If this was what a hangover felt like, Christine vowed she was never going to drink again.

The end of the night was a smudge of memories—crying on the sidewalk, stumbling through the door, collapsing onto the couch. She hadn't even bothered to take off her shoes before falling asleep. Her arms felt numb where the denim jacket cut off her circulation, and she knew that the throw pillows were leaving unsightly creases in her face. But she was too tired to move.

The only idea that seemed tempting was a trip to the bathroom. At the moment, it felt like she'd sustained a gaping wound in the lining of her stomach, and gastric acid was flooding her body, disintegrating her organs as it went. She wasn't sure if vomiting would help. It certainly wasn't going to help her head, which was pounding like she'd never felt before.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

"Hey! Hellooo in there! Rise and shine, Walcott! Wake up!"

Boom. Boom. Boom.

"Hello?! I know you can hear me! Christine? Hey, Chrissy!"

Boom. Boom. Boom.

Christine groaned, pressing her face farther into the pillow. She was relieved that the pounding wasn't just her head, but she wasn't sure she had the energy to kill the person knocking on the door.

"Go away," she grumbled. "I'm up! Just go away!"

"No can do," the voice called through the wall. "Come on! Up and at 'em! Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey! I'm not leaving!"

The banging resumed once more, twice as persistent now that she was definitely awake. Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom…

"Shut up! Fine! I'm coming!"

Christine forced her body upright, and every nerve screamed in agony. She clutched her head, waiting for the tilt-a-whirl that was her living room to come to a halt. Then she dragged herself to her feet and stomped to the front door. She threw it wide open with a death glare set on her face.

"See? I'm awake. Go home."

"Woah," said the boy on the stoop, grabbing the door before she could shut him out. "You look like shit."

"Thanks, Dustin. Go home."

"No can do. I told you. You didn't check in yesterday, so Mom sent me to make sure you're alive."

"Well, I'm alive. And it's…" She leaned back to glance at the living room clock. "Jesus! It's eight o'clock! In the morning!"

"Yeah? It's also really cold! Are you gonna let me in or what?"

Christine huffed, and threw a hand up in exasperation. Dustin mimicked her, waving his arms over his head and side-stepping her to get into the house. She smacked his hat off in retaliation, which he was only just able to recover.

"What are you doing up, anyway?" Christine asked, closing the front door. "Kind of early for a Sunday."

Dustin rounded on her with his arms over his chest. "Is it early? Or were you just up too late?"

"Excuse me?"

"That's right. What were you doing getting home so late?"

"Well, what were you doing up so late?"

"Well, what were you…?" He trailed off, realizing that she had him. Then he shrugged. "I was reading. New X-Men comic came out last week."

"Okay. Well, I was coming home from a party."

"And I'm up because it's campaign day. I'm on my way to Mike's. You wanna come?"

Christine frowned, her memories of the previous night becoming clearer. "Uh…no. Not this time, buddy."

"Is it because you're drunk?"

"Oh ha, ha. I'm not drunk. I'm…hungover."

Dustin grinned, jabbing a finger at her. "You need fluids."

He marched into the kitchen without invitation. Christine went to roll her eyes, only to find that somehow hurt. She pinched the bridge of her nose and trailed behind him. Taking a seat on a stool at the counter, she watched him bustle around.

"Not to be a downer, Dust, but I don't really think more liquid is the solution here."

"Nope!" he said cheerily. "Alcohol dehydrates you, which is why you need to drink water. And you need to eat, to soak up all the nasty shit in your stomach."

He slammed a box of Cheerios in front of her, along with a glass of water, and slid them across the counter.

"You should also take some aspirin. But I don't know where you keep that."

"Medicine cabinet in the bathroom," she groaned, grabbing the glass. Dustin, however, didn't move. "...Well?"

"What, you want me to get it? What am I, your dad?"

"Of course." Christine shook her head with a grudging smile. "Thanks, Dustin."

"You got it."

She grabbed the box of cereal, plunging her hand unceremoniously into its depths rather than wait for a bowl. "Where'd you learn all that stuff anyway?"

"Anti-drug assembly. You probably had one too. You're just too drunk to remember."

"Not drunk," she corrected, offering him the box. "Hungover."

"Whatever." He stuffed a handful of Cheerios into his mouth, and continued. "Wha' par-ee were you ah? You didn' sah ahneethin to me 'bout it."

"Yeah, it—it was sorta a last minute thing."

"Sorra?"

"Yeah. What about it?"

Dustin gulped, fixing her with a suspicious stare. "So what does that mean, 'sorta'?"

Christine suffered through the pain to roll her eyes.

"It means someone asked me about it when I was at work."

"Was this someone a dude?"

"Dustin…"

"Was his name Steve Harrington?"

"God, you're annoying."

"Well? Was it?"

"Yes," she groaned, leaning back on her stool. "Yes, it was Steve Harrington. Are you happy?"

"Um, obviously," said Dustin, grinning. "I don't know why you're not."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, Steve Harrington asked you out," he said, raising his voice an octave at Steve's name. "Mr. Perfect Steve Harrington who you've been obsessed with for like, ever. I'd figured you'd be over the moon. What's your damage?"

"It's nothing," Christine sighed, propping her elbows on the counter and laying her chin in her hand. "Just girl problems."

"Girl problems like emotional drama or girl problems like body stuff?"

"Dustin!"

"What?" he asked, holding up his hands defensively. "It's a valid question!"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Did something happen?"

"What did I just say?"

Dustin jumped back, and Christine instantly regretted snapping at him. But there was some sick satisfaction that came with the silence. He didn't push her. He just frowned at the cereal box and scuffed his sneakers against the floor.

Christine turned away, busying herself with the glass of water he'd poured for her. Even after one sip, she felt a little better. Stupid psychosomatic crap.

"I heard you crying." Dustin was kicking the baseboard idly, avoiding her gaze. "When you came home last night. That's why I came to check on you."

She bit back a sigh. Annoying as he could be, Dustin always meant well. It was one of the reasons it was nearly impossible to stay mad at him.

"I'm fine, Dustin," Christine said softly. "I promise."

"Did he hurt you?"

"No."

"Do you want me to egg his house?"

"No, Dustin."

"Are you sure? Cause I really wanna egg his house."

"Yeah, I'm sure," she chuckled, shaking her head. "It's…It's not his fault anyway. Not really."

She was hoping that they could leave it at that. But of course, with Dustin there were never any open-ended conclusions. His curiosity always needed to be sated. So he stared at her expectantly until she conceded.

"It's nothing. He just doesn't like me. Not like that."

"If he doesn't like you, why did he invite you to the party?"

"Um…well, I guess he was hoping someone else would come with me."

"Who?"

This time it was Christine who stared pointedly at Dustin. A look of comprehension dawned on his face, and his mouth dropped into a small oh.

"So that's why you don't want to come to D&D."

"Yeah. And considering I ditched crying when I saw her making out with Steve, I doubt she wants to see me either."

"Gross."

Christine wiped her hands down her face, as if she might be able to remove her problems like a mask. "Look, I don't want you talking about this with the party. The last thing I need is the four of you gossiping in the basement about Nancy and me."

"Hey, I'll be cool," he said innocently. "Scout's honor."

"You're not a boy scout."

"Bard's honor."

"Slim at best."

"Well now you're just being rude. And for that, I'm taking your Pop Tarts."

"No!"

Christine lunged forward, but Dustin was faster. He swept the entire box of pastries off the counter, ran round the other side, and bolted into the living room.

It didn't take long to catch up. She grabbed him round the middle just before he got to the front door, and hoisted him up into the air. Dustin squealed, kicking his legs desperately as he tried to wriggle out of her grasp.

"Let go of me! Put me down! This is child abuse! Child abuse!"

"You're child abuse," Christine grunted. She placed him back on the ground, and wrenched the Pop Tarts out of his hands. "Gimme that. You can have one package. That's it."

Dustin stuck his tongue out at her, but accepted the snack without complaint. He made a show of tucking them inside his backpack, and carefully pulling it onto his shoulders. Then he dusted himself off, trying to look dignified.

"Alright, get going, loser," said Christine, walking to get the door for him.

But Dustin stayed where he was.

"You know there's always gonna be one person that loves you, right?"

"Wow," Christine laughed, ruffling his baseball hat over his curls. "You are such a ham today."

"Oh no. Not me. I meant Lucas."

"Oh my God, just get out of here, Dustin."

"No, I'm serious! He's always had a giant crush on you! Why do you think we're friends?"

Christine sighed, leaning back against the front door. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought it had something to do with comic books."

"Nope. On the first day of fourth grade, you offered to walk me to school, and everyone in my class thought I was the coolest because I had a middle school girl as a friend. Lucas was the first person to say hi to me after that."

"Wait," she said, narrowing her eyes at him. "Didn't I introduce you to Mike on the first day of fourth grade?"

"Semantics." He waved a hand at her contradiction. "I just want you to remember there are people out there smarter than Steve Harrington. And we're also like, way cooler."

Christine nodded, unable to contain a warm smile. She swung the door open, letting Dustin go first and then following him out onto the stoop. He practically skipped down the path to her driveway, where his bike was waiting faithfully.

"Hey," she called, as he clambered on. "Thanks for the pep talk, Dusty."

Dustin lifted his hand in salute, and gave her a toothless grin. "Hey, I learned a new trick on my bike this week. Wanna see?"

"Yeah, go crazy."

He beamed, getting off to a rocky start as he peddled down the driveway. He looped the wrong way when he hit the street, gaining speed before he raced toward the Wheelers. Once he hit top speed, he took both hands off the bike, cupped them to his mouth, and screamed at the top of his lungs.

"STEVE HARRINGTON IS A DOUCHEBAG!"

Christine clapped a hand over her mouth. She instinctively checked the street for bystanders, but no one was around to glare reproachfully. That was a relief, since she failed to repress her snort of amusement.

"Hey!" she shouted after Dustin. "Watch your language!"

"Watch your alcohol intake!"

He waved to her over his shoulder, hardly breaking as he zoomed around the corner and completely out of sight. Christine grinned as she watched him go.

"Little shithead."

She closed the door, heading back to the living room where the couch was calling to her. She hadn't planned on being up this early. Not that she'd done much planning anyway. Her muscles begged her to go back to sleep—couch, bed, it didn't matter. However, she also knew that she had a lot of homework to do. And of course, she felt like crap.

She finished another glass of water to be safe, and passed on the Cheerios to make some toast. The thought of eating still made her insides writhe in protest, but she knew Dustin was right. She wouldn't feel any better until she got something in her stomach.

After that piss poor breakfast, she dragged herself to the bathroom. She brushed her teeth twice, desperately trying to remove the slimy feel of punch from her gums. She scrubbed at her skin in the shower, nearly scorched herself with hot water, but none of it mattered. It was like the ghost of that stupid house party had gotten under her skin.

While the shower didn't particularly help ditch her bad mood, it had made her exhausted. Christine didn't think twice as she passed the phone, or the pile or work next to her desk. That could wait until after a nice, long nap.

At least, it had seemed like a good idea at the time. It had seemed like a good idea when she woke up again at noon, the sun gently filtering through the window. It had only started to seem questionable when she sat down at one o'clock, refreshed and well-fed, and faced the enormous pile of homework that was due the next morning.

As much as people teased her, Christine was not a particularly studious person. She wasn't diligent like Nancy—studying weeks in advance and chipping away at large projects in reasonable, organized amounts. More often than not, everything was pushed to the last minute, and she'd give it her best shot. Thankfully, her best shot was usually pretty good.

Science came easy to her. Analyzing how things worked, actually wanting to understand—it was natural for Christine. In other subjects, she had to work a bit harder. Her math grades were fine, even if she didn't love trig. What was the point of studying something they couldn't use in everyday life? She always struggled with history. Dates and names she didn't need went right to the garbage center of her brain. But at the moment, she was grappling with an English paper.

It was just a chapter analysis, and it should have been simple. But her head was aching, the words were blurry, and she couldn't have cared less about the assignment. Every few minutes, she'd get distracted by cleaning her room, or getting another snack. She told herself she was mulling the answers over in her head. She knew in reality she was just finding more ways to procrastinate.

Eventually, she reached the point where she began eyeing the telephone. Her homework wasn't the only thing she'd been putting off, and she honestly wasn't sure which chore she'd rather face. But knowing she wouldn't get much further without some assistance, she decided it was worth the risk.

Christine dragged her schoolwork into bed, pulling her phone off the nightstand and plugging in the familiar number. It only rang a few times before someone picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Mrs. Holland. It's Christine."

"Oh, hello, Christine! Is everything alright? It's getting a bit late, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I'm so sorry. I'm having some trouble with my English homework and I was looking for some advice. Is Barb still up?"

"You know, I think she was just heading to bed. Hold on, sweetie."

There was a moment's shuffle as Mrs. Holland pulled the receiver away, calling down the hall to her daughter. Christine barely heard her muffled reply, and a few seconds later there was a soft click as the call was passed off.

"Christine?"

"Hey, Barb. Did you finish the review for Striffler's class? I feel like I've read the chapter eight times and I'm still not finding anything useful."

"That's it?" Barb asked flatly. "No 'what's up,' 'how are you'? 'Sorry I didn't call you back last night'?"

Christine closed her eyes, briefly pressing the receiver against her forehead. That was the attitude she'd been hoping to avoid.

"Barb, I'm begging you. I feel like crap, I've read the same sentence seventeen times, and I just want to finish this crap so I can go to bed. Please."

"Funny," she said sourly. "How is it you can rant for twenty minutes about symbolism and foreshadowing in Hitchcock's Psycho, but as soon as it's time for Striffler's assignments, it all goes out the window?"

"Because Grapes of Wrath is boring as shit, Barb. Please. If I try to relate one more scene to the turtle in chapter three, Striffler's gonna have me kicked out of school."

"Fine. But you are not hanging up until we finish this conversation."

That was as good as she was going to get. It was lucky enough that Barb hadn't forced the conversation first, and made her wait for homework answers at the end. Not that she made it easy. Her advice was all given pretty flippantly, parsed with vague jabs about unreliability and lack of commitment. Christine knew she was just joking—mostly—but she also knew she deserved it. She had promised to call, after all.

It took Barb twenty minutes to finish what Christine had been working on all evening. It was a relief to finally close her binder. She took a moment to relish the sound it made when she kicked it off her blanket and onto the floor.

"Seriously, Barb. Thank you. I'd be lost without you."

"Yeah, anytime. I'm just glad to hear you aren't…you know, dead or something."

"I'm sorry," Christine offered earnestly. "It…It was just a really rough night."

"Yeah, sounds like it."

"You already talked to Nancy."

It was a statement, not a question, but Christine was still hoping Barb might correct her. She did not.

"Yeah, first thing this morning. And again like, half an hour ago. Chrissy, you should really call her. She sounded pretty freaked."

"I'll bet," said Christine, unable to repress a snort.

"She was worried about you," Barb insisted. "I mean, from what she said you went to the bathroom and just disappeared."

"I was sick. If she was really so worried, she could have called me."

"She thinks you're mad at her."

Christine pursed her lips, twirling the phone cord around her finger. "Yeah, well she's not wrong."

"What happened?"

"You talked to Nancy. You know what happened."

"Maybe I wanna hear it from you."

"Right. You wanna hear it from me, or you wanna find out how much I know so Nancy can keep the rest to herself?"

"No, Christine…"

"No! Let's—Let's be real, Barb. I know why Nancy didn't call me. She wants to keep her perfect fantasy alive for just a little longer before I come into the picture and mess things up. Because, you know, it's me that messes things up. That's what I do. We went to the party, I messed up, Nancy dazzled everyone with her sparkling personality, and next thing I know, she has her tongue halfway down Steve's throat."

"Chris."

Christine huffed, banging her head against the wall.

"Sorry," she sighed. "I just…I was being an idiot. I don't know why I thought it was gonna go any differently. In the end, Nancy always gets what she wants. She always has to get what she wants."

"I know you don't want to hear it, but…she could kind of say the same thing about you."

Christine glared at the foot of her bed. "Excuse me?"

"Look, I get that you're upset," said Barb, speaking very quickly now, "and I totally feel that. It sucks. But look at it from her point of view. You made it into Steve's class, you got to be his lab partner, he visits you at work, and every time Nancy's tried to be supportive. She's been happy for you. That's all she wants from you."

"It's not like I chose to be Steve's partner. I didn't have any control over that. She didn't have to kiss him."

"Takes two to tango," she pointed out. "And I'm willing to bet that you're not as angry at Steve as you are at her."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh come on, Christine. I know you're smarter than that."

"How can I blame him for liking Nancy better?" she sighed, picking at the edge of her blanket. "Everybody else does."

"Okay, no. You are not allowed to turn this into a pity party."

"I'm just saying it's true. It's not his fault."

"It is his fault because he's using you! He used you to get to Nancy, just like he's using you to pass physics! Chris, you…you have to know that."

Christine frowned down at her sheets. She did know it. She'd known it from the moment Tommy had made that stupid joke and Steve had freaked out. She'd probably even known it before. But what on earth was she supposed to do about that? She couldn't get away from him. She couldn't just stop saying yes, even if she wanted to. It was so much easier to pretend it wasn't happening. At least then she got to enjoy some of his company.

"It doesn't seem to bother Nancy," she said instead.

Barb scoffed on the other end of the line. "I know. And I won't pretend she's not being dumb. It's just because you're both blinded by his luscious locks or his sunglasses or whatever it is."

Christine chuckled wistfully. "Yeah. Sorry about that."

"Hey," she continued, her voice softer this time. "I know that he's cute, and he's super popular and charming, but…you deserve more than that. I need you to know that."

"Thanks, Barb."

"Anytime. Really. Anytime you need me to remind you that the guy's dumb as dirt, I will." Christine snorted, and she could hear Barb's smile through the phone. "I just worry about you, Chris."

"Did you say all this to Nancy?"

"I tried to. She was actually pretty blasé about the whole thing. Keeps insisting 'there's nothing to worry about' and 'it wasn't like that.'"

"Right. Take it from someone who was there. It was definitely like that."

She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to focus on the intricate seam-work of her comforter. She didn't want to remember what they'd looked like cuddled together on the couch, wrapped up in each other's arms. The image kept creeping up behind her eyelids when she blinked. She suspected that was part of the reason she still felt so nauseous.

"Is that why you left?" Barb asked gently.

"Kinda," admitted Christine. "Part of it, anyway. I was pretty drunk, and then Tommy and Carol started ragging on me about the whole thing."

"Assholes."

"Yeah, well, I shoved Tommy into a wall so…I kinda split after that."

"Look at you," Barb laughed. "What a badass."

"Oh, totally. I spilled punch on Carol and then ran out of the house crying. Real badass."

Christine managed a grin, but it was short lived. Another thought was creeping up on her, a question she wasn't certain she wanted the answer to.

"Was Nance mad that I left?"

"No, no," Barb assured her. "Mostly she just sounded concerned, but…Steve also drove her home, so. I imagine that had something to do with it."

"Right." Her heart sank, which didn't help matters with her stomach. "Of course."

"I really think you should call her, Chrissy. You two need to talk."

"I know. I know, I do. I just…I kind of want to wait until I know what I want to say. Until I'm over it."

"Do you really think you're gonna get over it?"

"Well…no. But I'd at least like to wait until I can close my eyes without imagining the two of them groping each other again."

"It could be worse. You could be stuck seeing Tommy and C—…"

The line went dead without warning. Or not dead, so much as broken. Loud static screeched from the phone, and Christine wrenched it away with a yelp. She rubbed her ear, grimacing.

"Hello? Barb? Barbara?"

She rattled the handset at a loss, then whacked the base for good measure. When that didn't work, she jiggled the hook. She brought the phone back to her ear, expecting to hear the dial tone, but—nothing. Just the static that she couldn't place.

Christine frowned, dropping the set back on her nightstand. Well. At least she had a good excuse for avoiding Nancy.

Figuring she would worry about it later, Christine decided to get ready for bed. She shoveled all of her books into her bag, and double checked that the front and back doors were locked. The bathroom light flickered annoyingly—too dim, too yellow, then bright enough to blind her as she brushed her teeth. She smacked it to limited effect, and made a mental note to change the bulb sometime soon.

She slipped under the covers, stretching slightly so she could turn off her lamp. And just before she could, the light flickered, and went out.

Christine paused. A glance out the window confirmed that there couldn't be a blackout. The streetlamps were still shining brightly, and a few of the lights were still on next door. She listened carefully, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. Just the clicking of her alarm clock, the gentle rumble of the heater. A dog barked somewhere down the block, but besides that, it was silent.

Nothing stood out, except for the uneasy prickle on the back of her neck. She did her best to ignore it, and pulled the blankets a bit tighter around her.