ADMIN NOTE :
for anyone who might ? be rereading this chapter , i wanted to let you know that i changed this one around and removed some things . . my pacing was off and certain blurbs did not work , so i scraped them and added dates to make it a little easier to follow. i might add them back into other chapters where they may fit better , but this one just felt too long. i wasn't happy with it . i hope you guys understand. (':
. . .
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The subject of spore-infested tunnels, other dimensions, and children who could move things with their minds was never to be spoken of; this was the rule which birthed itself on the stained and over-cluttered piece of furniture that was Hopper's desk in sheets of blue paper. Overly detailed and printed in microscopic text, she read over that which he, the kids, and many others were all but forced to look over and signed on the dotted line in the same, reluctant manner. Read for herself and for Max because how could a kid possibly understand all of that?
Max could, she knew that. Though she didn't want to understand; that was the thing. Rowen didn't want to understand it either. She was aware of the fact that such things as the makings of a sci-fi movie being tangible and real couldn't be talked about unless you wanted to be marked as clinically insane. She understood that keeping El's true self hidden was of utmost priority. What she did not understand was why a sliver of the government had to stick their large, grotesque nose in her face and drag them into something that was binding when she had already promised Hopper that not a word would be uttered of what she and her stepsister were exposed to.
"They won't take your word for it," he said, sitting across from her at his small, bright red table. He had asked her to meet him at the station with Max two mornings after they left the Byers' house, took them to his cabin where no one could peer their gazes over his shoulder or her shoulder to see government papers.
"They need it on paper in black and white. Palpable evidence."
Rowen could not be less surprised even if she wanted to be. As much as she wanted to say no, she knew that whoever these people were had the nerve and the means to make her life seem as if it never was, which was why she scribbled her name and made Max get off of Hopper's couch to scribble hers too. She found no relief in doing it, even if their simple grasp of the pen was meant "to ensure your safety"; it was in truth, but Rowen found the idea of being exposed to monsters and tunnels whose walls slithered about more terrifying than men in suits with guns that peaked from their coats.
El had come out of her room by then β short curls sticking in all directions β and without being asked, ensured in her own way that the "gate" was closed and that the Mind Flayer would never be able to reach them again. Still, Rowen worried.
The government wasn't as easily disposable as demodogs and Mind Flayers.
"A necessary evil," Hopper had said.
. . .
ππ:
Rowen had not been able to remember a dream she had since she was twelve; she knew one such thing for certain and clung to the comfort it brought. The assurance that she would not recall dreams of rows of teeth and limbs which stretched out for her after it all had been shut away in a gray and dismal copy of their world. But she had been wrong to. The sleep that came the night she left the Byers' house never came, because she never shut her eyes; but the night that came after was the first of many in which she would be plagued with the images of blue tunnels and four-legged monsters and the unexpected sight of Mews's mangled body along with Max's, Dustin's, her own . . . everyone's. Even Steve's after he would keep her from falling again, then fall over himself.
It was easier to think that she had caught some kind of fever that messed with her head than to believe that her dreams had come back in the way she had once hoped her mom would; but she had no signs of being sick, only the fact that she woke in a cold sweat after being jolted by a hand or a shout which was there but was not.
She never woke up screaming, that she could be thankful for for many reasons; but to have the memories of what she experienced cling to her the way the Mind Flayer had clung to Will was taxing, and it cost her multiple nights of sleep. Max was no different, and Rowen had a feeling that sharing a bed as they had once done in California would become more routine than her arguments with Billy. Though in hindsight, ever since he had been stuck twice with a needle and shouted at by both his siblings, said arguments had ceased to exist, never-mind be frequent. Billy hadn't managed to touch a nerve or respond to a nerve being touched ever since that night, and it left Rowen to wonder amidst her sleepiness what exactly made him decide to hold his tongue. In fact, he all but avoided Max. He avoided Rowen too, and she couldn't shake the weird mix of relief and concern she was feeling; though she found she could not find the energy to focus on it.
She was struggling to focus on much of anything and wasn't the best at hiding the ailment which was her sleepiness, from Hopper, at least, if not anyone else. Four days had passed since that night and he made her go home for all of them, shamelessly ordering that she stayed home and slept until she was able to manage a phone call without drifting off, however long it took.
Rowen didn't take it well. She wanted something to do, to distract her from her mind's newfound eagerness to dream dreams of tunnels and stretching limbs and utterly terrifying screeches.
It wasn't as if anyone else could tell, though. She was good at hiding everything but the sleepiness and the bags under her eyes; and the only time anything would slip was when she was jolted awake from a nightmare, where Max sat as the only witness. And she knew her stepsister would never say anything because she was just as eager to hide her whimpers and her struggles. They would never admit them to anyone for anything, not even if a Demogorgon was truly there rather than in their heads, eating them alive.
. . .
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Within a week she had received about a dozen phone calls and then some from Mrs. Byers, Dustin, Hopper, Dustin, a "Hi" from El that she insisted Hopper pass on . . . Dustin. Rowen had not come over to tutor him since she found Dart in his room and for whatever reason, he felt immensely guilty for it. Though, strangely, Dustin hadn't been the only one who called her from his house. Mrs. Henderson called too.
Rowen was quick to realize the woman was the epitome of a caring mother well before the messages; they entailed "I hope you're doing well, dear. Dustin misses you lots." or "If you ever feel like coming over for dinner, our door is always open!"
She didn't know what she did to deserve Mrs. Henderson's sweet offerings. She didn't have the heart to accept them, either, though it wasn't because of one lousy memory and one queasy feeling she had attached to their house. Rather because somehow she knew she would feel guilty for doing so. She didn't feel as if she had really done anything to deserve the invitation. But Mrs. Henderson kept calling, a handful of times until it stopped along with the other calls because seven days at her house in a row was nearing the line between draining and being cause for insanity.
"All better today?" Flo asked her as she walked in on a gloomy Monday morning. Hopper had passed off her absence as having trouble sleeping, and he couldn't have a sleepy receptionist lightening Flo's workload when Flo herself was as sharp as a tack, even if she was working too much.
"Not in the slightest. But if I stay at my house for one more day, I'm gonna start twitching."
She knew Flo had half a mind to make her go home too, but the older woman never did.
. . .
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Among his sudden silence, frowns, and attempts to avoid her, Rowen came to notice that Billy's outings had become surprisingly lacking. Not because he had done something to wake the dragon in their house, no. Not because his car had broken down or crashed or because he dumbly forgot to fill it up with gas. There was nothing keeping him from going. He just didn't. He stopped leaving, without a word of warning; shut himself up in his room.
She had a hunch that this sudden appeal to staying home had something to do with Heather, and what she thought but was not sure was talk of another party at the edge of town going south. Before and shortly after the Byers, it occupied every free night Billy had. He would come home, disappear into the bathroom, then leave just as quickly; and because sleep was no longer welcomed, Rowen often heard his window creak open when he returned in the middle of the night, hear his boots thud against the carpet.
But she no longer saw or heard any of that. He went into his room and stayed there as if his previous plans had deflated like a popped balloon. Or maybe fell apart with a definite crack. She winced at that, remembered how she had thought Billy had cracked Steve's jaw for a moment that night.
Pang of conscious-fueled guilt aside, she wished he would do that to Tommy. She barely knew him, but she knew that smile and recognized that tone of voice. It had been enough to steer her away, never mind the way he acted on Halloween.
Billy had never liked him to begin with, and the fact that he had continued to spend time with Tommy confused her more than anything. But now that Billy was in the house, now that he was shut up in his room, she assumed he had come to his senses and decided to drop the jock altogether. Perhaps he did . . but his reasons didn't matter. Regardless of what made Billy drop his former routine, she knew one certain parent would not be pleased with his alternative to spending a free night, which consisted of music so loud it rattled the house and disturbed the few neighbors they had.
She thought about their neighbor who sat on his front porch every morning with a cigar, thought how she might apologize to him for her brother's incessant brooding. Because that was exactly what it was: brooding.
. . .
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Max was, as far as she could guess, welcomed into the party's inner circle as subtly as one could be β a nod and casual invitation to the familiar sweaty, noisy pathways filled with giant games that she ran into head-first enough already.
Maybe it wasn't subtle. But it was strange; a suspicious invitation . . but Max didn't question it, which meant Rowen couldn't question it either.
"Just forget it, okay? They invited me, that's all there is to it."
"You sure about that?"
"Does it matter?"
Rowen had shrugged. "No . . I'm just curious."
"Ro, I swear if this is about Mike β"
"What else would it be about? It's not like he's trying to hide the fact that he doesn't like us."
Max did not argue the point, because she knew as well as her stepsister how utterly true that was. Mike wasn't trying to hide it. Not at all. He was being a pain in the ass, and Rowen had a feeling that he was nowhere close to having a change of heart when it came to them; nowhere close to being less sassy and passive-aggressive than he had been a week ago. He still acted as if their presence was some kind of intrusion, jabbing at them, scowling, brooding like her own brother.
It wasn't long before Rowen decided she didn't want to put up with it anymore. But did he care? . . No. Not at all. He kept doing it.
Though it didn't keep her from jabbing at him herself.
She was done with it. She was done with a lot of things after seeing all she had seen. Crossing the line. Doing the unthinkable. She was traumatized, sure, but after climbing out of that gaping hole, she found she had a lot more nerve too.
"I don't understand why you guys can't just pick a game."
"Clearly," Mike, to no one's surprise, was quick to sass his sister. She returned the unfriendly jab with a glare.
"You know I can just take you home, right?"
"You know I can bike home with Lucas, right?" Mike turned to give his friend a pointed look. "Right, Lucas?"
"Don't answer that," Nancy told him, to which Lucas stared open-mouthed.
"Don't tell him what to do!"
"I'm not telling him what to do!"
"Yes, you are! You're just ordering him around like everyone else β"
Nancy scoffed. "That is not true!"
"Is."
"Mike . ."
"Lucas?"
Hastily, Lucas looked from Mike, to Nancy, to the other, less argumentative siblings. "I'm . . gonna go find Dustin." He was gone before either of the Wheeler's could utter another syllable.
Rowen and Max shared a look, sheepishly skidding away from the other two before more arguing could begin.
"Jesus," the former muttered. "I thought we were bad."
"At least it wasn't at us this time."
ππ:
Will was having a panic attack.
Or, at least, that was the first thought to cross her mind when she found him outside of the arcade. Mike had asked, and she had used it as an excuse to flee the overcrowded space, only to discover something else.
Her second thought was that the Mind Flayer had somehow found its way back to him, but the rational part of her had reasoned this into dust. That thing had been burned out of him, Nancy told her.
Her third thought was that he no doubt had nightmares long before her, and must have been going through way more trauma and anxiety and fear and β . . shit, this kid had been through it all before she even set foot into Hawkins. And now it was happening all over again.
And he hadn't even realized she was behind him yet.
"Will?"
He didn't jump, though his shoulders tensed and he startled in a way that was completely understandable as he turned around. He wasn't alone in the parking lot anymore.
Rowen tilted her head. "You okay?"
Will's eyes almost widened to the size of saucer plates. "Oβoh, uh . . yeah. Yeah, I'm okay."
She didn't believe him. He had left his backpack somewhere inside . . . but, even so, she thought it better to say nothing. Rowen threw a quick look back at the arcade. "Too stuffy in there, huh?" she asked him.
He nodded meekly. "A little . ."
A sympathetic smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "I get it. Every time Max drags me in there, I feel like I'm being squished."
If nothing else, she was glad that had amused him.
"I don't really mind it, though," Will said after a moment. After she gave him a moment to compose himself. "Stuffiness doesn't bother me. It's . . ."
He had to think about what to say. Rowen waited. "It's just β a lot . . . I β I don't think I'm up for it yet."
"No?" she mused.
He shook his head and she momentarily wondered why his mom subjected him to a bowl cut. Not that it mattered.
"It's dumb, right?" he asked, and at that moment, she suddenly felt terrible. What had to have happened to make him think like that? He had gone through hell, he had every right to shake and cry and find a place to be alone if he needed it. Without feeling dumb.
She shook her head. "No," she disagreed, and it was sincere. "It's not dumb at all."
But Will didn't look any less deflated. Rowen bit her lip, looked between him and the arcade again.
"Can I let you in on something?" she offered. It caught his interest. Rowen scrunched her nose. "I don't think I'm up for it yet either."
He threw her a look that said he wasn't sure he believed her. "Really?"
She shook her head. "Mm-mm . . To tell you the truth, I'd rather be somewhere quiet. Somewhere where I can write."
Will was a little shocked by that. "What do you write?" he asked slowly, hesitant.
Rowen shrugged. "Stories, mostly . . but I also write songs. Whatever I feel like. I like to draw too."
Somehow mentioning this part of her life, something she enjoyed immensely, was very easy to reveal to him. It didn't feel like she was forcing herself to be open, like she was taking a step too far, taking something very near and dear and admittedly private and putting it out in the open. It just felt like something casually mentioned in conversation. She didn't feel as if Will would judge her for it . .
The weariness on his face lightened a little, and Rowen felt she was going in the right direction. "Me too."
To tell the truth, already knowing he liked to draw helped boost her confidence too.
She quirked a smile. "I saw some of your drawings a while ago. You're good."
He smiled then, bashfully.
"You want to get out of here?" Rowen offered. "I can take you home."
The smile fell into a hesitant glance at the arcade's front door. "Do you think they'll . . ?"
Rowen followed his gaze. She could just barely catch the back of Dustin's hat. "I don't think they will," she said, and she was sure of it. None of those kids would be mad at him.
Will stood in thought, mulled it over for a moment before nodding. "Yeah . . I'd like that."
. . .
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"Hopper, it's been two weeks."
Rowen might as well have been at her breaking point when it came to staying home.
He said that she could come back when she felt better. When she felt she could handle it.
She wasn't sure if she could handle it, and she most certainly didn't feel better, whatever that was supposed to mean. She wasn't entirely sure what he was implying when he said it; better as in she was able to breathe, able to interact, able to shove the memories of that night down deep and compose herself to an extent that was believable? Or did he mean better as in it no longer affected her, as in she felt fine?
Idiot, she thought, of course he doesn't mean that.
He just wanted her to be able to function.
She could do that.
He wanted her to get some sleep.
. . . Well.
She was surviving on coffee, let's start with that.
As far as resting went, well . . . It was complicated.
Actually, no. It wasn't. Her reasons were very plain and very simple.
And yet they weren't.
Either way, sleeping just . . wasn't an option. Despite how Hopper insisted that she do so . . . she just couldn't. She wasn't sure how many times she would have to tell him that. How many times she would come in only to have him send her home. She couldn't sleep, no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn't get one solid night of rest. Couldn't even attempt to without having nightmares ready to tear it from her. Ready to make her shake and kick and wake up nearly screaming and God if her dad ever found out β . .
She couldn't sleep.
And staying home didn't make it any better, it made it worse.
She needed to come back to work. She needed the phone and the presence of other people beating some form of composure into her. She needed to know that she was doing something besides sulking.
"Yeah, and it'll be two more every time I see you until I decide you're okay."
"I am okay!"
He gave her a look as if to emphasize the dark circles and lingering presence of the events that took place previously. The weariness and the heaviness that had nearly unfolded at his kitchen table, when he told her the government was watching them and watching her and that she had to sign their papers, she just had to. None of them were exactly okay, and if they were ranking themselves from worst to best at handling it all . . . well, let's just say Rowen would not make it to the top. By Hopper's standards, anyway.
All of the expression on her face fell into a frown. "You know what I mean," she said, lower. His own face didn't waver. He was looking at her as if to say yes, yes he most certainly did. But that didn't mean he was budging. She let out an impatient groan. "Listen, I get it. You want me to come back when I can function, but β"
"Ah, so you do know?" he interrupted, face alight like that of a parent who was taking the subtle route of scolding their child.
She felt the urge to slap him. His sarcasm was payback for all the times she had thrown her own at him, she knew that. It didn't make it any less irritating.
Rowen wished, oh, how she wished she could explain this to him in a way that made sense; in a way that convinced him without having to mention fathers and problems that didn't involve other dimensions and monsters but might as well be just as bad. She wished she could give him a look and he wouldn't even have to ask, that he would know right then and there and that all would be solved.
But he didn't, and she couldn't.
She was back to square one.
"Hopper, I'm telling you, I'm better. Or, if not to you, then to me. This β" she paused, gesturing to herself. "βis as better as I'm gonna get right now. As I'm gonna get for the next few months, and I can't wait that long to come back to work. I β . . ." she trailed off, looked away from him.
She could feel his unmoveable stare moving, his concerned parent look burning into her.
"Flo tells me you've been trying to sneak back in when I'm not here," he began, paused, as if he was giving her an opportunity to say something. She didn't. "You haven't been home?"
She glared at the wall.
"Is there a reason?" he was pushing it.
Rowen threw off the question the same way she threw off all the others, with a single, "Nope."
"No?"
"I just don't want to be home all the time, okay?" she bit.
He could have interpreted those words in a million different ways, she knew that. She felt a little bit of panic at her own stupidity. He blinked at her reply, looked down at his desk; there were so many forgotten papers on it that it might as well have been made out of them.
"Listen, kid . ." Hopper began. Rowen turned to look at him again. He had his hands clasped in front of him, elbows on the desk as if he was a principal breaking the news to a pair of unfortunate parents. He glanced up at her, nodded to the chair. "Sit."
She sat, though begrudgingly.
She could see the wheels turning madly in his head. Hopper sighed, eventually. "Listen," he said again. "It's not that I don't want you here. I'm just trying not to put a load on you at the wrong time. I get it, you don't wanna be home . ."
He didn't get it, not really. But she bit down on her tongue hard and said nothing.
"We're all coping differently. But if I'm gonna let that go, what I need to know is that you can handle doing what you were doing before all . . that happened."
"Why do you think I've been sneaking in?" she deadpanned.
It had quirked the smallest of smiles on his face. She knew he knew. She knew he knew Flo knew; if not as thoroughly, she at least saw the entrance of what was in reality a very deep hole, with very deep problems. She understood that without needing to know what they were.
And Hopper, well . . he was in a similar hole, he just didn't let Flo know that.
It made Rowen frustrated. He was working, why couldn't she? He was smoking his own cigarettes and yet glared every time she lit her own.
She just wanted to work. She just wanted to return to some sense of normalcy.
He looked over his clasped hands after what felt like an eternity. "You're not gonna doze?"
Rowen tried, tried so hard, not to cling to the flutter of hope she felt rising up in her chest. "Not gonna doze."
She had said it calmly. She felt certain . . . Or maybe she was just stubborn enough to be willing to convince him that she was fine; to be able to convince herself that she was okay and that she could come back and resume work without dozing or snoozing or missing a call.
A moment of silence passed between them for longer than she wanted it to.
He sighed again. "Alright . ." he said, after another eternity passed, and nodded. "Alright, but you have to promise me you won't miss one call."
"I won't," she said, sure of herself.
He pointed. "One call."
"One call."
"No snoozing."
She wanted to roll her eyes. "Hopper . ."
The pointed finger fell back to rest on his crossed forearms. He nodded again, once. ". . Alright. But if you do . ."
"I'm fired?" she guessed.
"No," he replied, firm. "If you do, you tell me. I'm not holding you to a standard, I'm just making sure you won't fall apart on me."
Somehow, the fact that he wouldn't fire her shocked her more than his concern about her sleep schedule.
Rowen shook her head. "I won't."
. . .
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It was too cold.
Way too cold to be deemed normal for an early evening, she was sure; even if the beginning of December was just around the corner. Way too cold for people to be standing outside, standing still as if the wind wasn't slicing through them. How the hell could they put up with that?
Maybe their senses had gone numb from enduring so many winters.
Rowen felt forlorn.
California was so much more comfortable when the seasons turned and the leaves changed colors. Summers weren't. Summers were brutal, and she knew the way she would sit content under the sun when it decided to come out again would be just as weird to the people around her as it was to her that they weren't shaking in their boots when it was below freezing.
She missed the mildness of San Diego winters. She missed how comfortable it felt . . . She should have expected it to be ripped from her sooner or later. Nothing in her life was comfortable anymore, not by a long shot.
Not the times when she had the house to herself. It was too quiet.
Not the solitary car rides on the evenings she would come back from the police station. She felt like she was being watched.
And now . . . now even the weather was turning against her. She had just started to feel as if she could bear autumn in Hawkins. Mrs. Byers led her to the coats and the gloves and the sweaters that weren't so flimsy they might as well have been given a different name; because what she had been wearing before weren't sweaters, not according to a woman who had lived through two bad hail storms and more snow than Rowen could even fathom.
Rowen had never seen snow. She was looking forward to seeing it for the first time . .
No longer.
It was too cold, never mind how well-prepared Mrs. Byers had made her feel by providing her with more winter clothes than she would ever need.
Never mind getting to see snow. Rowen just wanted to make it to Christmas.
She just wanted to make it through the front door of the Wheeler's house at this point . . . but she would have to get out of the Camaro first.
She didn't want to . .
But she had to . .
But she didn't want to.
Oh for f β
She got out, wrapped her cardigan around herself. Rowen wasn't sure what she would have done if Billy hadn't decided to cut ties with questionable juniors and parties at the edge of town. Freezing, no doubt. Perhaps letting Max freeze on her bike.
Would the Wheelers have been nice enough to offer her a ride home? Would Max have even asked? . . She wasn't sure. She was sure that the cold was already seeping through her shoes and sucking the warmth from her toes. Her hands already felt like icicles, and the wind was blowing through her cardigan as if it were a pair of curtains; as if she wasn't trying to keep it wrapped around her body; it simply wouldn't stay.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she relived the evening when she had watched Dustin trail down the same front path, at a much quicker speed, and suddenly frowned at the idea of being the one who had to speak to Mr. Wheeler this time. He had come off as dull all the way from the end of their driveway, she doubted he would be any less so up close.
But, reluctant feelings aside, Rowen reached out a cold fist, rapped the door with her knuckles, then hastily stuffed it back behind her crossed arms.
She could hear the faint murmur of an early Christmas special from inside and was reminded once more how close it was to the holiday. Joyful anticipation was thick in the icy air of Hawkins. Lights were strewn about bushes and trees and roof tops well before Thanksgiving; candles were placed in the windows; obnoxious blowups of Santha Clause and Rudolf dotted every other lawn. Even the police station had been spruced up in its own Christmas attire, per Flo's infectious spirit and the stashes of decorations she had in her house that sat otherwise forgotten and unused.
She said her house had already been decked to the nines before she found the boxes. Hopper had shuddered. Rowen had pushed down a laugh at his reaction . . . but that had been then.
Now that the reality of the season was setting in, she felt utterly unprepared for all of it.
She made up her mind that she would never be one to completely swear off Christmas; how could she? It had been her favorite holiday for the longest time . . but she couldn't deny, she didn't feel in much of a Christmasy mood this year. She hadn't for a couple of years now. Susan tried her best to keep it sacred; she was still trying, tried to include her with Max, include Billy even if he didn't want to be.
All of Rowen's feelings towards the holiday were bittersweet as if she had fond memories, but they were piled under a multitude of other things.
She tuned out the Christmas special.
The door opened.
"Nance, keep an eye on your sister!"
It was not Mr. Wheeler who greeted her. No, for the small span of time she had from the door opening to being greeted, Rowen decided it was Mrs. Wheeler who had answered; Mrs. Wheeler who would say hello, give her a warm smile and all but pull her inside after introductions were made. That was how Mrs. Henderson did it.
And yet the smile was not there. Rowen was not pulled inside. The warm expression she would have received had fallen and she was being stared at as if there was something she had missed; some oddity on her or something worse occurring behind her. Her mind momentarily went to demodogs and Mind Flayers having breached the thought-to-be-closed Gate and revealing themselves before one startled mother while she stood oblivious . . . but it couldn't be.
Rowen pushed down the absurd and overly panicked thought before it could rise too high.
Mrs. Wheeler seemed to have steeled herself. "Oh, hello."
The greeting was much more lackluster and odd than Rowen had been expecting. Mrs. Wheeler looked puzzled, as if it was wildly confusing to see Rowen standing on her front porch.
Rowen raised her brow at it. ". . Hi?"
The expression lingered for a moment longer before it was shaken off.
"I'm so sorry, I β . ." Mrs. Wheeler trailed off, threw a hand up in mid-air. "I don't know why I thought someone else was here. My mind has been all over the place today."
Rowen took a little longer to respond than she supposed was necessary; though she was far from faulting herself. A blatant sense of discomfort was rising up in her chest, as if she had just witnessed something strange and didn't know how to respond.
"Are you Mike's mom?" she tried first.
The warm smile had returned to Mrs. Wheeler's face, though it was far from welcome at the moment. It felt off.
"I am, yes," she said before glancing over Rowen's shoulder. "Is that your car?" Rowen didn't have to look to know what she was talking about.
"No, it's my brothers . ." she said with a shake of her head, glancing back at the deep blue of the Camaro. It had some scratches now, though she doubted anyone other than Billy could see them. She turned back to Mrs. Wheeler. "I'm Rowen, by the way; Max's stepsister. I don't know if she mentioned me, or . . ?"
It took a moment for the realization to sweep across Mrs. Wheeler's face. "Oh! Yes, Rowen, of course. She told us all about you," she confirmed, not fully devoting her attention to the girl in front of her. Rowen didn't need to turn around to know she kept stealing glances at the car. Mrs. Wheeler pointed a red-polished finger, squinted. "That would make you Billy's sister, right?"
Rowen narrowed her eyes just the slightest.
Of course, she knew the woman in front of her was capable of putting two and two together. Contrary to Max's grumpily expressed opinion, not everyone who crossed their path was a brainless idiot β only the majority, she had told her . . . though that didn't keep Rowen from wondering how the mother knew that small fact about the three of them. How did she even know Billy's name? Certainly not from Max, when Max was the last person to let his name come out of her mouth unless it meant stringing a line of insults right behind it. Never mind the fact that she would rather take on another demodog than talk about him casually.
Wait a minute . .
That was when it hit her. He had stopped by the Wheelers' house on that night; looking for Max, having to ask around; having to say please, please, have you seen my stepsister? Or something like that . .
Rowen wasn't sure why she thought it must have been Mr. Wheeler who had answered the door then when Billy made it very clear that it hadn't. He had grinned when he mentioned it, after all; mentioned her. Karen Wheeler was more than happy to give me directions.
Rowen had called him disgusting . . It was disgusting.
Though none of that felt like the right thing to mention; some of it wasn't at all. Asking Mrs. Wheeler how she knew didn't feel right.
"Max told you about him too, huh?" Rowen decided to go with after a moment.
The friendly smile that had been given to her faltered as if she was unsure, but soon returned bigger and wider. "Oh, uh, yes! She did . ."
"But she didn't tell you that one of us would be picking her up?" Rowen drawled. It was just as much of a lie as it was a guess. Max didn't even know someone was coming to begin with.
"No, she didn't," Mrs. Wheeler said, humor threaded into her voice, as if Rowen had pulled the words right out of her mouth.
Maybe they never were in her mouth.
"Max, she . ." she held a hand up as if to say 'what can you do?', "She never mentioned it, but she mentioned you two and the car when she came in. She was telling us how cool it was to ride around with you . ."
Hm.
She wondered if Mrs. Wheeler would have said Max enjoyed riding with Billy too had she been prompted.
Initially, Rowen had thought that the grin and the implications of a first name basis had been completely one-sided, that Mrs. Wheeler β Karen β had known Billy's name simply because he introduced himself; that, in itself, was something she didn't want to imagine . . . but something was definitely up. If nothing had happened but a simple introduction, then why wouldn't Mrs. Wheeler simply tell her? There was nothing wrong with it.
Unless there was.
In some way, shape, or form, the truth of it wasn't something Mrs, Wheeler wanted to disclose; that was what was making Rowen narrow her eyes and wonder
Something was being kept from her; even if she didn't know the details, as Mrs. Wheeler became flustered, grasped for words as if she didn't know how to talk. She had heard Mike complain about the lectures she gave him, Rowen knew she could enunciate without a problem.
And yet.
She was glancing at the Camaro.
Billy was a part of the conversation.
And he had mentioned her too, but there was no hiding or desperate grasp for words on his end. He had left it all out in the open.
Rowen hummed. "So you were expecting him?" she ventured. It was a bit of a stretch, but it was worth catching the flash of color on the mother's face.
Mrs. Wheeler threw a confused, albeit slightly surprised look and dismissed her question with a, "No, of course not. We weren't expecting anyone, actually . ." she trailed off. We. It was as if she was intentionally using the word.
There was a moment of silence between them, one that lasted longer than it probably should have. Mrs. Wheeler still hadn't invited her in.
Rowen was freezing, but the chill in her fingers and toes, the way her nose felt nipped didn't matter so much as what seemed to be revealing itself the more they talked about Max and her supposed ramblings . . . about Billy.
"To tell you the truth, I wouldn't expect much from him, if I were you. Billy . ." Rowen told her, after a moment. "Especially with Max. He . . doesn't like picking her up," she paused, turned to look out at the houses arranged in a crooked half-moon. "I wouldn't be surprised if he avoided this place, being how he is."
The smile had long since fallen from the mother's face. She squinted at Rowen's words. It could have been mistaken for parental concern. "How he is? . ." It could have.
"Yeah," Rowen sighed as if nothing about it was new β because there was, indeed, nothing new about it. "He's β a little prejudice about places like this. The people. Not only that, but he's hot-headed, trigger-happy . ." she smiled as if they were having nothing more than an amusing conversation, scrunched her nose. "He might as well be the poster child for bad influence."
The wind filled her ears.
Mrs. Wheeler said nothing . . . Maybe she was enjoying this a little too much, even if she wasn't entirely certain of the situation. Rowen had gone off on a limb and her habit of overanalyzing, but the idea she had in her head seemed plausible.
"But with me, you know, you could just pass that off as a big sister overemphasizing things because she's protective . ." Rowen trailed off and decided to invite herself in. She moved to step through the threshold that Mrs. Wheeler was lingering in so she could β admittedly β get out of the cold. Because it was cold. But, to her dismay, the older woman didn't seem to feel the bite of it nor the sting of the wind as much as she was; whether because she was acclimated, or that something else was making her warm, Rowen didn't care. She was distracted, and Rowen was tired of freezing, didn't want to subject herself to another moment of being in it. Mrs. Wheeler stepped aside, let her come into the warmth and comfort of her home while she remained at the door, letting the chill in.
Rowen turned on her heel, added, "And I am protective."
That might as well have been a warning, if the look she was giving her didn't clue in to what she was thinking.
The fact that Mrs. Wheeler didn't respond, rather stare, was answer enough in her mind. She looked caught, however brief she had let the expression linger on her face before composing herself just as quickly. Rowen could see she had some poise, some means of an even disposition, coming off as if there was nothing to discuss. Nothing to suspect.
But she wasn't perfect. There were cracks, and after witnessing what she had, Rowen was silently scrutinizing them.
"Hey, Rowen!"
She watched as the mother's attention averted from her, shook her head as if to shake the remains of something that had lingered in it, to finally close the door.
Rowen didn't need to look over her shoulder to know who it was, even if she had never stepped foot into the Wheeler's house until now; but she did so anyway, offered Nancy a much warmer smile than she had given her mother. Though neither of them would exactly say they were friends, the two had become mutually comfortable in each other's presence after so many times of taking their siblings to the arcade. They were joined in their older-sibling grievances, and somehow that had brought on a sense of comradery between them.
"Here for Max?" Nancy asked, though she already knew the answer.
"As always," Rowen said. "I didn't want her to have to bike home tonight, it's freezing."
Nancy offered her a sympathetic look. "Yeah, I think it's only going to get worse after this," she replied, to which Rowen bore a look of utter disappointment. Nancy threw a glance down the hall. "I think they're still playing downstairs, but if you want to hang out . . ?"
"Yeah," Rowen offered, shrugging. "I don't mind waiting. That is . ." she trailed off, looked over her shoulder to Mrs. Wheeler this time. "If your mom doesn't mind?"
The smile had returned, perfectly prim and composed. She was the warm, welcoming mother again, walking away from that door and that chill. "Oh, no, of course. Stay as long as you want!" she replied with a wave of her hand, walking towards the two. She passed them to head for the kitchen, threw a smile over her shoulder. "We've already had dinner, but Holly and I are making some cookies if you'd like to join us."
Outwardly, Rowen was accepting the invitation and followed Nancy without complaint; inwardly, however, she was noting every word.
She didn't like what she was beginning to see.
. . .