"Hey, what the—what the hell?"
"Seriously? You're seriously playing dumb right now?"
"Cami, maybe we should take this somewhere else," Nancy suggests, the sudden sensation of her hand resting on my shoulder causing me to flinch back, "We're going to—we're probably going to attract a crowd."
"Good."
"Cami—"
"No, I think it'd really help Steve's reputation if everyone knew he just got sucker-punched by a girl," I hiss, turning back to Steve in time to notice how he is still massaging his jaw, my posture straightening on instinct as he brushes past Nancy to get closer to me, instead.
"So what, Cam, you're just—punching people for the hell of it?"
"No. Just you."
"Why?"
"Guys, seriously—"
"Tell me why."
Steve's demand cuts off Nancy's attempt at diverting us once again, and I catch myself wondering, for a moment, if he truly has no idea what might have provoked my attack in the first place. But I can't back down. Not now. Not when anger at Steve—keeping myself on the offensive—is the one thing standing between me, and the all-consuming terror and grief over Will that I am trying to keep at bay.
I'm not exactly blind to how all of that means I am using Steve, just like I am certain he was using me over the summer, just with a different end-game in mind, but I force myself to push that thought to the side, my jaw tightening for a moment before I reply.
"Jonathan's camera."
"Oh, great. Defending your pervert boyfriend," Steve retorts, exasperation coloring his tone, along with something else I cannot entirely place, "Did he tell you what he was doing with it? What kind of pictures he was taking?"
"Steve, come on."
"No, Nance. I want to know if Cami is aware of exactly what Byers was doing."
"Well obviously she isn't," Nancy says, looking from me to Steve as though the statement should have been common knowledge, her brow furrowing as his expression appears unchanged, "Cami isn't—she isn't like that."
"Gee, thanks, Nancy."
"No, Cami, I didn't mean it like that, I just—"
"Don't bother. I'm just sad it's taken me this long to realize you're just like everyone else that worships at King Steve's altar."
The words escape before I can stop it, and I bite down on the inside of my cheek to hold back a wince, Nancy's eyes widening while her expression seems to crumple in on itself with little to no effort at all. I hate hurting her, guilt twisting inside my chest, and threatening to squeeze my heart until nothing but dust remains. But I can't take the words back, now. I can't, and the part of me that is still bristling over Jonathan's camera does not want to.
I still can't shake the suspicion that what happened to Will is the same thing that is behind Barb's conspicuous absence, and that fact spurs me on, even when a part of me is well aware that it would probably be smarter if I were to stop.
"Probably why it was so easy for you to leave Barb on her own at that party, right?"
"Okay, Cam, back off."
"Last I checked, you didn't have the right to tell me what to do, Steve."
"Yeah. Kinda think this time, I do," Steve persists, sending a concerned look Nancy's way as she turns to face the brick of the building beside her, before turning back to me, a hand reaching out to snag my arm, before I am wrenching away as though I have just been burned, "She's your friend. You don't wanna do this, okay?"
"Do what? Tell the truth?"
"Hurt her."
I bite back the retorts that come to mind as best I can, because as much as I hate it, I know Steve is right. Nancy is turning back to us, chewing on her thumbnail while tears shine against her eyes.
I know her well enough to know she is already rationalizing a way out of this for me. A way to explain the words I launched at her with little to no hesitation.
Somehow, the knowledge that she is already prepared to forgive me just makes everything that much worse.
"Did you know Byers was taking the pictures?"
"No."
"But you're pissed at me for breaking the camera."
"Because you jumped to conclusions. You already don't like the guy, and you let that make your decisions for you."
"He was taking pictures of us. Pictures of Nance, taking her top off!" Steve exclaims, ignoring the wince I give at the reference of exactly what it is he and Nancy had been up to, his frustration clearly overwhelming any desire of avoiding a scene, "I know you don't exactly have a great example of right and wrong at home, but even you have to think that's wrong!"
"Wow."
"Steve—"
"Don't defend him, Nancy," I interject, whatever dimming my anger had experienced in the wake of my guilt over my friend's reaction to it flaring to life once again, because of all people, Steve knows damn well that any reference to my dad, and his abilities or lack thereof as far as raising me is concerned is off limits, "I mean, it's not exactly like he has a great role model at home, either, but sure, tear apart my home life. That's fine."
Whatever understanding Steve may have been going for evaporates rather quickly after my dig at his own home life, and but for the fact that I am far too stubborn for my own good, I might have considered taking a step back.
The part of me that is too much like my dad, though—the part that squares up to a potential threat, rather than running away—keeps my feet rooted firmly in place, my expression as close to challenging as I can manage while I wait for Steve's response.
"Go to hell, Cami."
"Maybe I'll see you there after you buy Jonathan a new camera."
"Buy him a new—you're insane," Steve scoffs, his arms lifting midway into the air before flopping back to hang uselessly at his sides, "Why, so he can take pictures of Nancy actually naked, next time?"
"If you knew him at all, you'd know that's not what he was doing."
"Oh really? What was it, then? What was the freak doing in my backyard, snapping photos?"
"You couldn't even begin to understand," I sigh, dragging one hand through my hair, and risking a look at Nancy, her eyes still darting between Steve and I as though worried one of us will make a move to strike out against the other, "Don't pretend to try just to make yourself feel better."
Anger and guilt claw at the inside of my chest, forcing their way back to the forefront of my mind as I come to terms with how my attempt at defending Jonathan has failed before it could even take off. Part of me wonders if it has something to do with my own lingering doubts over my best friend's actions in the first place. But I remind myself that I know Jonathan. I know he isn't the sort to do something like what Steve is so determined to accuse him of. I know it as well as I know my own name.
Before I can reconcile it, I am turning and heading out of the small passageway between buildings, but before I can make a clean escape, Steve's voice calls out again, his quip serving as the final spark that burns away the last of my attempts at remaining in control…
"Never thought you'd go for someone like Byers, but hey, maybe you two are meant to be. Two fucked up little peas in a pod. No wonder your dads don't give you the time of day."
"Cami, don't—"
I turn on a heel to stalk back toward Steve in seconds, ignoring Nancy's plea as my fingers curl into fists so tightly that I can feel my nails digging into my palms. And although I am aware of a small voice at the back of my mind, practically screaming at me to refrain from punching him a second time—screaming at me to heed Nancy's worried expression as she flits a glance behind me, and then settles back on Steve and I, instead—I continue moving forward, my fist arcing towards Steve's eye, this time, until a firm grip stops me in my tracks.
"Not this time, Ms. Hopper. You're coming with me."
…
"So—what'd the Chief's daughter do to wind up in detention?"
I ignore the voice and slump farther down in my seat, my arms folding across my chest as I glare up at the clock hanging above the door, willing it to move faster. I think back to the teacher that had grabbed me, conveniently showing up after Steve's taunt, and only seeing me making the first move. I think back to how I had said nothing. How Steve and Nancy said nothing. How I should have known to leave them alone, and just head into school like my dad expected me to when he first dropped me off…
"You don't answer, and I get to think of things myself. Probably not uh—something you want."
"Bold of you to assume I care what you think."
"In my experience, most everyone cares what other people think."
"Maybe I'm not most everyone," I quip, slanting a look at the guy that is apparently determined to keep on talking, the snort he gives at my comment only souring my mood still further, "What?"
"Nothing."
"If it's nothing, why are you laughing?"
"Think I might be better off not answering that."
Gritting my teeth, I turn away from the guy sitting next to me, and redirect my attention to the clock, a frustrated huff escaping as I realize it has hardly moved since the last time I looked. I know I'm going stir-crazy, between the idiocy of my own actions that landed me here in the first place, and the knowledge that when my dad comes to pick me up, I am in for far worse. And I don't want to give this guy next to me what he wants by consenting to a conversation, but at the same time, I know it might just be the only thing that can keep me sane. Keep me from getting into even more trouble, by trying to make a break for it underneath the stern eye of the teacher grading papers at the desk in the front of the room.
"What did you do?"
"Hmm?"
"To wind up here. What did you do?"
"Oh," The stranger remarks, risking a glance up toward the teacher, himself, before leaning across the aisle between desks to give me a conspiratorial wink, "I've got a little business operation I run out at the picnic bench in the woods. Jock found it, and ratted me out."
"Business operation?"
"Yeah. Uh—the less than legal kind."
"O—okay?"
"Jesus H Christ, Hopper, you really can't read between the lines?"
"Quiet, Mr. Munson. And please remain on your side of the aisle."
The guy straightens in his own desk in response to the teacher's directive, but I cannot seem to stop staring at him, wide-eyed, comprehension making me gape when I had initially wanted to present an indifferent approach all around. He risks a peek at me once the teacher's attention is successfully diverted, and a grin pulls at both corners of his mouth as he takes in my shock…
"Figured it out, yet?"
"Drugs."
"And we have a winner," The guy—Eddie Munson, apparently—chuckles, his amusement only growing as I narrow my eyes at him for a moment before moving to reply.
"If you were caught selling, why are you here and not at the police station?"
"Because technically, selling isn't what they caught me doing."
"What?"
"Officially, I was skipping class."
"Oh," I murmur, shifting in my seat as I risk another look up at the teacher, waiting until I can be absolutely certain she is not about to look up from the papers she is engrossed in any time soon before going on, "Who were you—you know—"
"Meeting?"
"Yeah."
"Nope. Not giving you that 'til you give me something in return," Eddie says, leaning against the back of the chair at his desk, both arms folding against his chest as he regards me with a smirk, "So what landed you in detention?"
"Seriously?"
"Serious as the grave."
"I punched Steve Harrington in the face."
Eddie seems to deliberate on that for a moment, and I force myself to hold his gaze, if for no other reason than to avoid giving him any reason to doubt the validity behind my claim. But before I can decide on whether or not to say anything further to provoke a verdict one way or another, Eddie is laughing softly again, the smirk turning to a more genuine smile.
"Badass. I like it."
"You're not going to ask what he did?"
"Please. It's King Steve," Eddie scoffs, the remark provoking a short laugh of my own that I quickly work to cover with a sudden fit of coughing as the teacher gives a conspicuous clearing of her throat from the front of the room, "Just the fact that he exists means he deserves a punch in my book."
I bite my lip to keep further laughter at bay, a quick glance at the clock surprising me because now it is abundantly clear that more time has passed now that I am engaged in a conversation than when I had been insistent on remaining stubbornly silent. And I don't want to admit that I am relieved. I don't want any of that to show on my face, because I know, somehow, that Eddie Munson will never let me hear the end of it if it does.
"You have a thing for him, or something?"
"What?"
"King Steve. You have a thing for him?"
"God no," I protest, ignoring the flush that burns against my cheeks, and snaking a foot out to nudge at Eddie's shin in protest once I'm sure the teacher isn't looking our way, "Shut up."
"Uh huh. Just as I thought."
"What's just as you thought?"
"You do have a thing for him."
"I do not!"
"Deny it all you want, Hopper," Eddie teases, sending me a wink and laughing again as I respond with a well-timed roll of the eyes, "You like him. Was it a uh—jealousy punch?"
"No!"
"You sure about that?"
"Positive," I nod, forcing myself to keep my expression bland beneath Eddie's suddenly intense observation, and endeavoring to switch the topic back to something isn't as uncomfortably close to the truth, instead, "So—who were you meeting? When you were—skipping."
Eddie's brow furrows for a moment before he seems to recollect the earlier direction of our discussion, the knowing look that spreads across his face unnerving me more than I care to admit. Despite this being the first time we officially met, I've heard rumors about him, both from other kids at school, and even, on occasion, my dad.
With those rumors at the back of my mind, I can't be anything other than startled that he is apparently perceptive enough to catch onto my evasion of any sort of admission related to Steve Harrington, and my feelings for him, or lack thereof. But I can't get too distracted by that realization, because Eddie is leaning across the aisle towards me once again, his expression nothing short of mischievous as he sends me an overly exaggerated wink.
"I could tell you. But then I'd have to kill you. Pretty sure your dad wouldn't like that."
I frown as I realize Eddie probably had no intention of telling me anything at all, my eyes narrowing as he grins at me, clearly pleased with his handiwork thus far. And in spite of how a part of me wants to be frustrated by that, another part is almost eerily grateful…
Even if I have spent the last few minutes going back and forth between embarrassed and amused, they've been moments where I didn't have to think about Will. Barb. The trouble I'm going to be in when my dad picks me up from school.
Eddie's attention is back on whatever he had been scribbling on a wrinkled piece of paper when I had first arrived and slumped into the seat next to him, and I force myself to look back to the history assignment I have been attempting to complete, only to jump when a soft ripping sound is followed by a balled up piece of paper landing directly in the center of my desk, seconds later.
Another look at Eddie doesn't prove too enlightening, since he's pointedly avoiding my gaze. And so I turn my attention back to the crumpled scrap of paper, my eyes widening as I read the untidy scrawl at its center.
Locker 215. Leave a note if you ever want to 'skip.'
…
"So you're friends with the Munson kid now."
"What?"
"The Munson kid. Saw him, walking you out," My dad elaborates, his gaze drilling into the side of my head, though I keep my gaze stubbornly ahead of me, staring out the truck's window at our trailer, because he is clearly making a point of keeping the door locked so I cannot get out, "Wanna tell me what that's about?"
"Not particularly."
"You doing drugs now?"
"No!" I practically shout, my lips thinning as soon as I risk a glance to my father, and find he is eyeing me with a skeptically raised brow, "Jesus, Dad, why would I ever—"
"You've been through a lot, kid. That's all I'm saying."
"Yeah, well, you're wrong."
"Skipping school. Getting detention. And now hanging out with a kid who's—"
"A kid who's what, Dad?"
"Not the kind of kid you should be hanging around with."
"Seriously? We're gonna have that conversation?"
"Yes, Camille. We are going to have that conversation," My dad confirms, something not entirely familiar lying just beneath the words, and causing my hand that has drifted to the handle of the passenger side door to tighten around it infinitesimally, "With everything that's going on, we need to talk to each other."
"Right. Because that solves so many of our problems."
"Camille—"
"No, Dad, go ahead. Keep telling me how talking can make everything wrong in our lives go away," I retort, aware that I am perilously close to crossing a line, and finding it impossibly hard to care, regardless. And I hate that I'm being like this. That I've somehow become volatile, when that was never my intent. But even with the minor distraction presented by Eddie in detention, now that I am away from that particular protective net, reality is starting to sink in far too quickly for my liking.
Will. Barb. Steve. Nancy.
Sara.
"Talking isn't going to bring Will back. It isn't going to give me my sister back, or help find Barb, or—"
"What do you know about Barb?"
The question startles me into silence, whatever momentum I had in my retorts quickly losing steam as I take a moment to really look at my father's expression while he waits for me to reply. He seems to realize I'm taking far too much out of it, because I can recognize exactly when his features shift to something more closed off…
"What do you know about Barb, Dad?"
"Not enough. Not yet. And it's not anything I can discuss with you, Camille, you know that."
"But—"
"No buts," My dad insists, the sound of the car door unlocking giving a brutal sort of finality to the conversation, my jaw clenching as I recognize the look he is giving me now as one I cannot outwit or argue with, "Listen, there's something I need to check out, so—"
"Of course there is."
"So I'm gonna need you to—"
"To stay inside. Homework first. TV or phone later. No leaving the house," I parrot, pushing the truck door open and hopping down with my backpack already slung over my shoulder, ignoring the lurch in my stomach that comes about when I take in the look my father wears that almost seems sad, "Later, Dad."
"Camille—"
"I'll leave something in the fridge for you when you get home."
I slam the door shut and turn to head towards the trailer before my father can manage a reply, my fingers digging into the strap of my backpack as I try to keep from falling apart altogether. Part of me knows that my dad is actually reacting rationally to news of his daughter's recent issues at school. And I know he's only acting that way because he cares, even if he can't show it.
Still, in the long list of everything going wrong, lately, I can't stop wishing that maybe, just this once, he wouldn't care. That he would let himself get so wrapped up in finding out what happened to Will—what might be happening to Barb—that my own comings and goings would be inconsequential.
I want nothing more than to get back to Mike, Lucas and Dustin. Eleven. To check in on them, if nothing else, but I know I can't do that under my enforced house arrest, since my dad still has my bike in the bed of his truck.
Once I'm inside the trailer, I toss my backpack onto the small table in the kitchen, momentarily distracted from my intended trek to the fridge for a snack by a small, wrinkled ball of paper slipping out from a gap in the zipper.
A snort escapes as I snag the paper and unfold it again, eyes tracing over Eddie's scrawl…
And a part of me wonders, if things keep going as they are, if I won't end up taking him up on the unspoken offer sooner, rather than later.
…
Okay. Needless to say, the muses went rogue here (they seem to be doing that a lot, recently, don't they?) And I know this chapter is pretty much a filler, with nothing to do with the main plot as a whole. But regardless, I hope it isn't too awful? Over the weekend, I'd been trying to think about little tweaks I could make here and there to keep giving Cami a slightly different path than she would have if I strictly followed canon. And my obsessive re-watching of season four kind of got me into the idea of her and Eddie being friends, or at the very least friendly acquaintances? Hence the bulk of this chapter.
I promise, this is still Steve and Cami all the way (even though they're on rather shaky ground right now). Eddie won't even be a near miss as far as romance is concerned. But he's just such a fun character on his own, and in my head I keep picturing the eventual comedic banter that could happen between him and Camille. So hopefully in spite of my minor diversion in plot motion here, it still meets with everyone's approval?
As always, my heartfelt thanks go out to each and every one of you that has taken the time to read, follow, favorite and review this story thus far! And special thanks to Crystal-Wolf-Guardain-967 and xLiteratureLoverx for the reviews last time around! I'm so, so happy you're enjoying the story so far and I hope everyone continues to enjoy it from here!
Until next time, darlings…
MOMM
