4th of July 1985
You will remember that date forever not only as the day that you were injected with a truth serum or the day that you discovered that a monstrous entity was trying to break into the world through your hometown and almost consumed you that very night. No, that day will forever be engraved in your mind because that was the day that you first said your truth out loud to another person: that you fancied girls instead of boys. Luckily, after you had spoken that truth, you felt the effect of the medication wearing off and the two of you were faced with other things to worry about which diverted your attention, because if not you might have told him so much more. Because there was a long time before you became preoccupied with Tammy Thompson, when you knew very well why you weren't boy crazy like the majority of the girls in your class. And one of those reasons was... her.
It started out as a simple knowledge exchange. You were the only two students who had advanced your French beyond "comment appelez vous?" so your teacher decided to give you extra credit by doing conversational appointments together and present your advancements in an oral test at the end of the year. You start with some pretty run-of-the-mill stuff but before you know it you have started conversing about more personal topics. She compliments you on your dedication in the school band and you explain that it is one of the few things that still connects you to your classmates since you don't have many close friends. She tells you about the fact that she used to play the oboe but quit in order to work at the school paper with her best friend but that now she has started to feel that they are getting estranged and that she feels powerless about the development.
"Any particular reason?" you ask her. "Did you guys have a fight?"
"No. I almost wish that we did," she says, and you admire that she has grasped the conditional verbs so well. "Because if we had, then I would be able to pinpoint what I did and fix it. But this… I cannot fix it."
"Some things simply can't be fixed," you say reassuringly. "And maybe they aren't meant to."
Your hard work and effort paid off because at the end of your freshman year you get it confirmed that you have indeed passed your oral examination and will receive a hefty dose of extra credit for your sophomore year. You wait patiently by your locker, overlooking her finishing a conversation with her best friend, a petit looking brunette, before swooping in once the other girl has taken her leave.
"We passed," you announce to her. "With flying colors!"
"I can't believe it!" she exclaims. "I was so sure that I had fudged up the subjunctive."
"No you didn't," you say, gazing at her eyes as she looks at you over her bottle bottom glasses. "You were great Barb. You really were."
The other girl beams, obviously not used to this type of sincere compliment. She composes herself before continuing:
"We should do something to celebrate."
"I agree," you respond. You lean in closer. "Why not now?"
"Now?" she asks. "But class is about to start."
"Oh please. You know that all the grades are in already. It's just a formality day. You know we're way ahead and better off just skipping it," you put on your nicest and most sophisticated accent. "Pour moi? S'il te plait?"
After silently skipping out of Hawkins High school you head for the railway yard, a place that you know quite personally as you showcase when you count the steps from an abandoned carriage to a dug down casket.
"Pirate bounty?" Barb asks hopefully.
"Something like that," you respond, fishing up a bottle filled with yellowish liquid.
"That doesn't look too promising," she remarks and wrinkles her nose.
"I'm aware," you say, screwing off the cap and taking a hearty swig. "But don't let first appearances fool you."
The other girl seems to take you for your word, accepting the bottle that you hand to her and taking a small sip:
"This isn't actually half bad."
"Thank you. And I know. I have been perfecting my home brewed extra strong lemonade for quite some time. I might have been able to sell a couple of cases to the cheerleading team."
"Really? I always thought they might just shotgun some beer cans like their football squad boyfriends."
"Many of them don't like the taste of beer but want the buzz. And besides, that whole shotgunning thing is so unbecoming for a lady," you say, making a mocking hair sweeping gesture.
"Yeah, I always thought that shotgunning thing looks so lame. Besides, you might cut yourself," she responds and takes another sip. "This actually tastes really good."
In the space of the afternoon you wind up finishing the bottle between the two of you. Once the sun starts going down you opt for one of the rundown carriages. She settles down on one of the recliners and you join her on an adjoining one, separated by a small side table. You both stay silent for a while, basking in the comfortable buzz that the sun and the drink has given you. You sneak a peek across to the other girl and notice that she seems a little fatigued. It makes sense. You've spent the entire afternoon horsing around in the railyard and she does not seem to have a high tolerance for the type of beverage you've been sipping.
"Your first time?" you ask her.
"Skipping school?" she asks. "No. Last semester Nancy talked me into taking the afternoon off once when Mrs Wheeler was out of town visiting her grandmother overnight."
"No. I meant if this was your first time drinking alcohol. But now that you've mentioned it I'm really curious about hearing about that one time that you were so bold to skip school."
"It's actually one and the same event," Barb says, suppressing a hiccup before continuing her story. "Since we were alone at the house for the afternoon we decided to sample some of the things from Mr Wheeler's liquor cabinet. That man is such a dope that he didn't even realize that we were drunk when he came home from work. He just asked us to put the lasagna that Mrs Wheeler had left in the fridge into the oven and then planted himself in front of the TV like a houseplant."
"He didn't notice that somebody had been swiping out of his liquor cabinet?"
"No. We filled the bottles back up with water. Either he just keeps those in there for appearances or he has a really bad palate for alcohol because it's been more than six months and he hasn't said a word."
"Wow. You guys are ninjas," Robin exclaims, giggling.
"Maybe. But we sure weren't superhuman because we both woke up with a horrible headache and made a vow not to repeat that experiment," Barb says, relaxing further into her recliner. "Which might be what awaits me after today but at least you gave me something that doesn't taste like paint thinner. And this time, it actually feels very nice."
The two of you giggle at her comment before falling into comfortable silence. You notice that the other girl's left arm has fallen from the recliner's arm and is resting on the side table between the two of you. Without thinking about it, you let your opposite arm fall in the same direction. There seems to be a magnetic force because you feel your hand slowly approaching the other girl's hand. You're so close that she can feel the warmth radiating from her palm, your fingers almost touching. Suddenly you feel how the other girl's arm snaps away, her fingers grazing your. It sends a current through you, making you feel something that you can't quite describe but at the same time you can feel how your stomach sinks, fearing that you have done something to offend the other girl.
"It's 6 pm already," Barb says. "I'm supposed to be home for dinner in half an hour. I can't believe it's this late. Sorry Robin but I really have to go."
She gets up quickly, a little wobbly on her feet, heading for the door. She turns around at the carriage's exit:
"Any advice for facing my parents?"
"Drink a lot of water. And get yourself a stick of gum."
"You think they won't know?"
"People usually only see what they expect to see in you," you say, attempting to flash your most confident smile. When the other girl has left the premise you drop the smile, looking down to your lone hand resting on the side table, stroking it over the other side, which is still warm from the other girl's touch. "Trust me, I know."
You don't see much of Barb over the summer. She is off to Evansville, spending the vacation with her grandparents, like she announced to everyone that cared to hear at the end of the semester. But what most people don't know is that she regularly sends postcards to you, documenting her stay across the state. You get regular updates about her grandma's home cooked meals which she finds much more nutritional than the fast food takeout that her parents so regularly go for, her escapades around the city and the fact that she discovered that the local library is way better stocked than the Hawkins Local Library. You read these treasured post cards while working at the local kiosk, finding them way more precious than the weekly issues of Cosmo and Guns and Ammo. You run into Nancy once when she stops at the kiosk, buying a pack of gum and some diet cola, and you manage to casually ask about whether the other girl has heard anything from her best friend. Nancy mentions that sadly she has not heard much from Barb, only a letter here and there that doesn't give her much information about how she is spending her summer. You can't help but feel a little elated by this information, knowing that instead of spending all of her down time in Evansville gushing to Nancy about her summer, Barb is dedicating her time to communicate with you. Are you special? Because reading over those postcards before carefully placing them inside an envelope that you keep in your nightstand, you feel that the girl on the other end, the one that puts the pen to paper, is choosing you instead of her best friend. You might not feel special. But somebody, way across the state, has decided that you are special to them.
The night before school starts you gather up all the letters, organizing them neatly in a box in your nightstand. You know that there won't be any more: the last one detailed the journey which Barb will be taking to return to Hawkings this very night in order not to miss the first day of class tomorrow. You feel a tingle of excitement, looking forward to meeting your friend again, getting to ask her in person about the adventures she's had during the summer. You wonder briefly if you'll hug once you meet and whether she still smells of faint oceanic scented deodorant and the fabric softener that she always complains her mom is too generous with when washing her shirts. You pull up your own shirt, taking a quick whiff, wondering how your own body smells. You glance over at your vanity table, checking to see that you have enough hygienic products left and contemplate why you haven't used any of your summer wages to purchase a proper perfume. Most of what the drug store sells are heavy scents worn by housewives to mask their sherry breath but if you had applied yourself you might have been able to find something nice among the glass shelves. But does Barb even like perfume? Didn't she mention an allergy last spring when the flowers had started to bloom? Maybe a good shower and some Sure deodorant will do. You catch a look at your perplexed image in the table's mirror:
"What's wrong with me? Why do I care so much about this?"
You wave your hand dismissively. You're not the type of girl that cares about how she'll look on the first day of school. And you're not about to become one. You have a clean shirt in your wardrobe and your rucksack packed next to your desk. Deciding that thinking more about the details of tomorrow is a waste of your time so you turn off the lights and prepare yourself for bed.
Sleep does not come easy to you that night but once it does, the dreams that follow are strange and perplexing. You do not see a whole not during its passing, but your other senses pick on a plethora of things. There is soft touch, the smell of someone else, the soft smell of their body, their deodorant. You feel their curly hair falling on your face as they cradle your cheek. Your breath hitches, tension rises in your body and there is movement against you. Then a sudden, powerful release. You wake up, your body pelting upright. You feel how your warm body cools as you swing the duvet off your body and the night air cools the sweat that has sheathed you underneath your payamas.
"What the heck is happening to me?" you mutter, lying back down and hoping that dreamless sleep will come to you, but it never does.
The next day you fiddle nervously with your bag at your locker and stiffen once you feel her presence behind you. She is joyful and goes in for a hug but you quickly move away, busying yourself with shutting your locker, averting her gaze. She cannot know, because what would she even think of you if she did? No one can ever find out the bizarre longings that have formed in your mind's eye, and least of all her, because then you could risk losing everything.
It's been almost two months since school started again and you are finishing closing up the kiosk, hoisting your messenger bag on your shoulder and taking the lit path towards your house when you notice that there is a car trailing you. At first you are panicked, wondering if it's one of the dumb football boys, taking advantage of Halloween to pull pranks. You are not in the mood for getting fog horns or silly spray pelted towards you so you quicken your step. But once you turn around you find a friendly face, the car slowing down its pace to meet you at the deserted street corner.
"I just got my practice licence," Barb exclaims happily from the screwed down window. "Care for a ride?"
You waste no time, hopping into the car and slamming the door, looking giddily at the other girl.
"So, where to?" you ask.
"I can take you anywhere you want to go my lady," Barb says, suddenly blushing at her own statement. "Well, that is, as long as it's not more than 20 miles away because the gas tank on this thing doesn't have the greatest capacity."
"Well," you take some time considering before finally settling on a bold move. "Why don't we go somewhere where we can get a milkshake. I'm buying."
The other girl looks excited for a moment before looking disillusioned:
"I'd love to Robin. I'd really do. But I just remembered, I promised Nancy that I'd go with her to a party tonight."
You try to desperately argue, feeling that despite having met the other girl every week at school, a moment is slipping away:
"Come on, can't you bail? I'm sure Nancy will find plenty of people to hang out at that party."
"It's not that kind of party Robin. She got invited by Steve Harrington and it will just be him, us and his friends Tommy and Carol. She said she needs me to be there."
"As a third wheel," you mutter.
"What did you say?" the other girl asks.
"Nothing. I had something stuck in my throat," you claim, clearing your throat to underline your statement. But what you really want to say is that she is smart, funny and capable and deserves so much more than to play a third wheel to Nancy Wheeler, who will probably amount to nothing more than to imitate her own parent's boring life, living in a cul-de-sac with the disinterested husband that Steve will turn out to be.
"You could be anything Barb," you want to say. "So, stop limiting yourself to Nancy Wheeler."
But instead you say nothing. The silence stretches between the two of you and finally the other girl breaks it:
"I really need to go or I'll be late picking up Nancy. I can drive you home but then I really have to go. I'm sorry Robin."
You cast a look over the other girl; her tense shoulders, her worried glance across her bottle bottom glasses and her right hand which she is letting hang on the gear selector. Your hand is so close to hers. You can't help but wonder if you should close the gap for once and for all. There is even another thought that glides across your mind: should I just kiss you? I want to kiss you right here.
But you don't. You grind your teeth, fastening the messenger bag back to your shoulder and reach for the car door:
"I will be fine walking home, thank you. Enjoy your party."
"Robin! Robin! Please don't go," the other girl yells after you. "Can we at least go somewhere tomorrow?"
"Won't Nancy need you to go somewhere then?" you spit out, noticing how harsh your voice has become.
"If she does I will tell her that I've made other engagements."
"Promise?"
"I promise. I will even throw in a free pickup. As long as you're buying the shakes of course."
You feel how your stern composure softens up. There is even a smile crawling up your face as you consider the possibility.
"It's a deal," you tell her. "I finish my shift at the kiosk at 7 pm tomorrow. I will be waiting for you. Don't be late."
"I won't," the other girl flashes you a smile before she puts her car back into gear. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."
You watch as the car pulls away and disappears in the distance, the dumb grin still stuck on your face:
"Neither would I."
So the next day you wait for her to pick you up. In the evening you even walk to the shake shack, wondering if somewhere in your work-addled brain you lost a comment from Barb that she was going to meet you there. But she doesn't show at the shack. You feel too embarrassed to call her house the next day, wondering if she's blowing you off for something much more interesting with the popular friend group that Nancy has gotten her an invitation to and does not want to associate herself anymore to the likes of you.
Your perception starts to shift however the following Monday when Barb fails to show up at school. By the next weekend, missing posters have been hung around Hawkins, sporting Barb's school photo, the one she told you she always hated. In the following weeks, news start trickling in. Barb's car was found next to the train station and the local authorities form theories that the young woman has indeed taken off. You catch gossip and whispers in the student halls: many people are surprised that a promising student such as Barbara Holland left Hawkins before receiving her diploma to pursue a life as a "vagabond" as some people put it.
"Seriously thought," you catch a blond girl saying, as she sneakily puffs her cigarette behind the dumpsters behind the Hawkins High School. "Can you blame her? Most people would take the first chance they get to leave this place behind. I know I sure as hell would."
You yourself are somewhat puzzled. But more than that you are deeply hurt. Because if Barb was really intending on leaving, she would have surely had to plan it for quite some time. And if she was planning it, could she at least not have left a small message. Not telling her parents, you understand. Perhaps she thought that they would not understand and would try to change her mind. But could she not have told you, or at least hinted that she didn't plan to stand by her promise to meet you the next day? Was it to uphold some sort of a ruse? Did she need to make everyone believe that it was business as usual, including you? Did she not trust that you could keep her secret, even understand why she wanted to leave in the way that she did? Or were you so insignificant in the course of her life that she did not mind playing you for a fool?
But still you wait, with the pang in your heart growing ever more insufferable. You can't even help getting out the old post cards that she sent you, wondering if there will be a new one arriving in the mail, detailing how she is now living a happy life, in the city that never sleeps, or even in the adventurous San Francisco? Because, like she used to quote, Oscar Wilde would say that anyone that went missing eventually turned up in San Francisco.
So you read her postcards again. And you wait.
You muddle your way through your Sophomore year and start Senior year still with no news of Barb. You have grown tired with spinning stories about what she might be up to at the other side of the country and during the summer you did set yourself your own goal of a sort: to find a guy that makes you feel something so strongly that you'll be able to brush everything about her aside for the foolishness that it was. Once this plan failed to come to fruition you lowered your standards: somebody that would at least replicate the spark that you somehow felt with the other girl and then when that fails you just hope for someone that could possibly distract you from the notion that you are completely going against the grain of what seems to be accepted and normal. You even start frequenting the Hawkins Swimming Pool, a thing you thought you'd rather die rather than doing, in order to gawk awkwardly over your paperback at potential crushes. You try to glance at the typical Tommy, new hot shot Billy who is visiting the town over the summer, even golden boy Steve Harrington but it just doesn't seem to do anything for you, nor get Barb from your mind. It isn't until you catch a glimpse of a blond haired beauty which lounges on the sun bathing chairs. You recognize her from school. Tammy Thompson, the girl who belts out tunes for anyone who wants to listen. You are not sure if you've liked what you've heard from her so far. Maybe she just needs some fine tuning, a thing that you could help with seeing that you have twelve years of experience in the school band. But none of that really matters, because Tammy has the wrong parts for someone that might agree to go out with you. Yet you can't help to look up and feel a tingle in your stomach every time you catch her brushing her long locks from her face or shift in her lounging chair. You have failed your mission and are disheartened to say the least. But at least it feels nice to obsess over someone that is not thousands of miles away and has probably forgotten everything about the times that you shared together. So you decide that even though Tammy Thompson was not who you set out for, she will do for the part.
You remember when you are when you see the news. It's November the 15th and you are getting the newspaper out for the kiosk's Saturday opening. As you cut the plastic ropes from the bundle you see a familiar name. You grab the newspaper with both hands, devouring its content.
"Do you mind? I need my cup of joe before I get to work!" you hear shouted over your shoulder.
"Be with you in a minute!" you shout back, retreating into the stall inside the kiosk, running over what you just read.
It's a headline for the Hawkin's Post. It details how a research station that was instilled in Hawkins since they 50's are charged with a chemical leak that lead to the death of one Barbara Holland. As a result, the station is being closed down, charged with manslaughter due to negligence. There is also mention of court procedures but you are not able to catch any of that because your mind is already reeling.
She did not forget you. She didn't even run away to begin with. She was here all along, dead and forgotten. And now you know. But does that change anything, when all comes to all? And where does that leave you?
You turn around, opening the screen of the kiosk, greeting the first customer of the day, your composure frozen in time. Later, there will be a time to process all of this. For now you are simply incredibly numb.
You're not really sure how you manage to get through the next couple of months. The funeral passes in a blur. You sit in the back, wringing your arms together, looking at all the people in the front. They cry, they hold each other, reminisce about the wonderful times they spent with Barb. Meanwhile you just sit, staring at your clammed fingers, wondering if you could ever share the fact that you knew the girl that they're grieving as more than a classmate. She was your friend. Your partner in crime. She was so very special to you. But even if you were to approach them, what would you tell them? That you became close to her while studying French declinations, joking how the exercises would make you into cunning linguists? That you spent a stolen afternoon together where you swigged homemade liquor and joked around? That there was a moment, just a moment where you felt that you could kiss her and that she might kiss you back? No, not in this lifetime. So you clench your fists even more tightly, bite your tongue. Because even though many truths have come out in regards to your friends' disappearance this is a secret that you decide at that moment that you will take to your grave.
You throw yourself into projects. You study any language that you can get your hands on: French, Italian, Spanish, heck even Pig Latin. You can't help but wonder if unconsciously you're honoring her. You even get into studying history, a subject that you've despised up until this point, figuring that the history books are just full of men that feel they are doing important things. What you're liking even more is the fact that in Mrs Click's history class you get to sit right next to Tammy Thompson. At first you don't even know why you like sitting next to her. She doesn't pay attention and she has to check your answers all the time so she doesn't make a fool out of herself when Mrs Click asks her questions in front of the class. But in exchange she tells you about her hopes and dreams. She's going to leave Hawkins, move to Nashville and be discovered as an aspiring country singer. You treasure those moments and try to get them in as early as possible when you're in class. Because once fifteen minutes have passed of the class he makes an entrance. It's eerie how accurately he can arrive fifteen minutes late, always with enough time to grab a bagel before class that he noisily munches on in front of her. He gets crumbs all over himself and the table and always interrupts the class by asking the darndest questions. But that isn't the worst part. What stings the most is that the moment that he steps in the door you know that you have completely lost Tammy's attention because for the remainder of the class she will do nothing except ogle him. You feel anger brewing in your stomach. How can such an uncultured slacker deserve the attention of someone as talented and funny as Tammy Thompson. And more importantly, why are you so upset about it?
Now it all makes sense. You knew it was the truth the second it came out of your mouth.
"Truth serum," you chuckle to yourself. "One hell of a drug."
But just like the effect of the drug, after that night, other things start wearing off. You feel like you're recovering from a bout of the flu and by the time that you run into Tammy a week later at the arcade, hearing her gush about how she has just booked a bus ticket out of town and is heading for shiny, glowing Nashville, you realize that you feel nothing at all. There is another feeling though, that still remains in the pit of your stomach and after you've bid your farwell you realize what you have to do.
The cemetery is peaceful in the dusk. You approach the grave, the one that before you had only dared observing from a distance. It is lovely, the writing on the headstone is beautifully calligraphed and the flowers are fresh and crisp. Nancy undoubtedly makes frequent visits to make sure that her friend's final resting place, or where her memory rests at least, is in top shape. You absentmindedly brush the leaves that have fallen over the stone, trying to find the right words to say.
"They really pulled out all the stops with this place huh?" you remark. "This place is tidier than my house!"
You stop. You are defensive, retreating into sarcasm and banter: your comfort zone. This is not what you came here to say. You should be better than that and at least attempt to be honest. You owe her that much.
"I really enjoyed the time that I spent with you," you start. "I sometimes play it back in my head when I'm feeling down. Especially that day at the train wagons. You were such a wonderful friend to have and a really lovely person. I wish I would have done more. Said more. I should have been brave for you. But I was afraid. I shouldn't have been. I should have been brave. For you. Because I think that in some parallel universe where all of this horrible stuff hadn't gone down I really could have loved you Barb."
You feel the weight of the words leave you and for a moment you wonder if there has been some shift in the wind, the way that the light gleams over the clouds above you. It hasn't. You hook your thumbs into your pockets.
"I should go. My shift at the video rental is about to start. And I know Steve will be late so I really need to be there on time. I will be back later. You can count on it. See you on the other side."
To your surprise, Steve is actually already behind the counter when you enter the store and looks you up and down when you close the clinging door behind you.
"You look different somehow Robin. Did you do something different today, like with your hair or something?"
"No. I actually just had a really nice conversation with someone."
"Ooooh. I like where this is going. Was it someone special?"
"Yes," you say, smiling to no one but yourself. "She really was."