I'm sitting at the small table in the kitchen, attempting to put some effort into my homework, despite knowing that the effort would be futile almost the second I walked in the front door. I can't stop thinking about everything that happened. Seeing Will's body. Scrambling to find some way to keep tabs on four anxious kids in the aftermath. To shield them, somehow, from what they should never have had to see.
In the middle of all of that is the memory of Jonathan's grief. His inadvertent gathering of photographic proof that Steve has moved on. Nancy. Barb, still missing in action. Punching Steve in the face. Detention.
An offer of drugs from Eddie freaking Munson, of all people.
All of it swarms around in my head until I feel like I might explode. The headache that had started when I first got home is now a full-blown nuisance, and, with a groan, I slump forward until my forehead rests against my open history book, while my fingers curl into fists at my sides.
How in the hell did everything turn into this much of a mess so suddenly?
Another groan escapes, and then I am forcing myself to stand and move out of the kitchen, padding down the hall and towards the bathroom, instead. A quick rifling through the medicine cabinet gives me what I'm looking for, and I down a few Tylenol as quickly as I can with a small sip of water to wash it down.
I try to avoid any sort of a look at myself in the mirror over the sink, but am not entirely successful, a soft sigh the only thing I can manage before turning away.
"God, Cami, pull yourself together."
As if that's even going to be possible, all things considered.
Moving back to the kitchen, I stop by the refrigerator to see about a snack, my nose wrinkling as I discover there really are no viable options for such a thing that meets the eye. Half a loaf of bread—a few six packs of beer—something in the meat drawer that claims to be bologna but looks too suspect to me to give it a try—
I am reaching for one of the beers, smirking a bit at an internal quip over drinking my dinner, but the sound of the doorbell ringing stalls me in the act, the refrigerator door shutting once again as I straighten and head back to the den to answer the door, thinking—maybe even hoping—that it is one of the kids.
Of course, as soon as I see the person standing on the other side, I immediately start wishing I had pretended I wasn't even home.
"I'm busy, Nance—"
"Wait. Before—before you slam the door in my face, can I just—can we—talk?"
"About what? Because if you're here to lecture me about how awful I was to Steve—"
"No. That's—that's not why I'm here," Nancy assures, watching me hesitantly, as though a part of her is still wondering if I will push her back if she dares to take a step inside, "And for the record, I—he was—he was way out of line."
"You think?"
"Can I—come in?"
Sighing, I take a step back, allowing Nancy to edge past me and move toward the sofa in the den as though this is just any other day, and the two of us are meeting up after school to study, or gossip about boys. But nothing about this is normal. I know it, and I am fairly certain that Nancy knows it too.
As soon as she perches on the couch cushion, her leg jangling up and down, I realize that maybe she is just as off-kilter as I am, the door closing behind me with a soft snap before I move to take my dad's favorite armchair across from where she sits.
For a moment, we just sit there, eyeing one another, waiting to decide who will speak first. But just as I am tempted to say something, if for no other reason than to cut the sudden tension in the air before it chokes me, Nancy is doing so, instead.
"He's—he's pissed at me. For going back to his house."
"Wait—what?"
"I went back yesterday. To—to look for Barb," Nancy admits, her fingers knotting together in her lap as she risks a peek at me before going on, "And I talked to the police because I found—I found something else."
"Something else?" I repeat, hating how curiosity kicks in almost immediately even in spite of my desire to keep Nancy at a distance. She seems to be rummaging in her bag, not bothering to speak any further until she withdraws something and places it on the coffee table between us…
Her eyes meet mine, almost seeming to plead with me to give her a chance, before I am giving in, leaning forward to look at the thing which I soon realize is a photograph.
A photograph of Barb, sitting on the diving board of Steve Harrington's pool, while something looms over her in the darkness at her back.
"Nancy—"
"That—thing. I saw it. When I went back to Steve's."
"This is—Jonathan took this?"
Nancy nods, and I find my gaze sliding back to the photograph whether I want it to or not. Dread twists in my gut, because the creature hovering over Barb is the exact same thing I saw in the woods when Jonathan and I went looking for Will.
Barb's disappearance is linked to Will's. Linked, somehow, to Eleven, because why else would she have been in the woods that night as well?
My teeth are digging into my lower lip so fiercely that I begin to taste the metallic tang of blood, but even then, I cannot seem to persuade myself to stop.
"Hey—Cami—hey, what's—what is it? What's wrong?"
It isn't until I feel Nancy kneeling in front of me, her hands grabbing for my own that I realize I am breathing in short, shallow gasps, my heart hammering erratically against my ribs as a result. My throat feels like it is on fire. Like it is closing off, and there is absolutely nothing to do to stop it.
"Camille. Breathe, okay? Just—I need you to look at me, and breathe."
It takes a moment, but I do manage to direct my gaze away from the picture of Barb, and to Nancy instead, her eyes holding my own as she squeezes my hands tighter still. Somehow, it is actually easier to breathe the longer I look at her, my attention ping-ponging from her eyes, to the obviously exaggerated slow rise and fall of her shoulders in time with her own breathing.
Once I am calmed enough to squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt at regaining some amount of composure, Nancy gives my hands a final squeeze, her voice soft but no less reassured as she speaks.
"Better?"
"You didn't have to do that."
"Right, so I should just let you hyperventilate? I'll try to remember that for the next time."
I can't help but give in to the choked laugh that escapes in response to Nancy's quip, and we spend a moment that is far too short for either of us simply savoring the temporary amusement we seem to have found against all odds. But seriousness sets in all too quickly, both of us sobering as I risk another look at the photo out of the corner of my eye.
"I—I saw it too."
"Saw—saw what? That—thing?" Nancy asks, her eyes widening as soon as I manage a weak nod, while her hand once again seizes mine so tightly that it is now bordering on painful, "When? Where? I—sorry, what were—"
"Jonathan and I went looking for Will in the woods at the back of his house."
"Alone?"
"No, we took half of the deputies in Hawkins with us," I deadpan, aware of Nancy's almost immediate frown, and releasing a sigh before going on, "Yes. We were alone. We split up, actually."
"Oh my God, Cami."
"I know. It was—it was stupid."
"What did you do?"
That is the sticking point. What I did. Because I still can't say anything about Eleven. And in spite of my worry over Barb—the feeling that I am still trying to convince myself is not jealousy over Nancy being with Steve—I am not exactly willing to lie to someone who I vehemently want to keep as a friend.
"I—I kind of—froze," I begin, settling on that particular angle of the situation because all in all, it isn't exactly untrue, "I mean I was terrified, and it was coming closer, and then—"
"And then?"
"Jonathan. He—he shouted for me, and the thing ran."
"Oh my God," Nancy repeats, her voice choking with tears, the impact only twisting the guilt over my lie even tighter inside my chest in the process, "Cami, it could've—"
"I know."
"Did you—tell your dad?"
"God, no!" I exclaim, the skeptical look Nancy is sending me, as though she is finding cause to question my sanity, prompting me to frown before attempting to explain, "Listen, if I told my dad, I'd be under house arrest, okay?"
"I'm not exactly sure that would be a bad thing."
"Yeah, well, it would be for me."
Nancy doesn't say anything, after that, and we settle into a momentary silence, each of us clearly thinking about this creature. What it may or may not have done. What it may or may not do in the future, if allowed to run around Hawkins, unchecked. And clearly, we both arrive at the same conclusion at almost the exact same time, our eyes meeting again as we both speak in tandem.
"What are you going to—"
"Do you think we should—"
"Sorry," Nancy amends, giving me a tentative smile, and somehow making me do the same in return, against my better judgment, "You go ahead."
"Do you think we should do something about it?"
"Well—Jonathan and I were actually talking, and—"
"Wait. You already talked to Jonathan about this?" I ask, surprise momentarily overwhelming any reluctance I may have to be letting Nancy back in this easily, my guilt over keeping her at arm's length notwithstanding.
"Yeah. I wanted to talk to him. To—apologize for everything that happened with Steve, so I found him when he was looking at—at coffins."
"Shit!"
"What—what's shit?"
I'm standing before I can even think of a reply, dragging frantic hands through my hair as I cast my eyes around for wherever the hell I last left my purse. And I know Nancy is watching me with concern. Like she's worried I'm in the middle of a psychotic break.
But I know, somehow, that if I give her a minute, she'll figure it out…
I knew. I knew today was the day Jonathan was going to the funeral home. And I'd planned to be there. But that was before deciding to confront Steve. Punching him. Detention.
"Cami, I'm sure he didn't expect you to be with him for—something like that."
Yep. Just as I thought. Nancy figured it out.
"Whether he expected me to be or not doesn't matter," I groan, emitting an exasperated huff as I realize my purse is nowhere in sight, "I just—I should've—I need to see him."
"Okay. Okay, so let's go see him," Nancy says, catching me off guard with the suggestion, and causing me to whirl to face her with an astonished expression as a result, "What? Is—isn't that what you want?"
"No. I mean—it is, but I just—I don't know if—"
"You don't know if you'd be intruding if you just turned up at his place the night before the funeral."
"Or I don't know if he already hates me for bailing on him today, and I'd just make matters worse," I correct, ignoring Nancy's small frown, even though I cannot do the same with her ensuing reply.
"Come on, Cami, you know Jonathan's not like that."
I spend a moment wondering how Nancy knows something like that, when she's barely said six words to Jonathan this entire year. But instead of snapping out with that particular retort, I opt for pursing my lips to remain silent instead, because I know. I know, whether I want to admit it or not, that she's right.
I am worried about intruding. Just as I'm worried about Jonathan hating me, even though I know in the back of my mind, that could not possibly be farther from the truth.
Slouching back over to the couch and slumping down beside her, I bury my face in my hands, inhaling for just long enough to manage a frustrated groan, one of Nancy's hands running a haphazard pattern between my shoulder blades whether I am truly deserving of the act or not.
"Want to stay at my place? We could—go to the funeral together tomorrow."
"Nancy, I was in detention today. I doubt my dad is gonna be all in for the idea of me going to a sleepover."
"My mom will talk to him. It'll be fine. Please, Cami, I know—I know that you and I have been kind of—off, lately, but I really just—I don't think I want to be alone," Nancy pleads, the look on her face forcing me to fight the urge to roll my eyes, because I can recognize the pout from a mile away. But in spite of it, I find I am not exactly in a position to refuse.
Today was a shit day. A day I would rather not spend any significant amount of time thinking about. I have no idea when my dad will be home.
And, even if I don't want to admit it, I'd really rather not be alone tonight, either.
"Fine. Just—let me—let me get a bag together with some clothes."
I am not expecting the hug Nancy gives me in response, the relief she feels almost palpable. But I accept it anyway, and head back toward my room with her trailing along in my wake, already wondering if I'll be able to slip away from whatever Nancy has planned for us tonight to check in on Mike and Eleven.
Two birds, one stone, right?
Absolutely nothing wrong with that.
…
"Hey, what the hell are you—"
"Shut up! Do you want your parents or Nancy to hear you?" I hiss, climbing down the last of the stairs into the Wheelers' basement, my eyes widening as I realize Lucas and Dustin are also in attendance, in addition to Mike and Eleven, "Uh—hi?"
"What are you doing here?" Mike demands, following after me as I move toward Eleven with a worried frown. She is sprawled out on the couch on her stomach, in a pale pink dress, with a blonde wig on her head, but it isn't the strange disguise that catches my attention. Rather, it is the pallor to her skin. How her eyes seem almost—sunken. Like she is immeasurably tired. Frail. Drained.
Her eyes meet mine, and I see one corner of her mouth lift in a faint smile, my body folding down until I am on my knees beside the couch in time to hear her faint greeting.
"H–-hi."
"Hey there. What—are you okay?"
Eleven nods, and tries to scoot herself up into a sitting position until my hand darts out on instinct to rest on her shoulder to stop her. I watch her sink back down, nestling her head against a thin sofa cushion and allowing her eyes to slip closed, but as soon as I hear Dustin's words coming from not all that far behind me, my gaze is ripped from her face to land upon him, instead.
"Will is alive."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Shh! Quiet!" Dustin orders, flailing his arms as though doing so will effectively mute my startled exclamation and prevent it from carrying upstairs, "Jesus, Cami, this isn't exactly the type of shit we want Mike's parents to know about!"
"You probably could've led her into it a little better, man," Lucas says, startling me with his sudden leap to my defense, given that when Dustin had initially dragged me into this, his approval was far from a sure thing, "Just saying."
"Oh, well excuse me, Lucas. Next time I'll just handle Cami with kid gloves."
"Guys, seriously, just shut up!" Mike cuts in, casting a backward glance toward the stairs, pausing just long enough to ensure no one was going to come rushing down to join us before going on , "The point is, Will isn't dead."
"And we know this because?"
"Because we heard him."
"Heard him how?" I question, looking between Mike, Lucas and Dustin with what I hope will be a sufficiently expectant expression to persuade one of them to come clean, "Come on, guys, I can't stay down here long, or Nancy will come looking—"
"The Heathkit."
"Okay, what the hell is a—"
"It's a radio. But that's not the point," Mike explains, the hurried nature of his words causing me to lift an eyebrow, though he seems to ignore that well enough in favor of going on, "He was singing that song he likes. You know, the one Jonathan got him into."
"I know it," I nod, confusion over how any of this can even be possible at odds with the knowledge that my encounter with that thing in the woods—the thing that had taken Will, and probably Barb, too—should prove that whatever I used to believe about the world is no longer valid.
"We think—we think he's in a place called The Upside Down."
"What the hell is the Upside Down?"
"It's like the Vale of Shadows," Dustin replies, the term causing my brow to lift again, and giving him every reason to allow a frustrated huff to break free in response to my apparent inability to follow along, "It's in Dungeons and Dragons."
"Right. Very helpful."
"You've played with us before!"
"And you honestly think I remember a single thing about it? I was only there because Jonathan—"
"Again, not the point!" Mike intervenes, effectively silencing the brewing argument between Dustin and I with a frustrated look, one hand running over his face as though we are suddenly the most taxing two people in the world.
"Okay, Wheeler. Arrive at the point, then."
"Don't you think that's what I'm trying to do?"
"Guys!"
Lucas' exclamation effectively silences us all for a beat, my head dropping into my hands as I try to cling to the belief that this is all just some made up game. A way for the boys to keep Will alive, so that they don't have to face their own grief. But I keep going back to the memory of Eleven, saving me from the creature in the woods. The photograph Jonathan took of Barb, and the exact same creature.
Jonathan telling me Joyce was seeing things coming out of the walls. That Will was talking to her through the lights.
I don't want to believe any of it, but the more time that passes, the more I am starting to realize I have little to no choice in the matter at all.
"Okay, Mike. What is the point?"
The words come out far steadier than I expected them to, and I have to mentally pat myself on the back, though almost as soon as I do, Mike is speaking again, yanking the metaphorical rug out from beneath my feet before I even have a chance to catch my breath.
"The Upside Down is like—a parallel dimension. Like this one, but—different."
"O–okay?"
"We think Will is there. Hiding."
"From the—"
"Demogorgon," Mike finishes for me, somehow having managed to get a hold of the small figurine that Eleven had slammed on the back of the game board the other day, the grim nod he gives causing a knot of dread to squeeze around my chest like a vice, "We just—don't know how to get there."
"You can't seriously be thinking about—"
"Of course we're thinking about it! We have to save Will!"
"Okay. Okay," I breathe, exhaling slowly and squeezing my eyes shut in an attempt at gathering my patience, "Let's just say, for argument's sake, that you do find a way into this—Upside Down. What's your plan after that?"
"What?"
"Your plan. If Will is hiding, that tells me there's tons of dangerous sh—crap—down there. Like this demo—demo—"
"Demogorgon."
"Right. And uh—how are four kids supposed to fight something like that?"
"Eleven has superpowers," Dustin declares, folding his arms across his chest, and looking at Eleven proudly, even though she barely lifts her head from the pillow it is resting on in response.
"Dustin, that's one of you. One. What the hell are the rest of you gonna do?"
"Well first we need to figure out how to get there, so we're kind of sitting ducks until that step is a go."
"And how do you plan on doing that?" I ask, somehow knowing that I don't stand a chance at talking Dustin, or any of the other kids down, though I am not exactly willing to stop trying, either way. None of them have an immediate reply, opting for sharing a look that I clearly am not meant to be privy to, instead.
"Guys! How do you plan on doing that?"
"We don't know!" Lucas practically shouts, the remark causing me to flinch, though I can tell just by the way he almost immediately recoils that he didn't mean to come off so strong at all, "Sorry. It's just—we're all kind of just—still trying to figure this out."
"Then I'll go with you."
The words are out of my mouth before I can even give them a second thought, but I know I would never take them back, even if I wanted to. No matter my belief or lack thereof in everything the boys are telling me—in everything I have seen with my own eyes, so far—I'm not about to let them walk into anything truly dangerous on their own.
Of course, as immediate as my decision was, I really should have predicted that Mike would find a means of protesting in seconds, flat.
"No. No. Absolutely not."
"Why?"
"She's—I mean—she's not in the party, Dustin."
"So? We could use all the help we can get, right?" Dustin suggests, ignoring the way Mike is already opening his mouth to disagree, and turning to look at me, instead, "El has her superpowers. Lucas has the wrist rocket. I'll bring sustenance for our travels, and Cami can bring some of her dad's fire power. It's the perfect plan."
"Fire power?"
"Yeah. Like—like guns and stuff."
"Guns and stuff," I groan, shifting to sit cross-legged on the floor beside the couch and Eleven, because my feet are starting to go numb the way I am still crouched on my knees, "Jesus Christ, Dustin."
"Well you can—you know how to shoot, right?"
"Of course I do."
"Okay then. That settles it."
"Well I'm glad you think so."
"If you want in, that's the way," Mike suddenly snaps, clearly beyond over the entire discussion, though the way he isn't immediately coming up with another attempt at shooting me down is surprising to say the least, "Take it or leave it."
I only spare a second to think about it before I am giving Mike a reluctant nod, not at all sure of how I'm supposed to manage sneaking one of my dad's guns away from home, and yet knowing there isn't a single thing I would do to risk being left behind when the kids go off in search of the gate, themselves. It's ridiculous. There's still a part of me clinging rabidly to the idea that none of this can possibly be real.
But I'm already in enough trouble with my dad for skipping school. For detention. For being so evasive when he tries to ask me what is going on…
What's a little more?
"Fine. I'm in. When are we doing this?"
"You're coming back here with Nancy after the funeral tomorrow, right?"
"Right," I confirm, my brow furrowing as I try to figure out where Mike is going with that, only to find he is filling in the blanks for me with an aggravated scowl.
"We'll tell you then."
I know that is about all I'm going to get, and so I settle for taking it at face value, forcing myself to stand so that I can start to head back upstairs. I look back at Eleven, at first thinking she is asleep, with how quiet she has been during the entire exchange about finding the gate. But as soon as I notice the small furrow on her brow, I realize perhaps that initial suspicion was incorrect.
Frowning, because I know it is far too late to do anything about it now, since I've already been away from Nancy for long enough, I force myself to continue on up the stairs, once again shaking my head at how I have somehow allowed a bunch of kids to rope me into something I should probably ignore.
I can only hope the decision will not turn into one that I regret.
…
Rogue Cami strikes again! Oops? I think at this point, it's probably safe to say the muses are running the show, not me. But hopefully nobody minds all that much? I think I'm having far too much fun to stop, now!
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 so far (and special thanks to Crystal-Wolf-Guardain-967, and Guest, for leaving such lovely remarks the last time around!) I'm so very glad you're enjoying the story so far and I hope you all continue to enjoy what comes next!
Until next time, angels…
MOMM