Rowen figured it was for the best that she add Bradley's Bigbuy to the list of places she would never to go again. Ever again. Not when those like Bruce Lowe would regularly convenience it for what she guessed was a daily beer and a choice few words to whoever he felt like slithering up to with his pearly-white smile. If you could even call it a smile.
She hadn't meant to say what she said . . . No. No, actually, she had. She had meant it with every fiber of her being, just exactly what left him spurting. It was unbelievably satisfying to know that she had left him red in the face, embarrassed, unable to form words. He had deserved every second of it, she felt, coming up to her like that. Poking and prodding at every little detail of her interview . . "the nerve she had"; he had the guts to do it in public. It left her fuming, even if it was something she had begged herself to ignore. Something she could have — should have — ignored . . but she couldn't help it. He had made her properly angry — a feeling that had not beaten at the doors and shown itself for anyone in a while.
But she didn't care . . . not, at least, until it she realized it had somehow reached her dad. Anything but that, she thought, as he brought it up oh-so-casually at the diner table. Anything but that, she thought, after the one person who could put the fear of God into her had done just that. She wished she could have had the option to reverse time and find the sense to shut up — or maybe tackle herself and risk a time paradox. She had reminded herself enough that she did not need to add another tick to the list of things she had screwed up, made worse, or just all around disappointed people by doing . . and yet every time she thought of it, somehow it didn't keep her from continuing to make that list longer . . and longer . . . and longer.
She was sick of her consistency when it came to this, how she always managed to surprise herself just when she thought she had already done the worst. It had gotten to the point of little mishaps feeling like gigantic mistakes. Saying the wrong thing felt like putting a huge dent in the family truck. Bad-mouthing a guy who deserved it felt like it had when she drove herself and Max two hours away from San Diego so the then-twelve-year-old could see her dad — who was a million times more pleasant, Rowen thought, and didn't treat every little movement or word as if it was his to judge.
She wished her strings weren't so taut that one little thing could pluck them near the point of snapping, that one little thing like that could set her off. She wished it wasn't so sporadic, either, because somedays she felt fine. She felt ready to take on another freezing day one minute, ready to have a breakdown another. The only thing that felt constant was that she felt like she was stuck on a neverending rollercoaster.
If one more person blamed it on being a woman, she was going to punch something. Someone. A couple someones. She had a feeling if she heard it again, she wouldn't be able to answer for her actions. With her experiences — and her oh-so-humble opinion — men were more apt to emotional bursts and angry spurts . . But no one really cared to listen to her opinions, so what did it matter?
She didn't want to answer for the things she did after her dad left her alone that evening . . . though the thing was, the person she had to answer to was herself, because what she did was something that could only leave her feeling angry. Frustrated. Torn in half. She had ripped her old notebooks to pieces. She hadn't cared before she did it, as she did it, when she tried to write but failed, throwing the pieces of notebook paper — filled with stories and journals and a multitude of other things that had gotten her through high school — into the trash . . . It hadn't hit her until she woke up the next morning, feeling a little more empty than she would like to admit. She had nothing to look to anymore, nothing to grab and retreat somewhere with. Nothing to calm her down. Nothing but the cigarette packs she stole from her brother, anyway. They made her fidget less.
Max — in her own "I don't hate you, but I hate what you did, but I don't hate what you did because it's your choice, but why did you do that?" — kind of way, was pissed. As pissed as she could be towards her stepsister — which was minuscule in comparison to how angry she could get towards Billy. Rowen had the decency to appear ashamed when the redhead found out — though, in truth, she didn't have to try very hard. She did feel ashamed. She felt like an idiot.
She would have to rewrite the things she could remember. Salvaging was hopeless. Starting anew was unavoidable.
Max wouldn't have much to read for a while.
Rowen ended up leaving the house.
She ended up grabbing Billy's car keys from the counter and driving down Cherry Road, waving at their neighbor this time when he said good morning, cigar in hand.
Rowen had a feeling she would never denounce just how freezing it was in this little town, how it reeked of cow shit, as Billy said . . . though she had to give it credit where the silence was concerned. Driving down Hawkins's roads felt therapeutic in a sense. The one she drove down was empty, smooth . . . quiet, save the sound of the wind as she raced by the occasional house.
It helped. It really helped . . . but she was still twitching. Her fingers were tapping excessively on the steering wheel, her knee was bobbing. She needed something to do.
Rowen drove until the expanse of dead grass and empty fields began to fill up with houses and speed limit signs, until the expanse of dead grass and empty fields became no more, and she was suddenly in between buildings and passing through intersections.
The towering, maroon-colored building she had only ever passed until now came into view soon enough. Rowen snagged the first parking spot she could find, removing the keys from the ignition. She made her way down the concrete path, up the steps, stepped over a deep blue bicycle on her way up. When she entered, the library was relatively empty; there was, however, someone at the front, and the occasional person tucked away with a book here and there.
"Hello." A woman with unusually large glasses and a bright blouse greeted her from the front desk, twirling a pen between her fingers.
Rowen smiled. "Hi," she said, approaching the tall mahogany structure that separated them.
"Can I help you find something?"
Her mouth fell open. "Sort of? . . I was wondering if the library was looking to hire any help, maybe someone to shelve books?"
"Are you a student?"
Rowen hesitated. "Uh, no . ." she said reluctantly. "I finished high school in May."
The woman hummed. "Well, the library doesn't hire college students during the term due to our hours," she told her, adjusting her glasses. She had assumed Rowen was in college. Just like everyone else, she thought.
"I would recommend reaching out to our student program. They employ college students in many other places around Hawkins in exchange for credit. Other than that, I'm afraid there isn't anything else."
Rowen sighed, but thanked her. She didn't feel like correcting anyone at the moment.
WHAM!
A stack of books was dropped to the left of her; just clear of her hand, in fact. Rowen startled at the sound, turning to face a mop of curly brown hair tucked under a red, white, and blue trucker hat. The woman seemed to have forgotten she was there. Her full attention was now on their company, stern expression surveying the stack in front of her. She didn't look at all lenient.
"Mr. Henderson," she greeted. "You know the rules. Five at a time."
He nodded. "Yup. One, two, three, four, and five . ." His finger trailed down the stack until he came to five, and rested his hand back onto the desk. He had a confident smile on his face.
The librarian before them, however, was not convinced. She turned away, pulling out a yellow piece of paper to hand to him. "Ten," she stated. "You've already had five books checked out."
His smile faltered. "My mistake," he apologized. "However, I am on a curiosity voyage. And I need my paddles to travel."
Rowen raised her brow.
Confident, he continued, lifting a hand onto his stack of books: "These books . . these books are my paddles."
The librarian didn't budge. "Five. At. A. Time."
He sighed, letting his hand flop down to his side. "Please? I need these books. As a young person who's curiosity is piqued beyond measure, I believe this should be allowed. In fact, I think it should be allowed for every student! . . For those times when we just. Can't. Go to our teachers or our parents for the answer because they're just as clueless as we are . ." he paused, turning to Rowen. "Don't you think?"
She shrugged, looking at the librarian. "I mean, he makes a pretty good point," she said honestly. All she received was a glare.
"Mr. Henderson, I will not repeat myself," the woman told him. "You know the rules."
He rolled his eyes. "Are you shitting me?"
"Excuse me?"
Her tone made him shut his mouth. Then: "What the hell?" He pointed to something (or rather nothing) behind the librarian. Rowen expected his plan to fail, but, much to her surprise, the older woman fell for it. The second her back was turned, the books were off the desk and clutched in his hands. He was off.
"Mr. Henderson!" she called once turned back around.
"I need my paddles!" he shouted, pushing his way through the front doors.
Rowen couldn't help but let out a giggle. The librarian gave her another hard glare, making her race out almost as abruptly. When she came outside, she saw the same boy at the bottom of the steps, attempting to pile his books into his backpack. Rowen walked past him, trudging down the path towards her brother's car. The keys were forced into the lock, opened it.
"Woah . ."
She looked up, seeing the curly-haired boy gawking at the Camaro.
"That is a sick ride."
Rowen smirked, watching him zip up his backpack. "It's my brother's."
"Wait, hold on . ." he dropped the backpack, speed-walking up to the car. "Blue . ." he pointed, moving to look at the back, ". . California."
She gave him a confused look, watching as he returned to the sidewalk, stood in front of her.
"Are you Max's sister? Max Mayfield?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Stepsister, but, yeah. How'd you know that?"
"I'm Dustin," he introduced, extending his hand out. "Max is in my class. We're friends — or at least I think we are. I've seen you waiting for her down at the high school."
She stared at him for a moment, eventually shook his hand. "You are oddly well informed, Dustin Henderson."
Dustin smiled. "Observant," he said. "Max is super cool. She's the only person who's ever beat my high score on Dig-Dug."
Rowen lifted her chin. "Ah, so you're the poor thing she beat to pieces." Dustin nodded, bashful. "It's good to hear she has friends. I didn't think she was making many . ." she paused, suddenly remembering the time. Rowen looked up towards the giant clock on the front of the library. 11:12 am.
"Speaking of, aren't you supposed to be in school?"
Dustin's smile wavered. "Uh, yeah . ." he hesitated, laughing nervously. ". . I might have faked a cold just so I could come to the library for all those books."
Rowen smirked. "Dedication. I like it."
"Curiosity voyage," he said, giving her a thumbs up.
"Good luck with that."
Dustin nodded. "Thanks." Without another word, he began to walk back to his bike.
Rowen went to slip into the driver's seat, though stopped before she could get a foot in, standing up straight again. "Oh — it's Rowen by the way," she called. "Hargrove, though. Not Mayfield."
Another toothy smile came across Dustin's face. "Cool. See you, Rowen!"
She smiled, sliding into the driver's seat of the blue Camaro while Dustin slid onto the seat of his blue bicycle.
. . .
〝 𝑖𝑖.
Benny's, as she would have it, turned out to be a typical example of what she imagined a diner would be. Not a fast food place, not a restaurant — seriously, why would Samantha have suggested that? — none of that. It was a Mid-West, sixties-looking diner, and looked exactly like the pictures she had seen . . She could have done without the sudden history lesson, though; it entailed of empty seats and quiet nights and an unexpectedly suicidal diner owner who shot himself dead at one of the tables.
He was Chief Hopper's friend, Benny. It was unexpected, Benny's death. They kept the name of the diner as it was in some semblance of "honoring its owner" . . though Rowen could not help but feel a little uncomfortable with it, even if the intentions were good. She half-expected the guy's ghost to show up. She was not comfortable.
She was unsure how to feel about it, or what to do when she left Billy's Camaro out front and trailed behind Samantha with an unsettled gaze. They had "refurbished the shit out of this place" as Steve had put it, expanding and renovating and taking practically every element of what made Benny's Benny's in some long-time customers' opinions and replacing it with shiny new things. Rowen, to an extent, understood their ire . . . but she had to admit, the 'new' Benny's was nice.
The nicest place she had ever been taken to was her mom's excuse for a fancy restaurant — which looked about the opposite, now that she thought of it, but not when she had been nine — and served them slightly questionable dinners.
The one thing Rowen could thank Susan for was her cooking; it was one of the few positive things that came with having a stepmom. She cooked meals from scratch and actually made things Rowen would have turned her nose up at taste decent. It was a far cry from the burger places she and Billy would go to when they were younger, but Susan was good at it; and Rowen at least had half a mind to appreciate it, because knowing how to cook was not on her list of skills.
Benny's, to her surprise, was far from any of these things. And lunch, even more to her surprise, was enjoyable. Samantha was true to her word and was willing to make a lunch out of nothing but milkshakes if it was to Steve's liking. Which it was, because he downed two while his company picked over the menu, picked over their plates as one filled the other in on Hawkins and its key traits. There weren't many, and Steve often interrupted Samantha's lengthy account to say that this was true or that was not, or that this was overstated, this was subdued.
Rowen was entertained if nothing else. A little concerned if not that.
The two had different opinions on things, of that, she was certain. She was certain they would turn it into an argument many times too, was surprised they didn't start swinging at each other. That was often what would happen when she witnessed arguments back home. Disagreements meant swinging fists.
"So? Does Benny's pass the test?" Samantha asked her as they walked out into the chill of a drowsy day, gravel underneath their shoes.
"By a mile," Rowen admitted. "I didn't think diner food could taste that good."
"Have you ever been to one?" Steve asked.
"Yeah, but San Diego isn't exactly known for its cooking," she told him. "We're more of a 'picturesque beach and ice cream stands' kind of city."
Somewhere along the way of her reminiscing, Rowen felt her heart weigh heavy. She forgot for a moment that San Diego no longer meant "we" but "they". Those who were there then, there still. She wasn't there anymore, wasn't a part of it. She left.
"That's good to know," Steve said, pulling her out of the short-lived gloom. "I was starting to hate ice cream because of how shitty the stuff is around here."
Samantha scoffed as they approached the cars; one burgundy, one blue. "Please."
Her company threw her confused expressions. "What?" Rowen asked.
"Not all of the ice cream is shitty around here," Samantha claimed, looking a little offended.
Steve tore himself away from the pile of keys in his hand that he had been shuffling through to give her a look. "Uh, yeah, it is. What kind of ice cream have you been getting?"
"My uncle's."
He made a face as if he had eaten something terrible.
Samantha shook her head at his expression, irritated. "You have zero taste."
"Maybe, but you have zero tastebuds if you think your uncle's stuff is good . ." Steve turned to Rowen. "The guy thinks he makes good ice cream, but the one time I had it, it tasted like cold sand."
An equally disgusted expression came across Rowen's face. She turned to Samantha. "You like that?"
"It does not taste like cold sand, Steve," Samantha said, defending her uncle. "You must've gotten someone else's . . or an old batch . ." She trailed off after that, however.
"What?" Rowen asked again, questioning her sudden silence.
Samantha hesitated. "Actually, now that I think about it, the last time he made ice cream, it did taste a little grainy."
Steve began to laugh. Rowen tried pushing down her smile . . though it was difficult.
"God," Samantha groaned, hands covering her face for a moment. "He used to be really good, though, I swear!" she claimed, trying to salvage what little reputation her uncle had now.
"When?" Steve challenged.
"When you weren't around, clearly."
"So when I wasn't alive?" he guessed, sure of himself. "Because we both grew up here, and you're uncle's been around for as long as I can remember."
"He hasn't been making ice cream for that long," she said a matter of factly.
"Clearly."
Rowen kept quiet as the two continue their bickering, watching cars pass on the road until her company decided to finish. Admittedly, she felt a little embarrassed by the fact that she was bundled up in a heavy jacket while the other two wore lighter attire, comfortable in the weather. She was still adjusting — would be adjusting for a long time, she figured. She couldn't seem to keep warm unless it was aggressively sunny — which, for Hawkins, seemed rare. The sun was not keen on showing itself, and when it did, it was as if it couldn't make up its mind. Cloudy days with an abundance of wind that liked to wrap around her and chill her to the bone was what she had experienced the most so far . . . and today was no different.
Steve and Samantha had finally called a truce after a few minutes, relieving Rowen of what she thought of as excessive bantering in her ears. It was quiet now. Comfortable . . until a pair of wheels and distant bickering caught their ears, and two bikes showed up across the road. The owners of said bikes slowed, caught in a conversation that was deep enough for them to have to stop peddling.
Rowen recognized the red, white, and blue trucker hat immediately; though she waited to open her mouth when he and his friend finished talking and began to remount their bikes.
"Hey, Dustin!" she called. Rowen waved once Dustin turned his head.
It took him a moment to realize who had said his name, but once he did, he smiled and waved back — a much more enthused one than her own had been. His friend looked at her questioningly, but then returned his attention to Dustin, trying to wave him along. His friend looked in a rush — most likely to get back to school before lunch was over.
Samantha didn't seem to have the same intention. She leaned on the trunk of the Camaro lazily, smiled at Dustin's overly goofy expression. "Do you know him?" she asked as the boys peddled away.
"I met him in the library this morning," Rowen told her, huffed as she dipped into her half of the milkshake again. "Almost got ran over by him, actually. He's sweet, though. He's in my stepsister's class."
Samantha stared at the place where Dustin had been thoughtfully. "Huh. I've never seen him."
"He's in junior high. I don't know why you would."
She shrugged, and eventually looked over to Steve. "So? You feel a little better now?"
He gave her a half-hearted glare. Samantha threw it right back.
Steve sighed, letting a small smile stretch across his face. "Fine. Yes, I do . . Sami."
Her glare returned. "Don't call me that."
"Why not?" he smirked. "Nancy used to do it all the time — . ." he cut himself off, smirk gone.
Samantha tilted her head. "We've been over this," she said, raising her brows. "No Nancy talk."
"I wasn't — . ." he began to argue, but Samantha gave him a pointed look, and he stopped, hand held up in surrender.
Steve chose not to push it, shaking his head and letting out a sigh that sounded a little sulky.
"Fine," he said, focusing intently on stirring his milkshake. "Fine. No Nancy . . Screw it. Screw her."
"No," she corrected. "No, not screw her, just — don't talk about her."
Rowen gave Samantha a questioning look. The latter only shook her head.
"It doesn't make any sense!" he burst suddenly, making his company jump. "Everything was completely fine. We were happy, everything was great, but . . but suddenly it's all bullshit? Suddenly I'm bullshit?"
"Woah there, lover-boy," Rowen said tentatively. She sat up from where she had been leaning against the Camaro. "Take a deep breath."
He tried.
"Steve, I've said it already, but I'm gonna say it again," Samantha added, setting her milkshake down decidedly. "People do stupid stuff all the time when they're drunk — and Nance was drunk. We saw her."
"So what?" he snapped. "It doesn't make a difference."
Rowen threw him a concerned look. "No . . No, it kinda does."
Steve huffed, devoid of any humor. "It doesn't," he said again, running a hand a little aggressively through his hair. "Not with this, trust me. It wasn't just what she said, it was how she said it — how she looked at me . . And when I talked to her yesterday, Jesus — . ." He trailed off. "She didn't even deny it. It's like I've been missing something this whole time."
The two girls shifted uncomfortably. Rowen pushed herself up to sit on the Camaro's trunk. They didn't mean to give him sympathetic looks — he didn't look like he wanted them — but Rowen had received the brunt of badly-ended relationships, and she knew what it was like . . . But she wasn't sure she should say anything.
She didn't know him well, barely at all. And exaggeration due to a broken heart or not, Nancy wasn't being made out as very pleasant. Rowen didn't feel like defending her.
Samantha, however . . "Listen, Steve . ." she sighed as if she had had this conversation with him many times before, and had had no effect. ". . we talked about this yesterday: don't be so quick to throw her under the bus. You said it yourself, she didn't deny it. Maybe she just didn't have the time to because you left her standing there."
Steve didn't look any less downtrodden.
"Just try and find the time to talk to her, okay?" Samantha tried. "And I mean actually talk, not yelling and accusing."
Rowen laughed under her breath, a sour feeling bubbling up in her chest. "That'll get you punched in the face."
Her company shared a look, a little taken aback.
"What poor guy screwed you over?" Steve asked, beginning to shift from moodiness to curiosity.
Rowen, however, did not feel like indulging. She hadn't really meant to say what she said, shook her head. ". . It doesn't matter," she excused, attempting to brush it off as nothing — which, she thought to herself, is what it should be. Nothing. She would be lying if she said she didn't hold the occasional grudge, though.
That same dead silence Rowen had felt ooze from the woods suddenly began to creep its way over to where they sat, circling them. Neither Samantha nor Steve said anything, and the weight of it, the dead weight of the quiet, was making her want to squirm.
Steve looked down at his feet, a little ashamed. "Listen, I didn't mean to make things weird," he said lamely after a while, breaking that silence. "We didn't come here to talk about all that . ."
"No, it's fine. I get it," Rowen rushed to tell him, wanting to dismiss the whole thing. She had recalled a memory she had thought she'd forgotten and felt suddenly uncomfortable . . but, even so, she couldn't fault Steve for venting his thoughts. She had done it herself when the moment was still fresh, as it was for him now.
Samantha nodded slowly. "We've all been there," she drawled.
Steve tilted his head at her, narrowed his eyes. "When have you been there?"
"Middle school," she deadpanned. "Sixth grade, right after Christmas break. I was going steady with Freddy Peterson, but when I told him I couldn't come to his house one time, he got mad and started telling everyone I had koodies . ." she sighed, shaking her head. ". . I punched him in the nose. It wasn't pretty."
The uncomfortableness suddenly dissipated. Rowen couldn't help but laugh as she listened to the story, tried giving Samantha a sympathetic look. Her smile ruined it. Steve began to laugh too.
Samantha looked affronted. "Oh, sure, laugh at mine," she said, though began to laugh herself.
That dead silence slithered away.
. . .
〝 𝑖𝑖𝑖.
Rowen, for once, dared to think that she had actually ended up having a good day; a decent day, in the least. Passable. Pleasant. She hadn't expected to enjoy herself very much with two people she barely knew — never mind one of them being the very person her brother was going head-to-head with, the one he scoffed at and called pathetic; though in the recent months it began to dawn on her just how often she disagreed with Billy's opinions.
His say on a certain person wasn't the end-all-be-all, and it certainly didn't mean she had to hold the same; she had known this for years, had felt the same about gossip because gossip was more often than none proved wrong. She didn't have to believe every word he said.
Steve was okay, she had decided, setting aside the emotional turmoil. Samantha was nice. And she had had a good time, she really did.
Not even Billy's grumbly attitude could dampen it. She felt good.
"You aren't going anywhere later, right?" Billy asked her as they rolled into his designated spot behind their house.
Rowen threw him a confused look. "Why do you want to know?"
"Just tell me."
She stepped out of the Camaro, pulling the seat up so Max could crawl out. "I never go out this late anymore," she told him, sliding the passenger seat back in place. "You know that."
"Good," he said, shutting his door.
Rowen narrowed her eyes. "Are you going out later?"
"Maybe I am, maybe I'm not."
Billy started to push Max up the stairs. She was taking what, in his opinion, seemed to be too long to reach the back door. Max didn't push back, though her sudden snap at him might as well have been a rough one. They started bickering, and Rowen was about to open her mouth and tell them to shut up . . . but then remembered she had left her bag in the Camaro.
"Hey, Billy . . Billy!" she shouted, shaking the two out of their argument.
"What?" he snapped back.
Max raced up the remaining stairs and disappeared inside.
"Give me your keys. I left my bag in the car."
He sighed, but tossed them to her.
Rather than walking all the way around to the passenger side, Rowen unlocked the driver's side instead, reaching in to grab her bag and journal. She was bombarded with an intense fume of Billy's cologne and gagged. Somehow it had settled into his seat.
Great, now my jeans will smell like this shit, she thought.
Rowen shifted, ready to get back out before all her clothes began to smell like him . . but she paused, hand on the car door. Something crunched underneath her shoe. She looked down, lifted her foot up. There was a small piece of paper underneath, crinkled as if it had been crumbled up but unfolded.
She picked it up.
Rowen felt her heart begin to beat faster, louder. She had to refrain from tearing up the speeding ticket between her fingers. It wasn't an old one from San Diego that Billy had forgotten to throw away. No . . this one was very much new. Only a day or two old, she thought.
"Billy," she almost hissed out his name. He stopped before he could reach the first step of many creaky ones that lead up to their back porch.
"What?" His tone only made her angrier.
"Come here for a second . ." She was deadly calm.
He scoffed. "Why?"
"Just come here . . Now."
Begrudgingly, he did so, boots clunking down the stairs.
When he approached, she held up the wrinkled ticket. "The hell is this?"
Billy attempted to keep his demeanor nonchalant, but it hadn't changed the fact that he'd clearly been caught. "What do you think?"
"I think it's evidence that my brother's an idiot," she said, waving the piece of paper in his face. "The hell were you thinking?"
"I was thinking these small-town cops weren't so bright."
"Hm, well, seems they fooled you," Rowen said with a sickly sweet smile, eyeing the ticket. Somehow her anger towards it made him forget that she was in the driver's seat; either that, or he chose not to argue the fact. "Get in," she ordered.
"Why?"
"Why?" she echoed. "Because I'm taking you to pay it. Now. Before dad finds it."
"Rowen, I don't have that kind of cash," was his only argument.
She hummed. "And yet you owe a crap ton. Wonder why."
He said nothing. Rowen groaned quietly. "Listen, I'll pay the difference, but you're paying as much of it as you can — No, no. I don't care if you were saving it for something else!" she snapped. "You got the ticket, you're paying. Let's go. Or do you want dad to catch you with another one?"
To tell the truth, Rowen was not entirely sure how much he would listen to her. Billy was the furthest thing from a doormat or being the one to give up control, to do what he was told. He would have attempted to struggle out of it like a caged animal first, biting off an arm or a leg if it meant freedom. She did, however, remind herself as he grumbled, slid into the passenger seat forcefully, that she could be just as persistent as him. She knew his weak spots. He knew hers.
Their dad was one for both of them. And she wasn't kidding. Billy was lucky it had been her that found that ticket and not him — extremely so. If the plunging gut feeling she had experienced upon seeing the ticket wasn't bad enough, his indifference was. She wanted to slap her brother's idiotic face. She needed him to swallow his mind-numbingly large ego and listen, not whine about his money — however little it may have been — because Neil Hargrove didn't offer car rides to the police station in order to pay speeding tickets off. He'd crumble up said ticket in his fist and give more than a slap in the face.
She wished pride wasn't such a roadblock for Billy. She wished fear wasn't so much of one for her; it made her smarter, though. Smarter than the sibling grumbling in the seat next to her.
Rowen wanted to throw something so badly. Desperately. But she kept it together. She wondered how she was managing to drive.
When they pulled up to the police station, all she had to offer Billy was a glare. He didn't say anything, but he had enough sense to step out on his own and go inside, not bolt in no particular direction, away from the building. Rowen turned the key, cut the ignition, and followed him in.
She knew more likely than not that he wasn't lying about lacking the cash — lacking an awareness of the speed limit too, she thought. She didn't have much money to spare herself. She was trying to save as much as she could; and when they came into the smell of burnt coffee and a mix of other scents she couldn't figure out, it didn't make her any less annoyed. Rowen would have to pay the difference if he couldn't whether she liked it or not, just as Billy would have to be responsible for once so as to avoid something worse, whether he liked it or not.
The receptionist greeted them. She was a middle-aged woman clothed in faded reds and grays, gray strands of hair mixing with dark brown, milk-jar glasses balanced on the end of her nose. Rowen was faintly reminded of an old junior high teacher she had.
At first, Billy said nothing. He stood in silence until Rowen shoved at him roughly, making him nearly stumble up to the receptionist's window.
"I'm here to pay a ticket off," he eventually muttered.
The woman gave him a slightly judgemental look, but nodded. "Payin' off a fine, hm . ." she trailed off to file through some things the siblings could not see. Once the woman returned, she pointed to their right. "Take a load off over there. The chief deals with stuff like this, but he's on the phone right now, so you're gonna have to wait a bit."
Billy stayed quiet, trailed off to where she had pointed.
Rowen tried not to glare daggers, though she did a poor job. She turned to the receptionist, forcing a kinder expression. "Thanks."
The woman gave her a tight smile, nodded curtly.
Rowen plopped down into the chair next to her brother and began to rub at the place between her eyes. Her head was beginning to hurt.
She watched as the receptionist poked her head into one room, coming back out a shade sterner than she had just been. She was shaking her head.
The police station wasn't much to look at, against Rowen's vague assumption and past experiences in the one back home. It was significantly smaller, for one, with fewer people filing about through the narrow hall than she had expected. The desks behind the receptionist, which were separated from where they sat by a low swing door, were crammed in a tight spot. There were only two of them that she could see, file cabinets taking up the space behind, partially blocking one of the windows they were put in front of. A cop occupied one of the desks, but he didn't seem to be doing much, distracted by the pencil he was twirling.
"Ah, California. I remember you," a voice said. Rowen looked up to see Hopper, momentarily forgetting that he was the chief, and the person they would be talking to. He cut a look at Billy. "Only heard about you, though."
Billy gave his sister a look as if to say: what the hell did you do? She ignored it.
The chief waved them along. "Come on back. Let's get this over with."
Neither of the siblings got up very quickly, though Rowen subtly pushed her brother along as if he was still considering making a break for it. He probably was.
They came into the chief's office, an overwhelming smell of used cigarettes perfuming the small space. Hopper groaned down into his chair. They sat across from him — or rather, Rowen sat. Billy plopped.
The chief folded his hands over his stomach. "So," he began. "Speeding ticket, hm?"
The siblings said nothing, though Rowen threw a sideways look at her brother, who was leaning back in his own chair, a little more relaxed than he was letting on.
Hopper nodded at their silence, pressed his lips together. "Unfortunately," he continued. ". . we small towns don't do things the way bigger cities do, so I gotta take in everything myself in order to keep track of things . ." he sighed, rolled his eyes a little more openly than she expected from a cop. ". . Records 'n all that fun stuff. Can't trust anyone with 'em."
"How much was it?" Billy asked impatiently.
"You should know that, kid. It was on your ticket."
Rowen wondered if Hopper was trying to push her brother's buttons because Billy, after hearing that, was straining himself trying not to retort. His jaw clenched. She sighed at the silence he responded with.
"Forty, Billy. It was forty."
"Plus court costs," Hopper added in, giving her brother a look that said: just try and argue.
She ended up having to give him very little. What Billy had in his wallet was almost enough to pay the entire thing, though she had to bring out a little of her own to seal it. Hopper was a little easier on them than she figured Billy was imagining. San Diego cops, as far as she had known them, weren't as calm about things, and had ended up in a shouting match with her brother multiple times, all because the latter couldn't help but open his mouth. He had never gone to court, but there were times when it was threatened to happen.
Hopper didn't seem to sink to that level, though. He called Billy "kid" and poked at a few nerves, but he kept his calm and took the whole thing smoothly. Rowen had a feeling Billy was only behaving a little better than usual because she was there, and because she had dragged him there. But the fact that Hopper was willing to keep the situation between them — to not call their dad — said something to her. In San Diego, their dad would have already known by then. They wouldn't have been sitting calmly in a police station.
But Billy wasn't so quick to be thankful. Rowen saw something in his tensed expression relax, but she figured to someone like Hopper, he looked the same as when they had come in.
She ended up thanking the chief for the both of them, staying behind when Billy walked out, leaned against his car. Rowen held on to the keys.
"Thanks for not ratting him out," she said.
Hopper barely gave a shrug. "Well, I gathered, with the look on your face, that calling a parent would have made things worse. Much worse . . or am I totally missing it here?"
Rowen shook her head. "No, you're right."
Hopper huffed. "To tell you the truth, I was a little curious about calling up your dad but . ." he shrugged. "Dunno. The kid's old enough anyway. Senior, right?"
She nodded. "Yeah. He's seventeen. I'm eighteen."
"You're older?"
She nodded again.
Hopper hummed. "Well that explains it," he muttered, more to himself. Rowen caught it nonetheless. "I was thinking I would have had to drag him in to pay that thing . . Anyway, as long as the fine is paid, I don't see the need to do it, calling parents," he continued. ". . Unless, of course, I know the kid and the parent of that kid."
A smirk barely crossed Rowen's face. "I don't think our dad would be too keen on meeting you," she muttered.
Hopper threw her a questioning glance.
"It's not you. He just hates cops," she admitted, after catching his expression. "No offense . . All you'd get out of him is an argument."
The chief lifted his chin. "Uh-huh . ." he said it mostly to himself. "Well, don't let me keep you."
Rowen nodded once. "Sorry, again, for interrupting you."
He leveled a look at her. "Rowen, it's my job. You can interrupt me all day."
They stood in silence, but then Hopper backtracked to his office, gave her a weak wave, then disappeared behind the threshold. Rowen lingered, though only for a moment, sighing for the millionth time as she took out the keys and headed for the door.
Billy hadn't noticed when she walked out onto the sidewalk. There was some oddity or imperfection on his well-loved jean jacket that she could see him inspecting, so she took the time — however briefly it may last — to breathe. Take in her surroundings.
She noted immediately that Hawkins wasn't nearly as crazy in the evening as San Diego. They may have lived near the beach, but it was still bustling given how congested it was. Houses were squished next to each other in their old neighborhood, and it was close enough to the city for them to hear the sirens, car horns, and overall noise made by people on the streets on a daily basis. There were a lot of people willing to be reckless in the late hours of the night; Billy was one of them. She became used to it, considered the quiet a rarity . . . She didn't know what to do with it once she had it.
The kind of quiet that she felt in that moment was probably the weirdest. It was one that didn't last for mere seconds, rather decided to settle itself and stay for a while, wrap around you. It didn't make her feel unsafe, like the silence over the woods. It didn't make her anticipate its immediate end, like on Cherry Road.
She felt calm, if only a little given what she just dealt with. She didn't have to bear shouting matches for once. It wasn't such a marvelous difference, but she could, at least, hear herself think. She could hear car tires roll over the asphalt and the wind howl in her ears.
That was twice Hopper had helped her, she thought. She felt more relieved than she'd like to admit.
. . .