Her phone's still on the nightstand where she'd plugged it in last night, the cable stretching as she tossed and turned in bed. She'd spent most of the night with the bright screen blaring in her face, hidden beneath her duvet with a grin on her face, night mode activated but the constant message alerts keeping her awake well into the early hours of the morning.
It's probably not healthy to delay sleep just so you can reply to a message that's still gonna be there when you wake up, but she hadn't been able to help herself.
He'd been going through some stuff last night, and she knows that even if he hadn't of told her, she would have figured it out by the background noises of his voice memo. It'd been too late for him to actually call her, to really vent the way she knew he needed to — her dad was a light sleeper, and El's voice tended to be louder than usual whenever she spoke on the phone.
So, instead they'd opted for text messaging. It wasn't her favorite means of communication, but it definitely served its purpose when she wanted to talk to him and voice calls were out of the question.
It had started off as a simple enough conversation. El had lent him an ear — or a hand, rather — and he'd voiced all of his concerns: school, his future, his parents' marriage that was heading toward doomsville, and them.
She'd played the role of the good girlfriend: reading, re-reading, replying with everything he could ever want to hear read. She likes helping him, comforting him. They've known each other for years, and she likes to think she knows him like the back of her hand.
She'd been halfway through thinking of something funny to tell him, something cute to distract him with, when her own phone had buzzed, signalling an incoming text.
God, I want to see you right now.
She'd sent him a picture in response, a week-old black and white selfie that she'd cropped her step-brother out of. El had blushed, typed a short This should hold you over, before hitting send.
And then…
Can I hold you instead?
A pause, then,
Or kiss you. Both work for me.
El hadn't been able to stop herself from giggling (bashfully, to herself) at that, and she'd flipped over in bed to lie on her back, neck pressing into her pillows with a satisfied sigh. Dream of it, then.
Of kissing you?
Gulp. Whatever you want.
He'd taken longer to reply after that, long enough to make El think that maybe he'd fallen asleep. But his response came two minutes later, I can't wait until tomorrow… and she'd smiled herself to sleep after sending her reply.
Throwing open her bedroom door now, and quickly unplugging her phone from its charger, El tries to push the message to the back of her mind. It doesn't budge, and El is reminded that even though she's going to see him today — probably wearing her favorite knit because it's a Tuesday and Tuesdays are 'sweater days' in his household — things won't go the way she wants them to.
She won't get to hold his hand, and she won't be able to kiss him whenever she wants. They agreed some time ago, back when they were still trying to figure out what they were to one another, that they'd keep their relationship hidden at school.
It's not even like they run in separate social circles — they have the same close knit group of friends, the same feelings of indifference towards the more 'popular' kids, and more than half of the same classes.
(She just doesn't wanna ruin it.)
"Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed or something?"
She's barely made it down the stairs for breakfast and already there's two sets of eyes on her.
Will, her step-brother with the hipster bowlcut and a weak almost-prepubescent moustache, is the one who asked the question. He's sat at the far end of the dining table, a fork in one hand — a crisp, burnt, heavily salted piece of bacon hanging off of it — and his phone in the other. He's no even looking at El though. No, instead his attention is solely set on his phone screen, and his eyes are shifting from left to right with a quickness that makes El think he's just pretending to read.
El can't help but pull a face, dropping her backpack down into one of the chairs as she pulls another out.
Okay, so she's not exactly dressed the way most seventeen year old girls do. Her brown corduroy overalls are a size too big, and the side buttons are kind of loose from where she fastens them up too quickly. One strap is pulled tighter than the other, but she's fine with it because her right breast is a tad bigger than her left so she thinks it evens her out, gives her some strange sense of balance. And, because her straps are differing, the long-sleeved coral-colored top she's wearing as a base is nicely tight on her frame, though the way it's tucked into the bottoms is sort of off.
And, sure, her socks are pulled up to mismatching heights — one to her ankle and one midway up her left calf — but at least they match. They're cream with stripes of red around the tops, (accidentally?) matching the rubber lining of her scuffed-up were-once-white high-tops. Her hair, still just passed shoulder-length and wavy no matter how many products she applies to try and straighten it out, is pulled into two low pigtails with uneven pieces of ribbon, long fringe curling around her eyebrows and framing her face.
Just because she looks off doesn't mean she's actually off her game, she thinks with a frown.
(What the hell is Will even talking about? She's fine!)
(She was just up half the night texting him, is all. Maybe she can blame her fatigue on the dozens of heart emojis exchanged within a matter of minutes...)
El plops onto the cushioned stool at the head of the table, elbows resting on the worn edge. She pouts, just briefly, "Why do you ask?"
At that, her step-brother looks up, all wide-eyed and nonchalant. He shrugs, quickly going back to looking at his phone, "You're just usually down here before I am."
She can see her dad nodding out of the corner of her eye; he's sat beside Will with yesterday's Hawkins Post held up in front of his face.
Jim Hopper, local chief of police chief and (step-)father of three, is the literal worst — but not in a bad way, mind. He's got a buttered piece of toast hanging from past his lips, crumbs and grease galore, and the hand that isn't holding up the corner of his paper is scratching at his beard.
"I didn't sleep much." El says then, and she hopes that nobody notices the way her voices hitches, almost catches. Suddenly, and before she can scan the room, her stepmom's emerging from the kitchen, towel over her shoulder and Post-It name tag barely sticking to the front pocket of her shirt as she slides a plate of red apple slices in front of the teen.
She mumbles something below her breath, and then she's wrapping an arm around El's shoulders, "Are you feeling alright, sweetie?" The woman frowns, and her thin brows dip into the top of her nose. "I hope you're not coming down with anything."
Joyce Byers is something of a worrier. She's kind, pleasant, easy on the eyes. Her hairs are greying at the roots, and her mouth is cornered with aged parentheses. But her eyes are still bright and youthful, and while her voice is groggy from years of smoking cigarettes of the stronger breed, she's far from being past her prime.
El thinks it's cute how she and Hopper had known each other in their youth. They'd 'dated' — or something akin to — back in high school, before adulthood and adulting had taken over and they'd settled down, grown up, and started their respective families.
Joyce had married her actual high school sweetheart, her sons' biological dad, sometime shortly after graduation. Rumor was that she'd gotten knocked up over finals and Lonnie Byers had seen no other option than to 'marry the poor girl'. Joyce had never confirmed nor denied the story, but El thinks that she's still young enough to have had her first child at around nineteen.
They'd had Jonathan — El's other step-brother who's off in New York, a freelance photographer of his own making — right after the wedding, and some three years later Will Byers had been born into Hawkins. It wasn't long after their youngest's third birthday that things started to go iwry.
Lonnie started showing up late for work, or he avoided work all together. He blamed it on his family, told people how stressed out he was now that he had two kids and a mortgage that was never gonna be paid off. He didn't come home some nights, and his idea of lending his wife a hand was to offer her sex or suggest they hire a cheap babysitter to look after their 'brats'. But the final straw came when he took to giving his eldest son semi-weekly beatings because he refused to, quote, 'hit a measly woman' and he needed a punching bag. Joyce hadn't been so measly when she'd packed a bag full of his belongings, changed the locks on the doors and quite literally shoved him out of the house. He hasn't been seen in town since. It was fourteen years ago.
Hopper and his story were something else entirely. He'd skipped town right after high school graduation and, up until the moment he came back to Hawkins with an eleven year old daughter, nobody really knew what happened during those fateful years. El does though, at least to some extent.
Jim Hopper had met his first wife, now some swanky real estate agent named Diane, in Chicago. They'd gotten married fairly quickly. But within that first year of marriage, they'd suffered a miscarriage and a burglary, and Hopper had resorted to booze and prescription pain meds to deal with his wife's pain. Diane hadn't been communicative for much of the rest of that year, choosing to work instead of talk and, when it had become clear that their relationship was beyond repair — and that Hopper had started sleeping with some other woman on the sly — Diane had filed for divorce and cited 'irreconcilable differences'.
The other woman just so happened to be El's own mother. Terry Ives, once a bartender and now a body resting in the ground, had once been something of a comfort blanket to Hopper. She'd served him, serviced him, and then showed on his doorstep with a positive pregnancy test and a cheap bottle of vodka.
El doesn't really know much about the rest of that story; Hopper tends to blur out additional details every time he retells the tale, but she knows that her dad had at least liked the woman, and he only has nice things to say about her.
Terry Ives had died in childbirth, after suffering some kind of internal bleed, a hemorrhage El couldn't explain if her own life depended on it. She'd previously suggested they call the baby Jane, after her grandmother, and Hopper hadn't seen fit to give the baby girl any other name after her mother's death. It was only fitting that she retain some part of her, even if she never got the chance to meet her, know her.
(Hop says she looks like her sometimes; under a certain light, her nose and eyes… El thinks he's just humoring himself because she's seen pictures of Terry Ives and she doesn't see it: the resemblance, the cause of the smile on her dad's face when he's recounting a memory El never never lived.)
Jane Eleanor Ives Hopper is her name, but she goes by El to those who know her best, those who love her.
One of those people being Joyce. She and Hopper had started (secretly) dating some years back, back when El and Will were still in the midst of early adolescence and their parents thought they were being smart by hiding their relationship.
(And they'd done it, too; managed to keep their newfound romance a secret for a few months. Well, right up until Steve Harrington — once a glorified high school stud with a reputation and now a hotshot deputy sheriff who liked to flash his badge — had found them making out in the alley behind a bar downtown. And he'd told Dustin… who told Lucas… who told Mike… who had been ambushed and forced into telling El and Will.)
Joyce Byers is total sweetheart, and El loves her. But, right now the woman has a hand pressed up against El's forehead and she's humming and 'tut'ing, and the girl just physically cannot.
Gently wrapping her hand around Joyce's wrist to pull the woman off of her, El furrows her brows, "I'm fine." She waits until Joyce is crossing over her arms over her chest, almost disbelievingly, before continuing, "Really. I was just up late." She tries for a smile, crooked and sheepish, "I'm fine, I promise."
Her hands drop to her lap then, and she pulls on the hem of her short overalls, a loose thread in the corduroy catching her attention. El yanks on the stray thread, wrapping it around her finger so as to pull it from its place. But it doesn't tear, instead just riding up the leg of her shorts, widening the rip.
"Shit."
Her dad clears his throat at that, and he licks the tips of his fingers before turning the page of his newspaper, shooting her a glance over the top of the page. Hopper shakes his head, eyes rolling. El forces a smile.
"Why were you up late, El?" Will reaches across the table for a piece of apple then, plucking one from the plate with a click of his tongue. He stares at his sister with a blank expression, but she can read him.
Damn him and that stupid buttoned-up-to-his-Adam's-apple shirt and the parka she knows he's gonna slip on as soon as they leave the house. El kind of misses the days when he wasn't so involved with the art kids, so dressy. Granted, he's always been gifted and it made total sense that he spend time with others like him; the weirdos who graffiti dumpsters and decorate bland bathroom stalls with pretty, nitty, gritty artwork and anonymously-sourced quotes from the web.
The so-called 'art freaks' of Hawkins High were 90's grunge addicts who preferred ripped jeans to chinos, and Will himself had always — at least as long as El has known him — had a preference for plaid shirts with holes in the cuffs. But then one day he'd befriended another creative type: Brett. Six-foot-two, stylish as all hell, and a total throwback dreamboat. He kept his (blonde, almost brown) hair in check, always seemed to have some kind glitter and/or Sharpie on his hands, and he was the kind of senior who joined yearbook committee just for fun. That didn't mean he was popular though. He just tended to float back and forth between cliques, making friendly with the preps and the potheads and the rest of the student body.
Will hasn't confirmed it yet, but El's pretty sure they're dating. Or, at the very least, they're close to dating. There's a reason Brett always spends longer hugging Will than he does anybody else. And there's a reason her stepbrother blushes whenever the guys in close-proximity.
Coming back to reality, El blinks. "No particular reason." She plays it cool, nonchalant, and she slouches back in her seat, reaching for a slice of fruit. It's sour to the taste, and the juice slides down her chin. She wipes it away with the pad of her thumb, mock-scowling in Will's direction.
The corners of his mouth purse, and he turns to face his stepdad with a knowing look in his eye. Will whispers, holding up a hand as though it'll mask his words from her view, "I think she was sexting."
"Sex-" Hopper's paper is lowered then, and his eyes are bullets aiming straight for El's forehead. "What's sexting?"
El's lips part in surprise, and she can't help the small gasp that escapes at Will's insinuation, "Not what I was doing."
"It's texting," Will explains, nodding, "but sexier."
"Shut up!" El picks up another piece of apple then, and she launches it across the table, straight at Will's face. It misses though, and the slice of fruit lands on the wooden floor with a gentle 'plop'. Joyce just mutters something before heading back into the kitchen. Hopper's still staring. Will's proud of himself and El is out for blood.
(Will knows, and it's totally fine that he knows, but he promised that he wouldn't tell.)
"Who were you sexy texting?"
Groaning, El's head slips even lower until her forehead connects with the hard table, and she curses below her breath, cheeks flushing in partial embarrassment. "Can you not say that ever again, please? Oh, my God."
"Fine," her dad huffs, "Who do I need to threaten?"
"No one!" Suddenly, she's lifting her head, sliding her forearms along the old oak until her hands are cupping her cheeks. She mumbles through gritted teeth, eyes zeroing in on her brother's shit-eating grin. "Nobody. I wasn't sexting anybody."
"Should I believe you?"
"I don't know. Should you be asking me that, as a parent?" The brunette quips, "You tell me."
"Let's say I believe you," the chief starts, and he runs a finger along his beard, pinching its length as his eyes narrow, shifting back and forth between the two teens, "I'm not gonna find some wannabe Romeo climbing up my drainpipe trying to get into your room at two in the morning, am I?"
"No."
"You swear?"
"Promise."
"Will?" Hopper eyes the boy then, tilting his head as he picks the Post past up from off of the table. He flips it open to resume his reading, moustache almost curling in consideration. "Should I believe her?"
"I don't see why not," Will reasons, and he's anything but gleeful now. He knows El's gonna have him for this. "She's not exactly hot property."
"Say what now?"
The newspaper's lowered again.
"You promised you wouldn't tell!"
Will grimaces, stroking his bicep when she's just smacked him. It doesn't hurt, not really. His lips pop as he parts them to reply, "And I didn't!" he sighs, "I was just trying to speed the process along."
"By telling dad?"
"By telling someone!" Will argues back.
(He can only keep a secret for so long. And it's proving to be ever-difficult when his friends don't even try that hard to keep it themselves.)
Beside him, El just folds her arms over her chest, and her shoulders raise as they make their way through the front entrance of the school. The main hallway is packed with loud, speed-walking, nervous kids, and there's a group of cheerleaders congregated by the water fountain, giggling and gossiping and gushing over Troy Harrington, captain of the football team. He's totally living his cousin's shadow; trying to be the player, the playboy and the charmer all at once. It's just a shame he lacks Steve's charisma.
Even though they're cousins, El fails to see any similarities between the two. Where Steve Harrington, grown adult that he is now, is mostly kind and a total lady's man, his younger cousin isn't so fortunate. Troy's idea of flirting is tapping a poor girl's ass and telling them to call him. El knows this because, while she herself hasn't yet had the misfortune of interacting with the jock in such a manor, her best friend has had to deal with him on a number of occasions… that was until he'd pinched her ass for third time and she'd punched him square in the jaw.
At the memory, El grins to herself, head duckingas she finally stops in front of her locker. A good third of the football team are only a few feet away, and when her locker's flung open and she's rifling through her books for the morning, El can feel a pair of eyes on her. They're not Will's; he's leaning up against the locker next to her's, rambling on about a history test he has in the afternoon. And they aren't his — she knows this because his car wasn't parked out front, nor was the bike he sometimes opts to use instead, and she would just know if it was him.
So, turning her head and pretending to listen to her brother's rant, El watches in shock, eyebrows quirking, as one of them of the players winks at her.
The self-professed right-hand-man of the team captain, James Parker. He's got an arm bent crooked, jacket-clas elbow resting against the poster-splattered memo board with a smirk on his face. She's not ignorant to the way he scans her up and down, eyes stopping on her legs and running his tongue over his lisp.
El scowls, shudders.
(Literally, what the fu-)
"El!"
There's a pair of hands clamping down on her shoulders then, applying pressure on her petite frame. Her best friend, Max Mayfield, is stood behind her with a wide smile on her face and a joyfulness to her voice.
(She hasn't looked this happy since she punched Troy and everyone cheered her on.)
"I need to talk to you." Max tells her, and El finally breaks all eye contact with the jock so she can face her friend then. Max's hands lift off of the brunette, and she runs them through her own red locks. She's wearing her hair down today, but there's a scrunchie on her wrist that El knows she'll use if her boyfriend pulls her away to make out during lunch. It's navy and littered with stars, and El can't help but think of his freckles.
"You guys didn't break up again, did you?" It's Will that asks the question, and Max turns to him with an eye roll.
Her blue eyes widen then, all bright and content, "Would I look this happy if we did?" She raises her shoulders to reiterate her point, shrugging. "No, but seriously, we need to talk later." Max eyes the other girl now, "Make time for me at lunch."
El smiles, nodding, "Okay. I'll try and work you into my schedule." She jokes, snorting at herself.
"You know what I mean." Max just wiggles her brows suggestively, and she pulls at the scrunchie on her wrist, letting it snap back into place with a final breath.
The somber blue matches the frayed, ripped jeans she's got on. Her ivory knees, bare beneath the denim, contrast with the cropped black hoodie she's wearing under her yellow parka, and the whites ankle socks she's wearing with her Vans are practically shredding at the tops. "I've gotta run." Max lays a hand on El's arm, softer this time, "I'll see you later?"
Nodding, the brunette just smiles, ever eager to please. "Yeah." Her smile broadens, teeth-baring, and then her best friend is whipping back around, a skip in her step, and heading down whence she came.
"What do you think she wants to talk to you about?" Will voices, and he nudges El's side with a curious look on his face.
Pulling a couple of books from her locker, and spending just a moment longer staring at the stickers and photos she's adorned the interior with, El slams the metal door shut with a shrug. She licks her lips, seeking moisture before continuing, "I have no idea." She back into the main walkway then, waiting for her brother to catch up before starting off.
Will quickly pushes up from the locker, and he adjusts the strap of his overstuffed satchel as he skids along the tiles to reach her. "Maybe she told."
"She would never." El eyes him then, a teasing smirk on her lips, "Max would never betray me like that."
"You're being really dramatic, you know." Will tells her, shaking his head dismissively. "Nobody's gonna care you're dating a nerd."
(And she knows what he means — it's not like she's popular or anything. Really, who would care if she started holding his hand and letting him kiss her in the hallway? Why would anyone give a crap if two people, who don't rank higher than a grade three on the high school food chain, came out with their relationship? Literally nobody.)
"That's not the point." El counters back, and she looks up from the ground to find them arriving in front of homeroom. "Everybody is in everybody's business at this school." She pulls her books tight against her chest then, voice lowering as she whispers, "I just don't want everybody in my business."
"El... and I say this as nicely as I possibly can," Will starts, lifting a hand to the crook of her arm to stop her in her tracks. He glances around at first, eyeing the multitude of students around them. Nobody seems bored or to pay them any mind, so he continues, "There are more interesting things going on at this school than your love life." Will pauses, and he tugs at the fringe falling in his face then, forehead creasing as he adds as an afterthought, "Than any of our love lives."
There's a awkward silence, filled only with raucous coming from inside the classroom and El's laboured breathing. "Still," she says after a beat, hazel eyes amber as she breathes, "It's my relationship."
"OK." Her step-brother holds up his hands defensively, seemingly backing off. Will smiles, kind and understanding again, "I'm sorry."
El sighs in content then, and she plucks his phone from his front pocket when it looks like it's going to fall. She passes it to him, blinks, "I'm sorry, too."
Will's eyebrows raise up almost to his hairline. He peers down at her, at a total loss, "Wait, what are you apologizing for?"
The girl simply bats her eyelashes, an innocent smile on her face as a smirk forms, "For letting you leave the house in that outfit."
Max skipped out on lunch after all, which meant that El had been left alone with Dustin and Will for the second time that week.
Mike was off fixing something for a sub teacher, and he'd been more than happy to spend his break indoors. He'd claimed to have developed a chill in his back from an outdoor swim meet last weekend, but El was smart enough to now he'd been lying; he just wasn't up for playing another round of twenty questions with Will.
Lucas had rushed over to their usual table, shirt untucked from his jeans and belt halfway undone, and he'd offered a simple, "I've gotta head home and collect something. See you later." Claiming forgetfulness would only have worked if Will hadn't seen him — and Max! — in his car some ten minutes later, a sneaker sole pressed up against the passenger side window and the radio blasting.
Lunch eaten, El and the two remaining boys had decided to spend the rest of their time out on the outdoor bleachers. The track had been mostly empty during break, aside from a few strays either practicing or working out, so they'd spent the last ten minutes taking shit about Stacey and her goons. But then lunch period ended, Will had to rush off to class, and so El was sat alone with Dustin watching as the cheer squad rehearsed out in the open, Stacey and co right in the middle of a patchy spot of grass.
It's only when the cheer captain herself is on top of the pyramid, arms flying into the air, that Dustin turns to her and breaks the silence.
"Awesome." He huffs out, chest heaving just once as he leans back against the top bleacher, pressing up on bent forearms,"What does that even mean?"
El's gaze narrows in on the boy then, taking in his unruly head of hair and the dazed look on his face. "Is that serious question, or-"
"Yes. Yes, it's serious." Dustin confirms. He shakes his head, eyes shifting from the group of girls on the field to his girl friend. "Awesome." He speaks the word, deliberately separating the syllables to highlight his point, "Like, what, it inspires some awe but not a whole lot?"
He turns around before she can answer him then, head resting back against El's crossed legs, her bare knee cap pressing into the back of his head.
"Such bullshit." The boy mutters, mostly to himself.
El still doesn't know what to say to him, to answer, so she settles for patting his head amicably and smiling down at him. After a beat, she says, "I think you're aweplenty."
Dustin snorts at that, but she knows he doesn't mean it in a cruel fashion. He simply flashes her his best smile — now that his teeth have properly come in and he's at ease with grinning. "Thanks, El."
He kicks his legs out in front of him then, stretching out on the bench as he settles in next to his friend. His hand clasp over his abdomen thoughtfully as though he's plotting something masterful. His bright yellow hoodie is hanging open at the sides, almost flapping over onto the seat below, and the white t-shirt he'd been wearing beneath it has a pizza stain on the pocket. El grins, poking him in the forehead. Dustin bats her hand away with a chuckle and a 'hey!'.
"There you are!"
Suddenly, El's gaze is pulled away from the boy practically curled up into her side to the one quickly making his way up the bleachers. He takes long strides, rubber soles squeaking as he makes to straddle the bench below the pair. Mike pulls the overhanging part of Dustin's hoodie into his lap, toying with the zipper in his fingers.
"I've been looking everywhere for you."
It's directed at El more than anything and she knows it.
"Well, congratulations, Wheeler. You finally found us." Dustin holds up a hand for Mike to high-five in triumph. The taller boy just rolls his eyes and complies.
Daring a look at her boyfriend's face, El's breath catches in her throat. Jesus, he's cute. Tuesday didn't fail her, and he's totally wearing that sweater. It's cream with rows of green and it's marvelously, perfectly wonderful, El reflects. He got it as a gift from his aunt last Christmas, when he was down in Florida with the rest of his immediate family.
El only knows this because one day they'd been hanging out in his basement, with Mike helping her write an English paper. Wanting to get a little closer to him, she'd said something about feeling cold, hoping maybe he'd offer her a hug or more. But instead, he'd lent her the knit thrown over the arm of the sofa. He'd been wearing it all day so it definitely smelled of him and, naturally, she wasn't opposed to the idea.
(It's totally her favorite sweater now.)
He's wearing dark grey jeans that perfectly contrast with the lighter brown tone of her own dungarees, and his black Chuck Taylors look like they've seen better days. He slides his hands so casually in his back pockets as he sits that his shoulders hunch forward and El just wants to touch him, right where an inch of his neck is exposed.
The collar of the green shirt is pulled up, lazily tucking over the neckline of his sweater. El kind of wants to reach out and straighten it. But she refrains, instead choosing to keep her hands in her lap, fidgeting as she looks him over, staring.
Mike Wheeler isn't the most conventionally attractive person. He's tall and lanky, beanpole-like in a way that teenage girls generally don't want. He's got brown eyes, dark hair that desperately needs brushing and pale skin; meaning he's naturally emo-looking without actually being withdrawn from society. He's all sharp cheekbones and plump rose lips, long nose, and freckles aplenty.
(She thinks he's perfect. For her, at least.)
Mike cocks his head to the side then, fingertips slipping past his hairline as he turns to face the petite girl across from him, seemingly oblivious to her daydreaming.
"Hi." He says, and El is putty.
She tries to stop the corners of her lips from curling up and forming a sly, shy smile. But her efforts prove futile, and she's blushing under his gaze with cherry blossom tinted cheeks. Suddenly their conversation from last night is brought back to the forefront of her brain and she's imagining kissing him, holding him.
(Whatever you want.)
It's stupid, really. She could if she wanted to, and she can… she just doesn't want to fuel a rumor mill that survives on 'who's who' and 'who's doing who', and for word-of-mouth around the senior student body to be 'those two AV nerds were getting hot and heavy at during free period'.
"Hi." The brunette licks her lips, hands smoothing down her thighs, pulling on that same loose thread of corduroy she'd plucked at this morning. She can feel him staring, watching, and she swallows down a loaded breath. "Are we still-"
"Yeah." Mike nods, not even letting her finish her sentence. Mike reaches down for her hand, running his thumb along her knuckles softly. Their hands are in her lap so it's not like anybody can see them from so far away and Dustin already knows, but still. "If you want."
(Of course she wants to. School night or not, the idea of spending her evening in an old car park with Mike, making out, hanging out, with the radio turned down quiet enough so they can hear their own breathing is too tempting to pass up.)
El withdraws her hand after a moment, but she doesn't shove him away. Her fingertips tap along his wrist, his palm facing up. Mike watches in amusement as her fingers dance up and down his arm, only stopping when she nears his watch. Her index finger lingers over the small screen, hovering in the air.
El looks up at him then. Her brows dip and her lashes flutter flirtatiously, "Tonight?"
The boy only smiles, and he nods again with a touch to her elbow, arm sliding back against his ribcage. The lines around Mike's mouth arch, curve around lips that El is desperately longing to touch, kiss.
She so would if Stacey and her minions weren't so close, if the cheerleaders weren't known for their eagle eyes and rumor mill spinning.
Mike is turned back toward Dustin then, and he frowns, "What are you doing?"
"Getting more action with your girlfriend on school grounds than you ever will," comes Dustin's witty reply, and Mike just sighs.
The boy keeps his eyes locked on his friend's face then, despite the fact that the curly-haired boy can't even see him because his own eyes are closed. "Funny."
Dustin smirks, and one clear blue eye winks open to shoot Mike a smug look, "Wasn't a joke."
"Hey, I forgot to ask earlier," Max starts, and she pulls the hem of her t-shirt free from the cup of her bra then, tugging the stripy black material down to her navel. It softly sticks to her body, damp from the shower water she'd managed to flick onto it while drying off.
Having caught up while they were sidelined during a game of softball during last period, Max had filled El in on what had her so happy this morning. Apparently, her mom and step-father had finally filed for divorce, which meant he'd be moving out and Max could go back to living a peaceful life.
Her stepdad, and the son who'd once also lived with them, had come to Hawkins some years back with Max and her mom. The details are a little blurry, but El knows Neil Hargrove hadn't ever been the most pleasant of stepdads towards her friend. Often, Max would stay over at the Byers-Hopper household for fear of 'waking the dragon', as she put it.
"Did you wanna come to The Hawk tonight? Lucas and I are gonna catch that new foreign film."
"Just me and you and your boyfriend?" El asks, and her nose crinkles as she moves to straddle the bench then, reaching down to retrieve her pumps. "Wait- foreign film? Yeah, no. I definitely don't wanna third wheel your planned makeout."
"What are you talking about, you know I love French movies." Max snickers, not even trying to lie.
"Didn't you get enough at lunch? You know you can get diseases if you suck face too much."
"Please, that's like an urban legend of something." Max waves it off.
El quirks a brow, and she pulls on the laces of her first shoe, her wrist curling as she yanks them loose, "Anyway, I think I'll pass."
Rolling her eyes, the redhead leans against her locker, elbow digging into the metal door as her hip pops. "Well, what are you gonna do all night? Watch Netflix with Will and your eleven imaginary cats?" Max raises both brows, eyeing her friend. "Play charades with the chief?" She tugs at the waistband of her jeans, hopping as she readjusts the zipper.
"I have… plans." El shrugs, and suddenly she's ducking her gaze. "With you-know-who."
"Hot plans?"
"Waffle plans."
Max smirks, and she rests a hand on her hip then, "Sounds sexy."
"Oh, it will be." The brunette grins. From her spot, El only smiles up at her friend, and she slips a sock-clad foot into her shoe with ease, "There's gonna be syrup and everything." She jokes, snorting, and she tugs at the sock around her Achilles.
Max picks up her backpack off of the floor, swiping her phone from the side pocket with a grin. "I'm so not jealous right now." She unlocks her phone with one hand, the other making to retrieve the screwed up parka from off of the bench beside El, just as the brunette's phone lights up with a incoming, unread message flashing across the screen.
Max's grin widens then, and she snorts, "Hurry up with that." She nods down toward the phone, wagging a finger, and she gives El a moment to lace-up her second shoe and pick up the glowing device before she says, "You promised me ice cream before we split."
"What are you, five?"
"No. But I'm broke." The redhead slips her jacket over one shoulder, and she rubs the balls of her hands together impatiently. "Come on. You can reply to that later. A girl's gotta eat."
"Energy?"
Max wiggles her brows, "Stamina." She teases, a finger jabbing El in the arm, "And, hey, you know if Mike's car gets too cramped, you can always join us. Though, trust me, I don't anybody ever cleans those back rows."
El shakes her head and she shoos Max out of the doorway with a flick of her hand, unable to help the giddy smile that's threatening to take over her whole face. The redhead only whines, loud and exaggerated, and she leaves the brunette seemingly alone on the bench, half-dressed and half-alert to the world around her.
Unlocking the phone in her hand, El finally pulls up her messages. Her cheeks flutter pink as she reads the new text. She lets the once-looming smile spread across her face as she reads it over, twice for good measure, three times just for fun.
I adore you a waffle lot, Jane Eleanor Ives Hopper.
She's one hundred percent, totally, definitely, unashamedly in love with this idiot.
She sends back a bunch of emojis, her fingers gliding so quickly over the keypad that she almost sends him an eggplant. She deletes that last one, lips pursing as she opts instead for the kissy face.
Satisfied and maybe a tad hungrier than she'd first thought, El places her phone back down on a dry patch of the bench, tucked in beneath the folded up sleeves of her jacket, and she continues getting dressed in a hurry.
By the time she finally makes it out of the door, the flap of her overalls is still hanging open, the bright top beneath them has been hurriedly tucked in, but at least her socks are evenly pulled up this time.
She shoves her belongings back inside her gym locker, forcing the door shut with a groan and a knock of her knee that'll probably leave a bruise later. She grabs her backpack, her old denim jacket, and heads for the exit.
It's just a shame she forgets her phone lying face-down on the bench — still unlocked, the screen reflecting against the varnished wood… It's practically begging to be picked up and read.
So, when a cheerleader comes bounding around the corner some five minutes later — high ponytail in full swing, lips pressing together as she hums some Top 40 pop song below her breath — who's fault is it really when she picks it up?
"Those were the best damn waffles I've ever tasted."
"Better than my mom's?" Mike turns to face the girl, eyebrows raising in amusement. He feigns a gasp when she nods in answer, licking her lips. "I'm offended."
El giggles, and she leans back against the upholstery. She unfolds her legs on the back seat, kicking off her canvas pumps until they drop onto the floor. Wiggling her toes, she continues, "Don't get me wrong, your mom is a great cook," she starts, watching as Mike crumbles up the paper bag in his hands. "I just prefer Waffle House."
With a shake of his head, Mike stuffs the bag into the back of the driver seat. He pinches his nose as he squints, "Um, you know this is treason." He tells her, "Right?"
"What?" The brunette squeaks, wide-eyed. "How is this treason? It's not like I'm insulting your culinary skills."
"No, you're just insulting my mom's." Mike snickers and he shuffles closer to her on the backseat. His shoulder presses into her arm as he slides down, popping upon the button of his jeans. "That's even worse."
"How is that worse?" El asks, and she tosses her head back for all of maybe three seconds until her attention snaps back onto Mike's face when she hears — and then sees — him unzip his pants. "Mike, what are you doing?"
He looks up at her then, and if that look in his eye came from anybody else El would feel under attack. Instead, it just makes her feel warm, heated — and then he smiles. "I'm getting changed."
Frowning, the girl simply watches as her slides his jeans down his legs, kicking off his shoes to pull them off completely. "And what exactly are you changing into?" She gasps, "Is this where you turn into a werewolf and eat me alive? It is past midnight." She places her hand on his shoulder to steady him when he slips from the seat, pant legs still around his ankles.
El giggles, unable to help herself from laughing. Her nose crinkles adorably as she tries to pull him back up. He's all limbs though, and she gives up fairly quickly; instead leaving him on the floor of the car.
"I mean, I don't know about the werewolf bit," Mike starts, and he wiggles his brows suggestively, a soft shade of pink tinting his cheeks. El reaches forward, cupping his face between her hands. His jaw presses into her palms, and the girl has quite literally yank him up to her level in order to kiss him.
"You're such a nerd." She presses her lips against his then, tantalisingly slow and soft, until Mike coaxes her mouth open with his tongue. El trails her hands down his neck, smoothing along his shoulders until she can get a full grasp on his sweater, pulling the thick material into her hands with need, hunger. She weeps into the kiss, some kind of high-pitched moan that escapes when he nips at her bottom lip.
Well aware of the fact that he's basically no longer wearing any pants — and given up on wondering why even though she's pretty sure it has something to do with him spending the night at Lucas' — El shifts back on the seat until she's lying flat. She arches her back as her legs bend, knees digging into Mike's ribcage as he moves to kneel between her legs.
"I wasn't aware you were offering." He whispers, almost huskily as his voice dips, and she knows what he's referring to.
"I'm not." El informs him, grabbing handfuls of his sweater until she can draw him up and on top of her. It's not comfortable — the way he's kind of hovering over her with his forearms pushing into the cushions and her legs wrapping around his torso — but it'll have to do for now. "This would so much easier in a room."
Mike cackles at that, and he drops his head to her chest, nose tickling the cleavage when her overalls are open, bra straps on full display. He plucks at the lacy top, eyes darkening, "I don't think your dad would like me stopping by at this hour."
El hums, something of an agreement, and then she says, "But I would."
"Do I need to send you better texts? Because I can." Mike suggests, and his hair falls against her neck again, making her skin erupt in goosebumps. "I can do that. I can be libidinous."
"Libidinous?" El's breath halts as she inhales deeply, feeling his lips against her naked collarbone, long fingers clawing at her bra straps. Her legs tighten around his waist, drawing him closer, "I don't know what that means but I like how it sounds." She rasps, no longer even trying to hide the need in her voice.
"Um," the boy looks up at her then, and it takes her a moment to take him in. Her breathing is ragged now, sped up by the way his hands keep delicately grazing her body and his mouth keeps kissing her as though she's made of porcelain, "Carnal?"
"That sounds like fun."
"Lascivious."
"I don't believe that's a word." She denies, shaking her pigtails free with a quick flick of her hand. She feels Mike's mouth dance across her shoulder then, "Use it in a sentence."
"He looked at her with a lascivious look in his eye."
"So it's code for horny?"
Mike grins, she can feel it. He presses a fleeting kiss on her chin, eyes closed. "Two guesses as to who I'm talking about."
"I don't need two guesses. I can tell."
"Oh." Mike glances down, and then up. "Gotcha."
El's face just scrunches in amusement, "Orgiastic."
"Okay, no," Mike pushes up on his hands then, and he shakes his head, "that was a mood killer." He plops down onto the floor of the car, leaning back on his elbows. "Jesus."
"Orgiastic was a mood killer but lascivious wasn't?"
"I'm trying to teach you new words here."
"I'm trying to teach you new words here."
"I don't need to be taught new words, Mike." El informs him, pressing a socked foot into his shin, "You can teach me other things."
"Like?"
"I don't know," she pulls down a first strap then, eyeing her lap with pursed lips, "what was it that werewolves did again?" She drops the second strap, "Divulge?"
"Devour." He corrects her, absentmindedly pulling at the hem of his boxers. But then he glances back up, takes in her noticeable bare upper body, and the way his nostrils flare doesn't go unnoticed.
El sighs dreamily, tossing her head back, "That was it. See? I'm learning already."
It's not that he looks hopeful, but he also totally, definitely does. Pushing up onto his knees, Mike's hands slide up her thighs, and he raises both brows in question. "Are you serious?"
"I'll give you two guesses."
This is not how her day was supposed to go.
When she got to school, she was supposed to just find her phone in the girls' locker room where she'd left it yesterday.
What she wasn't supposed to be doing was standing in the middle of a crowded hallway, right in the school entrance, staring at an array of colored flyers plastered on every wall — the words 'JANE ELEANOR IVES HOPPER loves...' written in big, bold, black letters across the top of every page.
But the worst part of it all isn't her name mass-printed all over the school. It's the images pasted below her name; screenshots of a text conversation between her and the contact she'd saved as 'Waffle Boy'.
(Never has she been more proud of herself for having concealed Mike's name.)
She's been standing there for four whole minutes when someone other than Will finally approaches her. They don't laugh, and they don't mock, but they extend an arm out and offer her one of the flyers.
El glances up then, and she recognises the girl as being on the cheer squad. Jennifer Hayes, right-hand to Stacey.
"You're so lucky." Jennifer says, and she tucks strawberry blonde hair back behind her ear with her free hand. "All the girls are jealous."
(Shit. Shit. Shit.)
Unflinching, El lets Will snatch the orange sheet of paper away from the girl. He clears his throat, eyes roaming over the photos slowly. El doesn't even want to know what's on there, which messages are on the orange pages. She's pretty sure the screenshotted texts vary depending on the color paper.
The fact that someone went through so much hassle is just… like… who… why?
"El." Max's voice calls out to her from down the hallway, way past all the colors and stares, and she draws her name out so slowly and lovingly that El almost wants to collapse in her arms. The redhead finally reaches her side then, and she doesn't waste a second before throwing her arms around the girl, pulling her close, "I'm gonna kill them."
"Not if I do it first." Will says as he scans the hallway, clutching the strap of his bag. There's a whole stack of rose pink flyers on a shelf in the trophy cabinet, and Will watches with baited breath as students swipe them up on their way past. "This can't be legal."
Max smoothes a hand down the girl's hair, threading her fingers through her low pigtails. She pulls away then, cupping El's face between her hands. The brunette only stares up at her in silence, eyes glazing over. She doesn't want to cry, to show herself weaker than she is — but someone actually went through all of this just to, what, humiliate her?
"You're stronger than this." Her best friend tells her, nodding her head reassuringly. El forces a smile onto her face, and she rests her hands over Max's, gulping down a loaded breath.
"I can do this." El says finally, and she licks her lips, "I can handle it."
"Exactly." The other girl raises both eyebrows, nose twitching, "You're gonna walk down that hallway, ignore everyone," she waves a hand about the place, gesturing, "and you're gonna let them know that you don't give a shit."
"I do give a shit, though."
Max mumbles, "Don't let them know that." She blinks, smiles through gritted teeth, "You're the chief's daughter. You're my best friend. You've got M-" she pauses, unsure if she should bring him into this when he's yet to be named and shamed.
Will cuts in then, laying a hand on her back, "Us. You've got us."
El nods, "Right."
"Walk down the hallway." Max pushes on her shoulders, walking behind her. She shuffles her backpack further up her arm, urging El forward, "Straight ahead to your locker."
"Collect 200 when you pass Go." Will quips, and he's halfway to a chuckle when Max elbows him in the ribs. "Geez, sorry."
There's a pregnant pause as she walks over to her locker, almost like nobody wants to say or do anything. El can feel most of everyone's eyes on her, either trying to assess her mood or gauge a reaction out of her.
There's a yellow flyer duct taped to the front of her locker door, and her cell phone is sealed in a baggy hanging from the tape.
It's taunting her, reminding her that she left it unsupervised — almost like when you accidentally step on your dog's paw and they give you that look.
With a heavy chest, El rips the tape off of her locker. She quickly unlocks the latch and scrunches the pink paper up in her fist to throw it inside. Reaching into the baggy, she slides her phone out of the bag with a sigh, lips drying as the air around her thickens.
Sensing a presence next to her, El looks up to find Stacey pressed up against the next locker. The girl is about a half-foot taller than El, with slick brown hair and pretty green eyes. She smiles down at the girl, lashes fluttering almost condescendingly. She crosses her legs at the knees, kicking them out straight as her sneakers squeak.
"We're not trying to bully you, you know." She says, and El is just about ready to pull her perfect hair out of her head. "We're just curious."
"About what?"
"How you scored such a hottie."
El's eyes almost bulge out of her head then. "A what?"
Stacey just rolls her eyes and she presses a hand flat against the locker, eyeing El's phone. "I mean, he's gotta be, right. No one has that kinda game if they're ugly."
"You don't even know him."
"Well, no."
She gets it then, what Stacey and company are plotting.
"But you want to?" The petite girl quirks a brow, and she turns so her whole body is facing the cheer captain. "You want to find out who I'm dating?"
"Obviously."
El doesn't know why, and she doesn't understand how anybody could ever be so bored as to start a game of 'Guess Who?'. Maybe the rumor mill has run dry, maybe there's no gossip to keep the high school food chain well fed.
"Who is it?" Stacey purses her lips, but there's something in her eyes that lets El she doesn't really care — she just wants to be in the know. "Is it Troy? He'd do anything to get with a freaky-"
With a smirk, El slams her locker shut. She doesn't need any books for her first class, and all she really wanted was her phone.
(All she really needs is Mike.)
"I guess you're gonna have to figure it out."
Jennifer's words come back to her then, and El whips back around to face her two closest friends. Will looks proud, Max looks ready to punch someone in the face again.
Behind them, she can see Mike off in the distance, just past the main entrance. Dustin and Lucas are behind him, oblivious as they bicker about something trivial. But Mike — his face says it all. He's seen the posters and he's seen what's on them, and he's staring straight at her with surprise clear on his face. His Adam's apple bobs and his brows dip between his eyes, unsure.
And so, before he can approach her, and before anybody can clock who she's looking at, El shakes her head. Her lips are pulled thin, her hazel eyes blown wide. Almost furiously, she continues to shake her head until he gets it.
(Don't comfort me. Don't hug me. Don't kiss me. Don't tell them.)
Mike just nods, and he breaks eye contact after a beat. When he does, Lucas wraps an arm around his shoulders and whispers something in his ear to which Mike shakes his head. His hands slip into his back pockets, and he bites his lower lip.
El reaches for Max's hand then, and she pulls the girl into a close embrace. She brushes her red hair out of the way as her eyes fall on her brother's face. He reads her lips as she whispers, "Don't tell anybody."
Will nods, and Max smiles once they've pulled away. She clutches El's arms in her hands, fingers digging into the brunette's biceps. "We've got your back."
Stacey has cleared off by the time they break away, and next to nobody seems to be paying attention anymore. But people are still picking up the papers, and they're still reading them with shocked faces and unavoidable gasps.
"Did you read them?"
Max shrugs, "Some." She quirks a brow in explanation, and her eyes search for El's when the girl zones out again. "I had to gauge the situation before I beat the shit out of everyone."
"And?"
"They're," the redhead stills, taking a second to chose her words carefully, "They're something."
El sighs, "Right."
She thinks back on the last text she'd sent him just before she fell asleep. It's not like it's crude or anything, it's just… She probably could have sent him something less suggestive.
I'll make it worth your while, I promise.
"Son of a bitch!" is the last thing she hears before she slips into her first class of the day, all eyes on her flushed face as soon she appears in the doorway.
Every single person seems to look up from their phones then, and just as one of the jocks in the back of the room holds up his phone like he's going to show her something — and it just so happens to be James with a shit eating smirk on his face — El's own phone beeps. And then Will's goes off, and Max's vibrates, and suddenly the whole hallway is buzzing.
It's an incoming text forwarded to the whole senior grade, but the only thing in the body is a link. El quickly clicks on it, waiting as a blue and white webpage slowly starts loading on her screen.
It's the seniors' Facebook group, and the latest post is just a picture of El's face. But the little arrows and the rapidly growing comments section let El know that everything else is on there now, too.
"Guess you are hot shit." Will whispers as he lowers his phone, leaning forward so only El can hear him. But somebody grumbles something below their breath and Will yelps, rubbing at his arm where he's been pinched.
El whips back around then, and Mike is closer than she expected him to be. He's not within view of the class, and the hallway has cleared out at this point. His phone is almost falling from his fingertips, a unzipped black hoodie hanging from his frame that makes El just want to hold him — but he has a smile on his face, and he looks... amused.
"Mike."
"Jane Eleanor," he wiggles a brow, smile widening into a smirk, "Who's Waffle Boy?"