Chapter 1: Edge of Seventeen
"The clouds never expect it when it rains
But the sea changes colors
But the sea does not change
So with the slow, graceful flow of age
I went forth with an age old desire to please
On the edge of seventeen"
Hawkins, Indiana. January, 1986.
In the thick forest, a deer stands in a clearing and watches as a gentle fog twirls around its hooves. It's frozen there, afraid to move, and watches as the fog continues to glide over clusters of mushrooms and break around tree trunks. The smooth cloud hangs low and tight, hungrily covering every inch of the forest. It continues to roll like smoke until it reaches the edge of the wood, hesitating for a moment, then pours onto the road like a tidal wave. It races along the yellow lines of the road and swallows a car whose blinding headlights dampen to two weak torches. Half of the cloud splits down a steep dirt path like a river splits off into streams. This inlet sneaks under beat-up cars, gently pushes rusty swings causing them to creak, creak, and softly knocks on the window of a trailer. Inside a girl is pacing, wearing a green and white vest and a pleated skirt. She sits down on her bed and pulls on a pair of white athletic socks, careful to tug them up to equal lengths. A slow breath of mist glazes her window. Slowly, she peers out through the glass to see the fog which has noiselessly and bloodlessly consumed the ground around the trailer park. The once bright early evening now looks like a haunted and vacant cemetery. Her eyes trace the swirling fog until they settle on the row of tall trees that mark the beginning of the forest. From her perspective, the dark trees look like sleeping gods, frozen into knotted positions. Something out there in the branches quivers, causing a small ripple in the stagnant night. Shuddering, she quickly pulls the curtain shut and turns back toward her room.
POV: Winter Reid
The radio in the corner is tuned to the hits station and "We Built This City" by Starship blares out. I have been getting ready for almost an hour now, and it's the longest I've ever spent primping. I pace across the carpet, my socks sinking into the beige floor, alternating between total confidence and total terror.
I look over at the calendar that hangs on the wall, just to the left of my small window. It's brand new, and red Xs are neatly drawn into the boxes to mark days gone by. I look at the picture for January. It's Eschscholzia californica, or poppies. I smile and reach my fingers toward the vibrant orange. I can almost feel the California warmth radiating out from the petals. It's nice to imagine that something is blooming out there somewhere.
Purple pen is written into the square for today's date: January 10th, 1986. don't chicken out, is all it says. Without any specifics of time, place, or purpose - I wrote that message to myself knowing exactly what it meant. It is the first week back at Hawkins High following Christmas Break. Tonight is Friday.
Currently, parents across town are sitting down to an early dinner of Sloppy Joes and corn, their two kids bicker across the table. They eat quickly, eager to load up the kiddos and pile into their Nissan Stanza, pull out of the driveway, and join a slow procession of cars all on their way to their Alma Mater. There is never traffic in Hawkins, but the closest we get to it are Friday nights when the boys play basketball or football at the local high school.
The stands in the gymnasium fill up easily.
People squish onto wooden bleachers. The older folks sit near the top and look down upon the bottom middle section, which overflows with rowdy teens who stand up and yell across the room at their friends; they clutch homemade signs and throw their heads back with raucous laughter. The band is in their own section and gloved white hands hold tightly onto tubas and French horns.
The other side of the gym is equally stuffed, half with locals and half with families and classmates of the away team, who took a bus to Hawkins earlier that day. The boys slowly file onto the court, our team wears white track suits with green details; the rival team march in wearing deep maroon or dark blue. Their sneakers squeak on the shiny floor as they run drills and passes. Eye of the Tiger booms into the room.
Tonight, I will be there.
It's not my usual scene but I have been to games before. However, tonight I won't be hiding on the side of the bleachers with a camera slung around my neck, taking quick shots for the school paper. No, tonight... I'll be in the middle of it all. In my peripheral, I catch the orange and green shiny strands from the pom-poms sitting on my pillow.
I look determinedly at the calendar. I take a red marker from my desk and draw an X into the square. I push the pen down with too much force, probably causing red to bleed through to the other side, but I'm marking the space with permanence, with finality.
There's no turning back now, I think to myself, you're not backing out.
The calendar was given to me this past Christmas. On the 25th, our green telephone rang and my mom rushed over to answer it. Her boss was on the other side, informing her he needed help wrapping up a case urgently, and she should go into the office right that minute. I feel my head lighten and my vision blurs a little. I try to fix my stare intensely on the center of the poppies, but I find myself sliding back into a memory.
December 25, 1985
I'm no longer in my room. The floor beneath me isn't soft or beige, it's hard and plastic. I'm standing in the small kitchen with a faded blue apron tied around my waist and a wooden rolling pin in one hand. The aroma of casserole drifts from the lit oven and I look down to the kitchen island in front of me at the sugar cookie dough I had just been rolling out. A pile of Christmas-themed cookie cutters sit nearby; candy canes, trees, and snowmen.
Our trailer park was built in the late 1960s. When it was finished, the brochure advertised new homes with new appliances, peaceful green yards, plenty of space, and so cheap you wouldn't believe it. If it looked that picture perfect at one time, you wouldn't be able to tell living here now.
My mom did her best to spruce it up when we moved in. She called it nesting, my dad called it clutter.
His exact words were, "You're teaching our kid to be a goddamn packrat with all of this shit".
He yelled that the first week we were here as he threw a vase across the kitchen. It shattered to the floor. Daisies and water created a pool on the linoleum. My mom had picked those flowers that morning and set them on the counter proudly, but apparently they crowded my dad's line of sight.
Virginia Reid, my mother, can turn any roadside garbage into treasure.
In our living room, two arm chairs sit facing a muted pink sofa adorned with small circular pillows. Those she had found out on the curb in one of Hawkins' nicest neighborhoods. She pulled a chair aggressively out of the garbage man's grasp and drove home with the back of our station wagon open and half of the sofa dangling in the air. I brought home a woven rug with pinks and blues from a yard sale and we spread it out over the shag carpeting, setting a low midcentury coffee table atop it. The table had a deep gash in the middle, so we strategically placed magazines to hide it. Curtains, vases, ash trays, and cushions dot the space. A stuffed book shelf sits in the corner across from the couch where most families probably have TVs.
My dad loved the television set. So much so that, after he died, my mom decided it was the piece of our home where his fingerprints lingered the most. He would slap and kick it when the picture went fuzzy, or he would holler at my mom or I to get in there, right now, and fix it. I would kneel in front of it, cautiously moving the antenna and twisting the knobs, flinching as he hurled angry words from his seat, accusing me of trying to sabotage it.
"I work like a dog and get home looking for just one fucking moment of peace in this godforsaken place. And now my daughter is trying to keep me from watching Bonanza," he would bellow, his fist would crush a beer can and chuck it at the TV. It would whip past my ear and bounce off of the console. My hands would shake, which only made trying to fix the picture worse, and I would see my own face streaming with tears reflected in the glass.
The day my dad died, a seemingly random day in a bitterly cold January in 1985, my mom and I drove home from the police station wordlessly. She had just identified his body and made me drive home, despite me not having a license. When we walked inside, I moved to the kitchen and began making her a sandwich. I wasn't sure how else to react, but I spread peanut butter across the bread hoping that somehow it would help.
I suddenly heard a loud BANG and glass breaking from inside my mom's bedroom. The peanut butter covered knife fell from my hands, clattering and sticking to the floor. I rushed to the door and found her throwing clothes and shoes out of the small closet. The mirror my dad looked into every morning lay smashed on the floor.
"Mom?" I asked, confused. My eyes darted around the room and tried to take in the scene.
She pushed past me with her arms full of articles of clothing. She kicked open our front door and threw the contents in her arms off of our front porch. Shirts flew up in the air and floated down like army men with parachutes. I stood with my back pressed against the wall, scared, and unsure of what to do. My mom went back to the room her and my dad shared, and exited again, cradling another load and threw it out onto the pile growing in the dirt.
"Mom, please stop." I said, my voice shaking and beginning to gurgle with sobs.
She said nothing and dropped a cardboard box onto the floor. She pulled out the vinyls that only my dad listened to and tossed them like frisbees out of the open door. I could see now that our neighbors were beginning to move onto their porches, watching the madwoman throwing shoes and belts and records out of her home.
My dad's brown work jacket still hung by the door. He had left drunk out of his mind earlier that day and hadn't bothered to pull it on as he stormed out into the frigid air. He fell clumsily into his Camaro, which he poured more love and attention into than anything else in his life. He refused to sell it, even when our electricity was turned off due to lack of payment. I sat in my room as he started the engine and revved it, knowing it was pointless to go out and beg him not to drive. He had done this so many times that I no longer bothered trying to stop him. I could hear the tires screech like a banshee, and knew he was drifting left and right, making dust fly, and nearly crashing into the row of mailboxes.
My mom finally stopped her movements. She stood still in the doorway; our neighbors were now congregating closer to the heap of discarded belongings. Her head turned slowly to the left and settled upon the television set. She threw down the pair of socks and Johnny Cash record that she had been holding and moved toward the TV. She wrapped both arms around it, hugging it, and attempted to lift it into the air. A short, angry scream emitted from her body as she tried lifting it again.
"Mom, just leave it mom-" I moved toward her with one hand reaching out to comfort her.
"NO!" She yelled. She turned on me quickly, her eyes were red and her mouth was open in a furious gape.
I flinched back.
She tried to pull the television upwards and made progress; this time, it hovered above its stand, and I stood frozen, watching as her anger translated into superhuman strength. It was completely ridiculous. My dad was dead and my mom was here, fighting with the TV.
As if hearing my thoughts, she sputtered, "He's already totaled his car. This is the last thing that he loved most - the last thing that is all his -"
She was speaking in angry, choked sobs now. "Winter, just, please help me okay-" She turned and her eyes seared into mine desperately. Her breath began to quicken to a panicked pace. "I can't have it here. Please, I can't have any of it here."
Strands of hair fell in her eyes and she looked completely undone. I moved toward her and set my own hands on the back of the TV. We carried it outside together. It fell with a loud thud onto the top step of the porch. My mom went down with it, falling suddenly to her knees. Frantic sobs fell out of her in between sharp, quick breaths. I was really scared now. She had finally broken.
I watched as my mother knelt cold and shameless on our porch. She had never let anyone see her this unkempt and unhinged before, not even me. My gaze carried away from her. Our neighbors were all gathered outside now. Some stood further back, watching with abject pity; others came closer, wearing looks of concern.
Just a few steps from the bottom of our porch sat the pile. It held every last piece of my dad, collected and spilt onto the dirt. I watched as two people approached our porch. One laid a gentle hand on my mother's upper back. She turned violently and hit the person on their forearm, but they didn't flinch. They moved to her level and wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders.
I had moved backwards, down the steps, and away from her without realizing it. Silent tears streamed down my face as I watched Mr. Munson use his arms to hold my mother in place. She was flailing and screaming, as if the pain from inside of her body was trying to break out through her skin. He held her firm and quietly, keeping her contained. I continued to move backwards, feeling exposed and raw. My back collided with someone's chest and I flinched. I turned around and instinctively pushed them away. A boy staggered backwards, he looked disturbed and cautious. My tearful eyes met his worried ones.
A numb feeling cascaded like ice beginning at my crown of my head, then fell down my neck and spread across my chest. My mother continued to wail behind me. Mr. Munson scooped her up and carried her inside of our trailer. I turned again toward the boy with a mop of curly hair and deep brown eyes. His usual smirk wasn't painted across his face. He wore a red flannel and ripped blue jeans. In his hand, he held his guitar, as if he had been in the middle of playing something, but ran outside without bothering to set it down.
I could feel myself being pulled out of my body. I didn't want to be here, but I couldn't go. Not now, not with my mom shattered.
The boy leaned in and softly asked, "Winter, are you alright?"
I looked at him, feeling dazed and woozy. His eyebrows knitted, concerned at my lost expression.
"What do you need?" Eddie Munson's voice was barely above a whisper.
"Garbage bags," I said. I wasn't looking at him, instead my gaze was fixed on the guitar in his hand. My fists opened and closed; my nails dug into my palm. Whenever I felt like I was disassociating, the pain in the center of my hands would usually ground me. It wasn't working this time. "I need garbage bags. I can't leave this stuff here. She doesn't want to see it."
Eddie nodded and held out one hand.
He jumped into action. "O-Okay, I'll go grab some. Don't move Winter, okay? Okay? Stay right there."
I looked up at him. He was pleading with me urgently not to run off. I nodded, my movements were slow as if I was in a trance.
He ran back to his trailer, leapt over the steps, and crashed loudly inside. He was back even faster, his guitar had been replaced with a fistful of black bags.
I took one and moved toward the pile, then knelt down and stuffed inside whatever my hands touched. Eddie knelt down next to me and we worked in silence, until we had filled four bags. Lastly, I turned to the TV, still sitting lopsided on our porch. He followed my gaze and without saying anything, walked over and picked it up. I was surprised with the ease he held it. My mom and I struggled to take it further than 15 steps. Perhaps it weighed more to us, because of the memories it carried. I looked into the black screen and I swore I could see my father's face reflected there, taunting and cruel.
"Should I take this to the dumpster?" Eddie asked me quietly.
I shook my head.
"Do you have a baseball bat?" I asked suddenly, looking up at him. I stood up and brushed the dirt off of my knees.
He looked at me peculiarly, then back at the TV, then back at me.
"I have something better. Let's go," he said.
Eddie began marching toward his trailer. I followed silently behind him, my hands were still clenched in tight fists. We moved to the back of his home and he threw the TV with a thud to the ground.
Eddie ran back to his van, pulled something out of the back seat, and brought it to me. He held a crowbar in one hand. I grabbed the end of it, but he wouldn't let go. He ducked his head a little, forcing me to meet his gaze.
"I'm sorry, Winter," he said firmly.
I still couldn't feel much, but I'm sure it would all crash down upon my head later. In the moment, I was being pulled away. I was watching my own body and the boy in front of me from afar. Nothing felt real. I needed something to shock me back into my body, so I tugged on the crowbar, hard, trying to pull it from his grasp. Eddie wouldn't let go and looked at me more firmly. He wanted me to speak. He wanted me to fall over and let it out so he could hold me.
"You can talk to me," he said softly.
I knew that I was safe with him. I closed my eyes tightly and tried to settle on a feeling.
Anguish, despair, regret, misery.
I tried each one, but each slipped away from me. I recalled sitting in Chief Hopper's office, my ears rang as he broke the news of what happened that afternoon.
I remembered how he used the words "impact", "drunk", "deceased".
I felt a heat rise in the back of my skull. A small fire spread across my synapses. I could feel my feet now, planted in my old sneakers. I could feel the weeds itching my ankles and my heartbeat began to quicken. Anger, hot and thick, coursed through my veins. I looked up at Eddie now, and he clocked the expression that had cracked my numb facade. He nodded softly and released his hand from the crowbar.
I turned suddenly, walked forward, and raised it above my head. I brought the crowbar down fast and it whooshed through the air with a loud snap. It collided with the TV's black screen. My father's face looked up at mine. His reflection was cracked, but seemed to multiply. He smiled at me, teasingly. As if to say is that all you've got?
I lifted the crowbar and a loud yell ripped out from my throat. I repeated my swings again and again and again. Glass shards flew outwards, one cut sharply through my faded jeans and pierced above my knee. I felt a slow drip of blood cascade down my thigh. My head clouded with anger. My arms burned. After nearly thirty swings, I felt a strong hand latch onto my waist. The other caught the end of the crowbar, which was held above my head and ready to fly down again.
"That's enough, now. That's enough." Eddie said, his voice spoke softly behind my left ear.
"No. He's still there," I realized then I had started crying. My words choked out of my throat. "He's still there."
"He can't hurt you anymore," Eddie said and tossed the crowbar to the ground.
He pulled me backwards, forcing me to step away from the TV. My body was shuddering and I felt like my head was on fire. I felt as if a pain that had been left bottled deep in my gut was now uncorked and spilled out like red wine on a white carpet.
Eddie pulled me around and I collided with his chest. My fists flew against his body in defense. His hand landed on the back of my head and his fingers pushed into the strands of my hair. My arms slowly moved around his upper back. His other arm was still tight around my waist, holding me still.
I released deep sobs into the collar of his flannel, its softness tickled against my nose. His hand stroked my hair as he shushed me and held me tight. We stayed like that for what felt like hours. I pulled my head to the side, at last, to see the shattered console lying lopsided in the grass.
I imagined my dad's Camaro, with the windshield in fragments across the pavement and the brown metal twisted around a tree trunk. Chief Hopper had told us that his death was most likely instantaneous and we are lucky that no one else was hurt. He was wrong about the last part. My dad had hurt people, a lot of people.
Eddie set a strong arm across my lower back and walked me to my trailer. My mom was asleep on the couch, curled into the fetal position. I watched as her body unconsciously sputtered out a small cry, but she didn't wake.
Silently, Eddie went to the armchair and sat down. He sank into it and his hands folded across his chest. I stood above my mom and looked over at him.
"What are you doing?" My voice croaked and felt dry and scratchy.
"I'll sit here and watch her. You need to go lie down." He looked at me, and gave me an assured smile, as if he had everything under control. I nodded meekly and padded to my room.
Eddie stayed with us most days until the funeral, helping clean up the mess of my mom's breakdown so it wouldn't be left all to me. I'm not sure how I would've survived it without him.
After the funeral, my mother and I stopped looking for furniture and began collecting books. Any book would do. Hawkins High had a box of them set out for free. Books that had been scribbled in by students or damaged by water leaks. I brought them all home. Cookbooks, dictionaries, paperback romance novels. I found more everywhere I went and, slowly, the bookshelf where the TV used to live was stuffed full. It felt better this way, as if the hole my father had punched through our lives was slowly being filled in and patched up.
My mom and I did our best to make this trailer our home, despite neither one of us wanting to be here at all.
Author's Note:
Hello! I'm starting this story in January of 1986 and will spend a bit of time building up to the night of the championship game which opens season 4. I wanted to give Winter & Eddie's friendship some room to breathe before shit gets crazy... and it allows me to plug in more character moments & personal anecdotes. Also, I love a good 80s reference, but I'm bummed by how many I wanted to allude to only to discover they were released after 1986. I had a whole bit about Pretty in Pink, but that one wasn't released in theaters until February of '86 so... c'est la vie.
Winter Reid is a character trying to untangle herself from her traumatic childhood and finally find some confidence, so if this story moves slow or I get a bet too wordy about her inner thoughts... my apologies!
I hope this story gives the character of Eddie Munson some more chances to be happy & for us to see more of his personality... because wow what a personality it is.
If you want to drop a review or share with me what your song would be if you were Vecna'd in 1986, that would be so fun to read! Personally, I could be saved from One's Mustafar looking ass mind palace by SOS by ABBA.
me, running away as Swedish disco blares in the background: Vecna, I have the high ground now.
Thank you for reading!
links for this chapter:
Edge of Seventeen - Stevie Nicks, Live 1983 watch?v=5DYJ5azwVTk