His mom is on the phone.

Nothing earth-shattering there, she's on the phone for at least an hour a day. Probably more, only he's not there to see it. The phone rang just a couple of minutes ago, right when he got home, so she'll be busy for awhile. Too busy to ask him about his day.

So he doesn't give it a second thought as he opens the fridge. He's only a little hungry, but opening the fridge after school is just part of his routine. He's contemplating last night's ham when he feels an odd prickling on the back of his neck. It's a sensation that almost everyone is familiar with, the feeling that someone is watching. And possibly pissed off. He pauses with the Pyrex dish in one hand and sneaks a glance back at his mom.

Yep. She's staring at him. Glaring at him, in fact. And not in that mild not before dinner kind of way. It's the kind of glare that pins him in place and freezes his hand to the fridge door even though he suddenly doesn't give a shit about having an after-school snack.

He wishes he'd taken a closer look at her before dismissing the phone call. She's standing upright, not in her usual casual slouch while chatting with her friends. She's twisting the cord around one finger, the way she always does when she's upset. Or angry. Or both. His heart sinks a little, then sinks a little more when she pulls the cord taut before letting it spring back.

It's a bad sign, and he thinks he knows the reason for the phone call.

He turns back to the ham and slides it back into place on the shelf, trying to look as casual as possible. Nothing to see here. Just decided I could wait until dinner after all. He closes the door and tries to retreat as inconspicuously as he can. Maybe he can avoid the lecture, at least until dinner? There's no chance she'll forget, he's not that stupid, but maybe out of sight, out of mind will still work at defusing the rage. At least a little. He decides to see what Lucas is up to.

He makes it approximately two steps before she snaps her fingers together, and points at the kitchen floor.

Don't even think about it.

Fuck.

He slumps against the fridge and waits, feeling a hot mix of shame and anger and worry. Things he isn't used to feeling, because he's never been that kind of kid. The kind of kid that warrants phone calls from school. The kind of kid that disappoints his mom in any other way than leaving his dirty clothes lying around.

It's not a good feeling.

And he doesn't have any excuses. His mind, usually so imaginative, is frantically trying to come up with one, but it's not working. The only thing in his mind at the moment is the word caught. Endlessly and annoyingly repeating. And he can't exactly tell her the truth, either, can he?

His mom hangs up the phone. Gently. Although he can tell she really would prefer to have thrown it across the room. He meets her eyes and tries again to look casual. I have no idea what you're upset about. What's for dinner?

"Sit."

Mike gives up all pretense of casual. Casual is not going to happen. Casual may actually make things worse. He sits. Waits.

His mom is waiting, too, and the expression on her face hurts his heart a little. He can tell she doesn't know what to say any more than he does. Neither one of them have any experience with this. She's angry but he's seen her angry before. It's the bewilderment in her eyes that hurts him the most, and there's nothing he can do about it. And to be honest, he wouldn't change it even if he could. Not considering the alternative.

Later the phone calls will induce the same anger, but not the bewilderment. She'll be used to it. This is just the first of many calls.

They stare at each other for a couple of seconds that feels a lot longer. To both of them. Then she takes a deep breath.

"That was Mr. Clarke on the phone."

"Oh."

He doesn't sound surprised because he isn't surprised. Who else would it be? And, if he's been honest, he doesn't blame Mr. Clarke in the slightest. He's doing his job. When he couldn't-when Mike wouldn't-talk to him at school, his teacher did the only thing he could.

"Oh?" His mom repeats, and her voice is a lot colder as anger takes the forefront again.

Mike waits. He'd help her out if he could. But he can't.

"Please explain to me how you are suddenly failing your science class."

Mike shrugs. "It's a lot harder now?" It's a feeble attempt but it's the best he can do. Maybe it will even work. Science isn't his best subject, after all, even if the teacher is his favorite.

"I would maybe give you the benefit of the doubt if Mr. Clarke hadn't told me you've also been skipping his class. Since when do you skip class, Michael?"

"Um. Because it's a lot harder now?" In a way it's actually the truth.

"Michael. Mr. Clarke says he has tried to talk to you, more than once. He's tried to help you and you said everything was fine. He offered to tutor you after school to catch you up, and you said everything was fine. So what is going on?"

Mike shrugs again and he's angry again, but this time he's angry with her. He can't help it. He can't control it. He just is. "Everything has been pretty difficult lately, in case you haven't noticed," he snaps. "Nancy hasn't exactly been doing great, either, but you aren't lecturing her." For once, he's not even trying to get Nancy in trouble. It's just the truth. He isn't the only Wheeler skipping school these days.

Her eyes soften a little. Not much, but a little. "Honey…Barbara is still missing. I don't condone skipping school for any reason, but she's worried about her friend. And, in case you haven't noticed, Nancy is also grounded. But Will is fine. I know you've gone through a hard time, and I can't imagine what that felt like for you, but Will is okay. You've seen him. And Joyce says he'll be back in school in a couple of days."

It's the perfect excuse, and he never thought of it. He tries to keep a neutral expression on his face but it's too late. His mom has already seen the astonishment on his face. He couldn't have telegraphed it more openly if he'd written the words this is not about Will on his forehead.

They stare at each other, mother and son, each studying the other before speaking. Then his mother says very carefully, "This is about that girl, isn't it?"

Mike shrugs again, but the expression on his face is cautious enough, open enough, that she knows she's right. And she's not sure what to do about it, because it's a minefield. She knows the girl was trouble, and was in trouble, and she knows Mike tried to help her. She knows the girl is dangerous. She knows that people died. And that's all she knows. Since she doesn't know what to say, she repeats the things she's heard. She takes care to say them gently.

"Mike. You heard those men."

His face closes as neatly as when she shutters the windows. He watches her with a neutral expression and it throws her off guard because she's never been able to not read him before. At least a little.

"I know you wanted to protect her, because that's the kind of person you are. And that's good, normally that's good. But I don't think you understand the situation."

The carefully neutral expression gives way to incredulity. And something else. "I don't? I don't understand the situation?"

Karen takes another deep breath. Minefield. "No, honey, you don't. She was dangerous. I don't understand it completely and I don't pretend to. But I know that. People died. And I know you thought she was your friend, but…"

Mike is done with this conversation. He shoves his chair back with enough force to topple it over. Holly shrieks from the sudden crash but his mom doesn't look angry, just sad and worried and it pisses him off because she doesn't know anything.

"She was only as dangerous as they made her be."

His voice is cold and remote and unrecognizable. She doesn't know what to say.

"And she was my friend. You don't know anything about her, so don't pretend you do."

Karen watches her son, suddenly so alien to her, run down the basement stairs. She doesn't follow.

Holly is still crying. Karen stands up from the table slowly and starts toward the sound, but she doesn't get very far. Nancy is watching her, sizing her up carefully. Karen gives a tiny little gasp of surprise and then tries to laugh.

"You scared me! How was school?"

Nancy doesn't deign to reply, not verbally, anyway. She merely raises one eyebrow as if to say cut the bullshit, mom. Karen sighs.

"Mike's been skipping school," Karen says, answering the unasked question.

"I know," Nancy replies curtly. She doesn't look at her mother, just grabs a yogurt from the fridge. Karen is taken aback, both at the tone and the casual dismissal of the topic. She tries again.

"He's still upset about that girl."

Nancy gives her a withering look. "You think?"

"I tried to explain…"

"I'm sure you did."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Nancy's expression softens a little at the hurt and honest confusion in her voice and she considers her mother very carefully before answering.

"It means…that you don't know anything about her." The words are spoken gently enough, but there's a finality there that's as alien as the expression on her face. Although it's not entirely alien, is it? She saw it on Mike's face, too. Karen doesn't understand. She doesn't understand how her children can feel, honestly feel, they are better informed than her. And she doesn't understand how, deep down, she agrees with them.

"And that girl had a name."

"Pardon?"

"Her name was Eleven."

Karen doesn't know how to respond to that, but it doesn't matter, because Nancy doesn't give her a chance. She goes upstairs without a backward look. In a book, this would be the time when brother and sister put aside their differences and bond through their shared pain. But this isn't a book. She doesn't go to the basement to do what her mother can't. She's still too full of her own grief to be able to do that. The best she can do, right now, at least, is what she's already done.

Karen watches her go, but doesn't follow. Holly is still screaming. She picks up Holly from her playpen and soothes her as best she can. She can still do that with at least one of her children, and that makes her feel a little better.

Karen broods over her children-two of her children-until dinner. She doesn't know what to do about Nancy and she has even less idea of what to do about Mike. She settles for doing nothing. She doesn't consult her husband and she doesn't bother lecturing Mike again. She simply tells him-quietly, after they've eaten- to stop skipping class and hopes that will be the end of it.

Even though she knows that it won't be.