"How'd the interview go yesterday, Ro?"

Dazed, she all but halted in her tracks as the words were muttered out. Her mind was in a rush, the smell of fuel filling her lungs and last lyrics from one of her brother's many prolonged jam sessions still ringing in her ears. It left her to wonder if she had imagined it, or if the TV sounded very like her dad.

No voice, however, made the hair on her neck stand up like his, even when it sounded calm.

Did Neil Hargrove grow feelings or was she just hallucinating? Hallucinating, she thought. Definitely hallucinating . . . But she was proved wrong. Max looked back to her with her small, freckled face scrunched up in confusion.

Only a few seconds ago was Rowen under the assumption that her stepsister's story about four stalker boys dressed as the Ghostbusters was the weirdest thing she heard all day . . . but when she shared a bewildered look with Billy she began to think otherwise. Not only that, but the question did in fact came from their dad's mouth. She would not have been quite as surprised if it was Susan who asked her. The woman always made an effort to care about her life, whether it came across as genuine or not . . . but for those words to come from Neil Hargrove? Not at all possible. Unbelievable, at least.

Rowen stared at the back of his recliner, adjusting the bag that hung from her shoulder. "Uh . . fine?" she said, trying to keep it from sounding like a question. "Fine. Really fine, actually. Great."

She looked to Billy again, awaiting his own confusion and a weird sense of comradery, but he glared and crossed his arms as if he knew. Liar was what his glare said. Rowen didn't move to object. Lying was difficult when it came to their dad — not impossible, but difficult — even with her still-disclosed high school record.

"Good."

Good? Did he just buy that?

Rowen tried not to look at her dad as if he had grown two heads.

He was never like this — an understatement, really. Neil Hargrove showing any emotion that resembled care was less likely than most miracles, and it only made it stranger that he was home at this hour. On a normal day, he would never appear through the back door before the sun set; he always appeared from the darkness and the cold and complained about both while Susan stood there and took it.

Was this day somehow special to him? Did he have a lifting of the spirits they had completely missed? His newfound curiosity stretched far enough to make even Billy stop, lingering at the dining room threshold to hear the end of the conversation instead of retreating into his room as Max had done.

"That's good," Neil was slurring, passing by his children with lackadaisical steps. "You get your butt working so you can get outta here like you always wanted."

He plopped a glass on the kitchen counter. Rowen spotted the label. Lifting of the spirits indeed, she thought. She knew a beer bottle when she saw one.

Billy saw the bottle too, sidestepping out of the way before his shoulder collided with the shoulder of his father.

Rowen blamed the urge to reach her room and near shock for not realizing until then, but for a moment, she forgot their dad even drank. He was working late so often and had been absent morning after morning that she thought of it less and less. Now, however, she could smell his breath and the memories that came with it were no less vile.

Halloween graces, perhaps, were the reason for his lifted presence, she decided; but the fact that he was openly drinking made her wonder, especially about what Susan would say. She might have already said something.

Susan did not approve of the drinking; she made that very clear the first time she ever saw a bottle in his hand. They had been dating, then, and like a typical boyfriend, he made the promise to stop, but never actually acted on it. He was good at hiding it from her, but not good enough at hiding it from his kids.

Susan had assumed he had stopped. She even made a comment about how he was always nicer on the weekends, thinking that his work was tiring him with the late hours during the week, therefore making him irritable and in need of rest. She wasn't very observant.

She didn't notice the occasional beer bottles that would show up in his car like Rowen did when she would borrow it on the weekends, nor had the chance to catch the smell of alcohol lingering in his breath. Billy had that chance many times.

It was why he retreated to his room before anything else could happen. Rowen followed.

"Remind me to never slow down when he's home, just — keep going."

Billy ignored her words, opening his closet. "You got something for tonight?"

"What's tonight?"

He did a poor job of hiding the way he groaned under his breath. "It's Halloween, what'd you think is tonight?"

Rowen feigned ignorance. "I don't know, you tell me."

Billy said nothing, stared at her in the way she would stare at him. They did it to each other, always made each other cave.

"Yes, I have something," she sighed, begrudgingly. "I don't know why you want me to come, it's not like I'm gonna spend the night talking you up."

"I know you're not," he said, replacing his usual jean jacket for a leather one, testing it out. "But it wouldn't look great if I showed up without you when I said you'd make an appearance."

"You said I'd make an appearance?" she echoed. "What am I, Stevie Nicks?"

"These people don't know Stevie Nicks, Rowen. No one cares, either."

Rowen to great offense to this, sighed as if all hope had gone from her. "Yet another town with no taste," she declared, pacing within the small space of the hall. "It might as well be torture."

"It's really not."

"Is," she argued. She was all but pouting.

"You know you could try not being overdramatic for once."

"And you could try not to be annoying. But you're my brother, so I guess it's your job."

He gave her the finger, though never broke his gaze away from the mirror.

"Why is my coming with you so important, anyway? It's a Halloween party," she said, laughing to herself. "Am I supposed to be living up to a reputation you gave me within the span of two days or something?"

Billy huffed. "It's not a reputation. People just know we're related and think you go to the college a few miles out of town."

Rowen ceased pacing, stared through the threshold. "They what?"

He shrugged. "Going to one is cool around here. They think you spend all your time at frat parties getting drunk of your ass."

She eyed him suspiciously. "And why, exactly, do they think that?" She had a feeling she wasn't going to like what he was about to say.

Billy said nothing for a moment, giving more attention than was needed to a curl that was not falling the way he wanted over his forehead.

"Billy . ."

"Shit — would you be patient for once? I'm busy."

"You lie," Rowen stated. "Answer the question."

He threw his hand down in frustration. "I told people you were, okay? Happy now? Can I be left in peace?"

Rowen gaped slightly. "What the hell were you thinking? You know I'm not in college and don't plan to, either."

"I was thinking that having a sister who slummed around and did nothing but take a thirteen-year-old to the arcade wasn't something you bragged about."

Rowen crossed her arms. "I'm making an effort not to be insulted," she said. He kept quiet. "So this is about your reputation, hm? Not me or mine?"

"Whatever you wanna tell yourself."

He caught her scoff. "I can't believe you," she muttered.

"You don't have to," said Billy. "Just don't do anything stupid. Or do you want to be known as a deadbeat while we're here?"

"You think I care?" she said, retreated to her own room and slammed the door.

Rowen clenched her jaw. She hated it when he did that, when he stared right through her. She hated when he did anything remotely idiotic that either left her with the mess or pulled her into it. She hated when he knew her better than she thought he did. Some part of her did care about reputation. It was why she felt irate in that moment. She cared in the way that most people cared about being liked to some degree; not loathed, at least. Not popular — she had left that want behind in San Diego — . . . but still liked. She hated it, wanted to slap that part of herself. She hated him at that moment.

Meanwhile, on the other side, Billy finally managed to pull himself away from his hair to glance at the door, give it a knowing look. "I think you do, yeah," he said to himself, returning his attention to the matter at hand.

. . .

〝 𝑖𝑖.

Billy leaned against his Camaro, keys dangling from one hand, pinched cigarette in the other. Rowen was taking uncharacteristically too long to get ready and it was beginning to aggravate him.

Normally he was the bathroom hog, throwing either her or Max out of the tiny space when his turn came to primp. He was definitely the most meticulous with his looks, taking an hour just to do his hair and then who knows how long for the rest; a particularly long process, but it had to be done for two reasons. One: it was a must, simple as that. He valued his time in front of the mirror. Two: high schoolers noticed every detail. The high schoolers in Hawkins liked to gossip, too; in that, he could at least give them credit. They weren't complete idiots. The second something changed, it would be in people's mouths whether it was good or bad, relevant or irrelevant. And if Rowen opened her mouth, said the wrong thing, she would definitely be in theirs. So would he.

"Let me guess . . ." his sister's voice drawled.

He turned around.

Dramatically pointing a finger towards him, she guessed, "Dallas Winston?"

His eyes rolled into the back of his head. "No . ." She was in a much better mood than earlier.

The click of her heels filled his ears along with the click of their back door. Something about their neighborhood liked to fall silent when things got dark – not just then, he reminded himself. Any time it was quiet – day or night, rain or sun – even the smallest sound would fill your ears as if it was being boosted on a loudspeaker. Billy ached to break it sometimes, finding an excuse to fiddle with his lighter or swing his keys around just so there was a noise there to lift the dead weight of the quiet.

"Which one of 'The Outsiders' boys are you supposed to be, then?"

"Do you care?"

In reality, Billy wasn't dressed up as anyone. He didn't feel like dressing up as anyone. All he did was grab his leather jacket and a pair of torn jeans and hoped no one would ask. Dallas Winston was a pretty good idea, though; maybe the answer he'd give to anyone who would ask, too.

Rowen seemed to have a similar idea. With the all-black ensemble of tight pants, a flowy shirt, a shawl, and a top hat, he couldn't figure out what she was either or if she even made an effort.

"If I'm an Outsider then what are you supposed to be?" he asked.

Rowen could hardly keep herself from grinning. She stopped in her tracks, dramatically holding out one hand while the other gripped the top hat on her head. "And if you don't love me now, you will never love me again . . ."

A scowl appeared across Billy's face as she broke into song. He wanted to groan.

Stevie fucking Nicks. Of course. He had no qualms against the singer, but he would be lying if he said he wasn't getting sick of hearing about her.

"I can still hear you sayin', you would never break the chain!"

Amidst her obnoxious singing, Billy sighed loudly, flinging his cigarette into the grass before climbing into the car. His door was shut forcefully, grumpily; the engine roared, his own music blasted, competed with her bellowing.

He made an effort yet again not to throw something at her. In truth, he made an effort not to do a lot of things when it came to Rowen lately.

First the complaining over leaving home, then over having to carry boxes on her own, then the fact that he wouldn't help, then his lack of attention when it came to Max — seriously, who cared if she ran away? Now it was this: poking nerves, caring about what he said about her. He had gossiped about his sister plenty of times in San Diego when they were both in school, when they ditched for the beach or a gas station no one hung out at. She didn't care then. His methods hadn't bothered her . . . so where was this righteous attitude coming from?

Rowen liked being liked, it was as simple as that; she couldn't deny it even if she tried — and she did try. Billy had half a mind to remind her that she used to lie about things too, but he had a feeling all he would get out of that is a bad attitude and yet more complaining he didn't want to deal with.

She couldn't fool him, even if her want had lessened to the point where he questioned himself sometimes. Did she really care about being liked anymore? Yes, he thought as they turned a curb. Yes, she does. Enough to keep her mouth shut and put up with it.

Hawkins High wanted to meet her, so meet her they would.

. . .

〝 𝑖𝑖𝑖.

Rowen had met Tina very briefly on the second afternoon she had borrowed Billy's Camaro, thus subjecting herself to another one of his overly specific time schedules; thus subjecting herself to a very specific explanation of why she had to borrow his car to get to class, and promised to come back while she had a break before her last class. Tina bought it without question and somehow Billy had known she would. Within the span of twenty-four hours, her brother knew exactly who was gullible and who wasn't, who met where at what time, where their hideaways were, and a plethora of other details about the high school and its inhabitants she had tuned out on the way home.

She didn't care to listen; unlike him, she didn't have to mentally prepare to spend five days a week at the same place from eight to three. She did remember how he went on about how wrapping the majority of the student body around his finger was easier than most things, though, and that stealing the spotlight from someone called Steve Harrington was effortless.

Garnering Tina's attention was one of the many things that paled in comparison to whatever it was he considered a challenge. She had been one of the first to cling to his arm and attempt to make some kind of claim, as if not doing so would have lost her everything, knocked her down a few places on the popularity tier. Rowen felt bad for her, honestly. She seemed nice enough, but she had that same ignorant mentality that Rowen once had and desperately tried to claw herself out of once the realization hit. The realization had clearly not reached Tina yet.

She did know how to throw an impressive party though, and she wasn't exaggerating when she put "Get sheet faced" on the invitations. By the time they got there, people were already swaying, singing, blissfully unaware that they were yelling in each other's ears. People greeted her loudly while some followed the siblings almost faithfully — weirdly. She was sure someone had grabbed her top hat at some point because it was no longer on top of her head, and she could not find it. Toilet paper and various other strings of things were being hung on what looked to Rowen to be expensive paperweights and solid wood beams. She didn't realize how massive of a house Tina actually had until she noticed the painting that hung a good way above their heads, and that there was an upstairs above that.

Rowen was a little disappointed no one seemed to know who she had dressed up as; as if wearing one of her most iconic outfits wasn't obvious enough. She was annoyed that people kept asking, too, and that she had to keep answering because scoffing at their lack of taste was somehow on the list of things Billy didn't want her to do.

She found, however, that she didn't really care either, and got away with it more than once after being there for an hour. Besides, he was more engrossed in showing off than paying attention to the finer details of his sister's personality, or her preferences. He was more engrossed in making sure his newly-established king status was secured than realizing how she was about to see everything unfold.

Billy had stalked up to the front of the house after chugging what she could only imagine was an impossible amount to the people around them — if their uncontrollable cheering was any indication — presenting himself towards whoever in the way she liked to call the "mine is bigger than yours" stance he quickly grew accustomed to doing.

"We've got ourselves a new Keg-King, Harrington," one guy announced, klapping the very person he spoke of on the back.

"Yeah! Eat it, Harrington!"

Harrington — who she now realized was Steve Harrington, Billy's supposed competition — took off his sunglasses, ignoring the snide comments. "Is that right?"

"Forty-two seconds," Billy told him. "Heard you barely made it to Thirty."

Steve clenched his jaw. "Yeah well, that was a while ago."

"You saying you want a rematch?" Billy challenged him, earning a few sneers from the guys around them.

"Maybe so."

The guys around them were rilled up, whistling at his response.

Rowen rolled her eyes. She had tucked herself safely away near the kitchen until then, swirling her drink and paying attention to no one in particular. Now, however, she decided to push herself into the sem-circle they had formed, feeling an uncontrollable need to comment. "Now, now, ladies. You're all beautiful, there's no need to fight over it."

She had expected them to be insulted, Billy to fume — she prepared for it, in fact. The retort was worth it . . but all the guys did was laugh, grin at her as if they had just heard the most amusing thing.

Aside from Billy, of course. A subtle glare rested on his face; but then, it melted, and suddenly he was all smiles, too.

"You know what, my sister's right," he added smoothly, the original smirk twitching back onto his mouth. "Better to save you the embarrassment, Harrington."

"Better to save all of you the embarrassment," she retorted. "Unless you like crawling on the floor like a bunch of idiots."

She left them before Billy had time to react.

. . .

〝 𝑖𝑣.

Rowen spent the better half of two and a half hours avoiding her brother and lingering closely to the punch bowl. Whatever Tina had nabbed — or, Rowen ventured, might have even made herself — it was good. Very good. It almost made her annoyance towards the choice of music fade away . . almost — seriously, she failed to see the appeal in songs where all the singers did was screech . . Even with the buzz, her distaste didn't go away completely. A girl who looked as if she had stepped out of "All the Right Moves" had asked her what she was dressed as, and Rowen couldn't help but feel the disappointment creep back and settle. She was sure the girl who had asked her had come with Steve Harrington but failed to remember her name. She failed to remember a lot of names.

She had been inching progressively closer and closer to the door all night, starting in the backyard and beginning to retreat when a guy who had placed himself right at her brother's side — Tommy, she believed — was getting too close. Rowen had half a mind to knock some sense into him, but she didn't think punching a guy in the middle of a party was the smartest idea, nor a nice impression, however tempting. It was the entire reason for her coming, making a nice impression.

Though, at the moment, all she felt like doing was complaining about the music. She mentally tsked. No taste. None at all.

"Am I dreaming, or is that the Stevie Nicks I see?"

Rowen looked over her shoulder, greeted by a costume she almost mistook thanks to her brother. She wasn't sure if he'd ever admit it, but Billy had gone through a Kiss phase that spanned somewhere between six months and a lifetime. For a while, she did nothing but plug her ears and constantly pass posters with faces painted black and white, tongues sticking out more often than none. The girl in front of her was not nor did she look like she would stick her tongue out, and wondered then if the costume she was staring at was actually Siouxsie Sioux.

"If only I was the Stevie Nicks," she said. "I wouldn't be here."

The girl smiled, pushing a few stray, spiked bangs away from her eyes. "I'm not the biggest fan of Tina's parties, but everyone ditched their old plans to come here, so . ."

Rowen shrugged as if saying 'what can you do about it?' "What else is there to do on Halloween?"

"True," the girl said, laughing a little. "It's all we do when parents are gone. Or if they're here, people go to the edge of town and meet up at some weird, abandoned warehouse."

"A warehouse?"

She nodded. "I don't know why though. It closed down years ago because some guy died from exposure."

Rowen made a face of mild disgust. "I think I'll pass."

"Yeah," the girl agreed, a little humor in her voice. They sipped at their cups simultaneously. "I'm Samantha, by the way."

Rowen smiled, introducing herself.

"I've seen you around before, right?"

"Maybe," Rowen mused, though she figured Samantha was just making conversation. "Sitting in the parking lot. I'm not a student, I just pick my siblings up — . ." she pointed a finger at her. ". . — Don't tell Billy I told you that, though."

A look of realization appeared across Samantha's face. "Oh, yeah! Yeah, you're Hargrove's sister."

"Older," Rowen pointed out.

Samantha smiled. "Right."

The two talked for a little longer, claiming the corner in the kitchen so no one would bump into them or fall on top of them. Samantha seemed as indifferent about the party as Rowen was, which made her feel a little less isolated, at least, in her opinions.

She was, however, the only one out of the two that kept dipping and re-dipping her cup into the punch bowl. Rowen started to feel a little lighter than she had been, a little more giggly; a little less aware of her surroundings too. She hadn't noticed when a guy tried brushing past her, tried not to knock her over or trip over himself. Samantha addressed him.

"Nice costume," she said.

Rowen turned to see who she was talking to. He looked painfully out of place; if the lack of a costume was any indication.

He blanked under their stares. "Huh?"

"Nice costume," she repeated. Rowen grinned, trying to contain her laughter that seemed to bubble up a little too easily at the moment.

He caught on, inspecting his own outfit. "Oh, uh, yeah. I'm going as the guy who hates parties."

Samantha was the one to grin this time. She introduced herself.

"Jonathan," the guy introduced in return — forcing a smile, Rowen wondered, though wasn't sure of.

"This is Rowen," Samantha pointed to her. Rowen waved.

Jonathan nodded.

"Are you looking for someone?" she ventured.

He stared for a moment, confused, before looking out at the crowd, then Samantha, then back to her. "Oh, no. Not really, I just — . . wanted to see what it was like." He gestured awkwardly to the crowds around them.

"The party?"

He nodded.

"Ah, yes, because you're the guy who hates parties, but didn't feel like being a cynic for once and try enjoying yourself?"

He smiled meekly. "Kind of."

Rowen smiled back. "Well, I applaud you, sir, for turning a new leaf . ." she paused, turned away from him to squeeze past a few people. "If you really want to enjoy yourself, then I suggest a sip of this."

Rowen had dipped another solo cup into the punch bowl and offered it to him before he could say a word. Jonathan didn't object, but he took it tentatively.

"It's not poisoned, trust me," Samantha told him, looking between him and Rowen. "We'd be dead by now if it was."

"I'd definitely be," Rowen said, taking another sip as if to add emphasis.

Jonathan laughed quietly, a little nervously. He eventually took a sip, made a slightly disgusted face . . . but then drank again, against their assumption. Rowen and Samantha applauded him, making him feel a little less awkward.

Rowen's attention, however, was distracted once more. A blur of pink and black nearly knocked her over trying to get to the punch bowl, leaving Samantha and Jonathan to keep her from falling. They sloshed their drinks in the process.

"Get off!" the girl in pink — who she realized had asked her about her costume earlier — slurred to a guy in black, sunglasses dangling from his shirt. It took her a moment to realize that it was Steve.

"No, that's enough, okay?" he argued.

"Screw you!" the girl retorted, flailing her arms out towards the punch, of which she clearly had had her fill of, it seemed, but wanted more.

"Nancy, I'm serious — hey!"

The girl, who she now gathered was Nancy — Nancy . . Miller? Wheeler? she thought. Billy gave me too many names to keep up with.

Nancy was beginning to wrestle with Steve. Rowen was distracted enough by the buzz that made her focus a little fuzzy, nevermind whatever was beginning to happen between them. She didn't even register that Jonathan had hauled her back up before she could hit the ground; but she had a faint remembrance somewhere in the middle of it all that the two that were wrestling in front of her were supposedly dating. Rowen knew for sure that Steve was no longer the Keg King, knocked off his preverbal pedestal not even an hour ago by her brother.

Didn't she address him as one of the ladies that needed to calm down earlier?

"Hey — hey, stop! I'm serious, put it down," Steve pushed, fighting to get hold of the cup Nancy was refusing to drop.

"No!"

"Nance, put it down!"

"Steve, stop!"

What happened next felt like a scene out of a movie: the typical situation, she decided. Of course, by playing tug-of-war with a very flimsy cup, they would slosh its contents all over each other. Steve hadn't seemed to get a drop on him, though; Nancy was covered in it, and everyone gasped at the sight.

Nancy looked down at her ruined blouse, up to him with a glare that said she was not happy, even in her drunken state. "The hell," she mumbled, then stormed off.

Rowen raised her brows.

"Well then," Samantha said after a moment.

Rowen laughed. "That was great!"

"Great?" Jonathan spoke up, giving her a weird look.

"Yeah, it was like watching a movie. You know, when it gets all dramatic and stuff and then everything just falls apart like "Ahhh!" — . ." she started laughing even more, but when it died down, she pursed her lips. "I may be a little drunk."

"You think?" Samantha joked.

Rowen shrugged. "It's fine. I don't feel like I'm gonna fall over, but what I do feel—" she pointed her finger at nothing in particular, "— is the urge to knock some sense into people's music tastes. Like, seriously, what is this?" she asked, gesturing up to wherever the music was coming from. "You guys really need to listen to some Stevie Nic — woah, hey!"

Rowen was suddenly being dragged away from her new friends by a very strong grip around her wrist.

"Let a woman keep her wrist, would you?"

The grip ceased, and she came to realize that it was her brother who had dragged her from one end of the house to the other. "The hell, Billy?"

"The hell are you doing talking to Byers?"

Rowen scrunched her nose. "Who?"

"Jonathan Byers," Billy said, frustrated by her confusion. "The freak you were standing next to."

"Jonathan's not a freak," she said casually. "Shy, I think, but —"

"I don't care what you think, Ro. He's not a guy you wanna hang around."

She scoffed, smiling. "Since when do you care who I hang around?"

"Since people started associating us together."

Rowen had become distracted by her cup, chewing on the edge of it. Billy yanked it out of her grip. "Hey!"

"Whatever," he dismissed her whining, tossing the cup nowhere in particular. "Let's go before you can drink any more of that."

"Why?"

"Because," he pushed. "C'mon. This party's dying already." Billy resorted to dragging her by the wrist again.

"Billy we've discussed this: the wrist — let go!"

For once, he consented. "Fine, but no wandering. No trying to find Byers again, either."

"Fine," she mocked his tone.

Rowen reluctantly followed. She didn't exactly feel like listening to him — for once, she was enjoying herself at a party. But, having lost sight of both Samantha and Jonathan, she wasn't sure where she was in the house anymore.

A blur of black whizzed by her.

Rowen maintained her balance this time, gripping the railing that appeared as if out of nowhere, ready to assist her. She hadn't spotted the sunglasses, but she registered the fact that it was Steve who passed her. She also registered the fact that he was heading for the door, alone. Rowen followed, assuming Billy was already waiting outside, ready to ask what the hell took her so long when it had only been a few seconds.

"Hey, are you leaving?"

She turned. Samantha had found her.

Rowen gave her an apologetic look. "Yeah," she said, then gave a mix of a scowl and a pout. "My dumb brother is bored already. He's my ride, so I have to go."

"Well, if you don't want to go yet, you could tell him I could give you a ride later?" Samantha offered.

Rowen thought about it. She wanted to accept it. Samantha was nice, and it seemed they were becoming friends, or at least something of it. But she knew she couldn't, even if her thoughts were all fuzzy.

She reluctantly shook her head. "I'll just go with him. Thanks, though." Rowen offered a smile, which Samantha returned, nodding.

"Okay, well . . I guess I'll see you around?"

"Look for me in the parking lot," Rowen told her with a very exaggerated point.

Samantha nodded once more, and the two separated, one for the door, the other for the crowds.

As Rowen breathed in the unbelievably cold air, plopped into the Camaro's passenger seat, she wondered where Jonathan could have gone.

Billy's radio drowned out any other thoughts she may have had.

. . .