Max sighed in frustration as she threw her copy of The Taming of the Shrew onto her bed.
She was in trouble.
Because she could not stop thinking impure thoughts about her best friend when she needed to be thinking scholarly thoughts about Shakespeare. There was a paper due this week and all she could think about was stupid Mike and his stupid jawline and stupid brown eyes that crinkle at the corners when he laughs and stupid wavy black hair that she just wanted to run her fingers through. She buried her face into her pillow and groaned.
She'd tried to put some distance between them following the morning after the party, having to physically hide her walkie-talkie in her closet so she wouldn't be tempted to radio him with every little thought like she'd grown accustomed to. Instead, she'd spent the whole weekend vigorously scrubbing the trailer from top to bottom just to force herself to think about anything other than Mike's lips, and his hands, and what they might feel like on her body.
But then as soon as he'd waltzed into the record store on Monday in his black cut-off shorts that showed off his laughably bony knees, an oversized NASA sweatshirt, and a hopeful smile on his face, it felt like she was whole again, and she hadn't even realized a piece had been missing. God, she was weak. And then she had to go and make a total ass of herself at the bowling alley a few days later. What the fuck had she been thinking hugging him like that and then running away like a complete spaz? And right after he'd so emphatically denied the idea that they could be a couple to that old man. Yeah, there's no way he saw her as anything more than one of the guys.
Rolling onto her back, she grabbed her Walkman from her nightstand and slid her headphones over her ears, letting The Smiths' jangly guitars drown out her pathetic thoughts. Why, why did I have to develop these feelings for my only current friend, she lamented. It was complicated for so many reasons. Maybe she should list them to herself and that would help stave off any impulse to act on her depraved urges.
Reason number one. She really didn't want to come between Mike and Lucas. They'd been best friends since elementary school, and a friendship like theirs, especially between boys, was rare. It was special. Plus, Max was pretty sure Lucas thought they were going to get back together at some point, even though she knew for sure it was never going to happen. Especially now that just thinking about Mike made her feel more excited than she ever had in her entire relationship with Lucas. She couldn't help but wince at the thought of how he would react if he found out his best friend was dating his ex-girlfriend. Max wasn't sure there would be a way back from that for Mike and Lucas. And of course, poor Dustin would get caught in the middle, forced to choose sides—it had the potential to tear the threadbare remains of the group apart completely.
Max sighed and sat up in her bed, reaching over into her nightstand drawer and pulling out her pack of cigarettes, fingers lingering over the one pre-rolled joint that was in there before deciding against it and taking out a regular one. She slipped on her flip-flops and pulled her dad's old, faded Oakland A's hoodie over her t-shirt before making her way through the empty trailer, the bleach and artificial lemon scent still lingering from her cleaning spree last week. Her mother was at her waitressing job and Max had been alone for hours now.
Stepping out onto the rickety porch, she took a seat on the stairs before lighting up, throwing her head back as she exhaled a cloud of smoke into the cool night air, watching it swirl in the flickering light of the lone street lamp.
Reason number two that her and Mike were a terrible idea: she didn't want to ruin what they already had. Despite any recent feelings she might have developed, he was extremely important to her as a friend first and foremost. He was her support system and her confidante—one of the only people she truly trusted. If she admitted her feelings and he turned her down, or they somehow got together and then broke up, there would be no going back. The last thing she wanted was to permanently fuck up the friendship just because she couldn't keep it in her pants.
Max took another drag as her gaze landed on the still-empty Munson trailer. She couldn't help the shiver that ran through her at the thought of what had transpired there, fingers curling into her palms reflexively. Last she heard Eddie was nowhere to be found and with no further deaths the investigation had stalled. Not wanting her thoughts to spiral into a panic attack, she stood and walked down the stairs, shaking out her hands as she headed over to where her neighbour's dog was whining at her from his enclosure.
Her panic attacks and nightmares had miraculously gotten less frequent as of late, and she couldn't help but notice that the change had started when she and Mike began regularly radioing each other on the walkies. Ms. Kelley had repeatedly told Max that talking about her trauma was a necessary step in healing from it, and maybe talking to someone who actually knew everything that happened, someone who'd been there, like Mike, was doing just that.
She reached the chain link fence, holding her cigarette between her teeth as she kneeled down to the scruffy little mutt and held her hand out, letting him sniff and lick her fingertips in greeting.
"Sorry baby, I don't have any treats for you today," she murmured to the dog, giving him a scratch behind the ears as her thoughts were once again tugged back to a certain dark-haired boy.
The final, and probably the most glaring reason she and Mike could never be was that he was obviously still in love with El. Just look at the depressed hole he buried himself in when she dumped him, for fuck's sake, Max thought to herself as she stood and took another drag of her cigarette, wrapping her arms around herself to stave off the nighttime chill.
She thought back to when she'd first moved to Hawkins and met the guys. She'd actually thought Mike was kind of cute for like a minute until he'd opened his mouth and revealed he hated her on sight, kicking off their tumultuous relationship. Stubbing out her cigarette on the metal fence post and flicking the butt on the ground, she turned back towards her trailer and made her way inside, throwing herself down on the couch with a sigh. Through her headphones, Morrissey lamented the old days being gone and being unable to cling to past dreams.
Her memories circled back to that moment years ago that she and Mike had shared in the gym of Hawkins Middle—when she was skateboarding around him in circles and she'd made him smile at her for the first time. She could have sworn she'd felt a tiny spark of something right before the board flew out from under her, which she'd always suspected had been El's doing.
El. Yet another complication. Was Max betraying her former friend by having feelings for her ex? She'd of course been the one to break it off, but it must be against some sort of unspoken rule… Then again, Max reasoned, El wasn't here anymore. She had a completely new life in California and if Max was being honest neither of them had tried very hard to stay in touch after the move.
Getting up off the couch, she made her way over to the fridge and took out a Capri Sun, stabbing the straw through the pouch with more force than necessary and taking a long sip before wandering back to her bedroom.
Lately, Max had found herself missing having a female friend. She was glad she had Mike, but girls could talk about completely different things and relate to each other on a very different level than they ever could with boys.
This was exactly why when Rachel Switzer had turned to her in chemistry the first week back after spring break and asked if Max wanted to have a sleepover that Friday, she had immediately agreed.
If Max was looking for a replacement for El, she couldn't have gone further in the opposite direction if she tried. Rachel was funny and outlandish—always saying whatever popped into her head and making Max laugh with the often inappropriate comments muttered under her breath. She liked Rachel. But then again everybody liked Rachel, and the feeling was mutual.
She was a rich girl but she didn't act like a stuck-up snob. Not stereotypically pretty either, she had thick, dark eyebrows and a prominent nose but she exuded an aura of sophistication and confidence that just made her magnetic. Rachel seemed to transcend cliques; a rare unicorn who got along with everyone, constantly floating between friend groups; bimbos and jocks, burn-outs, and loners like Max, she was even on the chess team. If one of the popular kids tried to make fun of someone she was the first to jump to their defence with a flip of her hair and a scathing remark that was guaranteed to shut the bully up. She just seemed to be a genuinely cool person, and Max jumped at the chance to get to know her better.
Rachel lived in the wealthy part of Hawkins with her mom, who'd gotten the house in the divorce as well as a large monthly alimony cheque, Rachel explained as she pulled her bright red '71 Benz convertible into the large semicircular driveway. In the back of her mind, the thought occurred to Max that this was the same street Steve Harrington lived on, and she laughed internally at the memory of the schoolgirl crush she'd had on him back in the day.
Mrs. Switzer—who looked like an older clone of her daughter and insisted Max call her Sharon—ordered Chinese for dinner. They'd eaten at the glass coffee table in the living room, sitting cross-legged on the shag rug and passing around takeout containers while they watched a rerun of the latest episode of Dynasty on the large television, Rachel and Sharon providing often racy commentary the whole time and laughing like hyenas.
If Susan Hargrove and Karen Wheeler were on opposite ends of the "Good Mom" spectrum, Rachel's mother was on a whole different scale altogether, acting more like a friend than a parent. Max found herself feeling envious of their close relationship, wishing she could casually tell her mom about the gossip from school and talk about boy problems without being worried she'd trigger one of her signature cynical rants about how all men will ruin your life and abandon you.
After dinner, the two girls made their way up the imposing curved staircase to Rachel's room, which felt like it was bigger than Max's whole trailer. She admired the large canopy bed and mirrored vanity, the lavender walls covered in posters of shirtless rock stars with leather pants riding dangerously low on their hips, and the impressive bay window overlooking the backyard, cushioned bench strewn with pillows and cozy blankets. Perched on the bench was a fluffy white cat with large blue eyes and a pink collar that looked like it came straight out of a cat food commercial, eyeing the new visitor to it's home warily.
"Grab a seat anywhere," Rachel said as she sauntered over to her hi-fi stereo system and turned it on, the opening notes of Pat Benetar's "Sex As A Weapon" filling the room. Max threw herself down on the black velvet beanbag on the floor and stretched her legs out in front of her, grabbing the latest issue of Seventeen magazine from the plush carpet and flipping through it. While Max contemplated whether she should be wearing more floral capri pants, the cat jumped down from the bench and padded over to her, cautiously sniffing her feet and legs before apparently deeming her acceptable and rubbing itself against her shins.
"That's Diana," Rachel said, eyebrows raised as she watched Max give the cat a gentle scratch under its chin. "She's usually a stuck-up bitch but it looks like she likes you."
Max smiled and continued to pet the purring creature while Rachel made her way across the room, lifted the bench of the bay window and pulled out a small midnight blue bong. Max raised her eyebrows.
"You wanna?" Rachel asked, holding up the bong and wiggling it temptingly.
"Hell yeah," Max replied, laughing at the excited squeal Rachel gave at her agreement.
After a quick lesson from Rachel on how to use it they passed the bong back and forth, sitting on the bench and blowing the smoke out of the window into the warm night air. At the first click of the lighter, the cat had given them what Max swore was a disapproving glare before trotting out of the room with her pink nose in the air.
Rachel had asked Max about her job which naturally evolved into discussing their favourite music. They found out they both loved Siouxsie and the Banshees and Sonic Youth, couldn't stand Duran Duran, and both had a secret soft spot for Madonna, especially her Like a Virgin album.
"So, speaking of virgins…" Rachel segued with a mischievous look in her eye as she tossed Max the hot pink lighter, pausing and waiting until Max was lifting the bowl from the downstem to finish her thought. "What's going on with you and Mike Wheeler?" Max inhaled sharply in surprise, pulling way too much smoke into her lungs and coughing harshly, a huge cloud of smoke floating away into the night sky.
"Nothing, we-we're friends," she choked out once she'd finished her coughing fit.
Rachel cocked her head to the side in surprise, her dark eyes widening and her high ponytail flicking around her head. "You mean you're not doing it?"
"No!" Max exclaimed, feeling her cheeks grow hot. "We're definitely not doing it. Or anything. Nothing's happened." She couldn't keep the slight note of bitterness out of her voice as she cracked open the Pepsi she'd grabbed from downstairs, condensation leaving a wet ring on the window sill. She took a long gulp of the sweet beverage and willed the blush in her cheeks to fade.
"But you want it to," Rachel smiled slyly as she wiggled her perfectly shaped eyebrows. Max put her can back down on the sill with a little more force than intended before picking the bong back up.
"What? No," she denied stubbornly, taking another hit and finding the sound of the water bubbling oddly satisfying. Rachel rolled her eyes at the obvious denial.
"Yes you do, you like him," she insisted after Max exhaled her smoke cloud. "It's written all over your face! And I saw the way he came to your rescue at the field party." Ah fuck, no escaping the girl talk, Max thought to herself. Oh well. The buzz from the pot was making her feel chilled out and open to sharing anyway.
"Ugh, fine, I might have a tiny crush on him," she relented, pinching her fingers together in front of her face and squinting at Rachel through the minuscule gap. "But it doesn't even matter. He'd never feel that way about me, the party was just him being a valiant hero like he always is."
"Oh, please," Rachel said dismissively with a wave of her hand. "Guys are easy, you can totally bag him if you want to. Plus I can tell you're a total hottie under those old man clothes." Max frowned as she looked down at her oversized sweatshirt and baggy denim shorts.
Rachel grabbed the bong from Max and finished off the bowl, blowing her smoke out of the window and setting the bong aside before crossing her legs and turning to face her. "Okay, so if you wanna get that boy wrapped around your finger, this is what you do…"
An hour later Rachel had finished giving a very stoned Max a series of detailed tutorials on flirting and, after finding out about her lack of experience, a frankly shocking number of sex acts.
"Where did you learn all this?" Max asked from the beanbag she was once again reclining on, feeling like she needed a cigarette after listening to some of Rachel's instructions. She took a sip of her Pepsi and then pressed the cold can against her flushed cheeks.
"Three words," Rachel said, holding up her fingers. "Jewish. Summer. Camp." Max felt her jaw drop in surprise. "It's basically six weeks of sexual experimentation."
"Jesus Christ," Max breathed, shaking her head in disbelief.
"Actually, he's the one guy I don't have a lot of experience with," Rachel said with a wink. Max burst out laughing; a warm, effervescent feeling bubbled up inside her at the easy female friendship.
"Anyway," Rachel continued, "you should definitely make a move, you two would make such a hot couple." A wicked grin spread slowly over her face. "Plus, the tall skinny ones always have the biggest dicks." Max choked on her drink.
Rachel cackled as she stood up, carefully returning her blue bong to its hiding spot inside the bench before holding her hands out to help Max to her feet. "Come on lady, let's go change. My mom warmed the hot tub up for us and she said she'd make margaritas."
A couple hours and three strawberry margaritas later, they'd changed out of their swimsuits and climbed into Rachel's spacious and ridiculously comfortable bed to watch a movie. Max snuggled into the plush black blankets, feeling lightheaded and slightly woozy from the combination of weed, tequila, and hot tub. Rachel popped the rented copy of 9 ½ Weeks into her VHS player, pressing play before jumping onto the bed and sliding under the covers in her matching satin pajama set, situating a nearly overflowing bowl of popcorn between them.
Diana jumped up onto the foot of the bed, purring loudly as she rhythmically kneaded a spot on the duvet for several minutes before curling up between the two girls and promptly falling asleep.
They watched the R-rated movie with rapt attention, eyes widening at the graphic sex scenes that made even Rachel seem lost for words. Max could admit some of the scenes were pretty hot, but she mainly found herself feeling deeply disturbed as she watched Kim Basinger slowly lose herself to an abusive relationship. Mike would never treat me like that, she idly thought to herself as the credits rolled and her eyes drooped closed.
Now it was Sunday night, and Max desperately needed to start reading this damn play, picking the worn book up from where she'd tossed it on her bed. She felt like she'd read the first scene ten times without absorbing it but she still couldn't focus, her mind drifting back to her afternoon at work earlier that day.
She'd been manning the cash register, leaning her elbows on the countertop and listening to Wayne as he helped a clueless dad pick out some records for his son's fifteenth birthday. The bell above the door jangled as it swung open and Mike walked in, flicking his grown-out bangs out of his eyes in a way that made Max weak in the knees. Get a fucking grip, Max, she thought to herself, forcing her face to maintain a vaguely bored expression as he casually strolled over and joined her behind the counter.
Wayne glanced over at the new arrival for a second, quickly turning back to his customer when he saw who it was. He had begrudgingly accepted that Mike's presence in his shop would be frequent and even indulged him in small talk from time to time. Mike tried to play it cool but she knew he was still very intimidated by Wayne. Now it was her turn to play it cool as she felt Mike watching her out of the corner of her eye, seemingly vibrating with some kind of nervous energy.
"What's up, Wheeler?" she asked, still looking forward.
He chuckled and leaned an elbow on the counter, his body facing her. "Oh not much… just making your dreams come true." Max felt her stomach do a nervous flip and she swallowed audibly, not knowing what he could possibly mean by that. Her actual dreams had been decidedly dirty as of late, but there's no way that's what he was talking about.
She raised an eyebrow and glanced at him, concealing her nervousness with an unimpressed facade while she pretended to organize the pens and paperclips that were littering the countertop. "You convinced Rob Lowe to pick me up on a motorcycle and drive us off into the sunset?" Mike snorted.
"Really, Mayfield? Rob Lowe?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
She flashed him a cheeky grin and shrugged. "Don't tell me you didn't feel anything when we watched The Outsiders in English last year." He shot her an unimpressed look and she couldn't help but chuckle.
"This is better than Rob Lowe on a motorcycle," he said as he nonchalantly tossed something on the counter in front of her. Max looked down in confusion, picking up the small plastic cards and studying them. Her eyes widened and she gasped as she realized what they were.
"How did you get these?" she asked, examining the fake IDs closely. Mike let a full-on smile break out across his face.
"Phil's friend from the baseball team has an older cousin in Chicago who makes them, and he happened to be paying him a visit this weekend," he explained. "I just swung by his place and picked them up on the way here." Max felt her cheeks start to hurt from smiling but she just couldn't make herself stop. That was until she looked down at the Illinois driver's license in her hand and noticed the picture, her grin morphing into a frown.
"Oh my god, why did you use my yearbook photo from last year?" she whined. "I look twelve! My hair is in two braids. How is any bouncer gonna think I'm twenty-one?"
Mike chuckled and kicked her foot with his. "Well, why did you do your hair like that for picture day?" Max stuck her tongue out at him. "Anyway, it's the only photo I could get of you on short notice," he explained.
"And he made my name Anne Green?" she exclaimed as she continued to scrutinize the ID. "What a dick!"
Mike furrowed his brow. "Why is that bad?" Max rolled her eyes and grabbed the end of her single french braid, waving it at him.
"Anne Green? Like Anne of Green Gables?" she explained as if it should be obvious. Mike burst out laughing and Max huffed and gave him a shove. "Not funny," she grumbled before snatching up his ID. She started snickering when she saw the fake name that had been bestowed upon him.
"What?" Mike asked as he grabbed the card out of her hand. "Joseph Kerr, what's so funny about that?"
Max gave him a smirk. "Joe Kerr? Like the Joker, duh."
He frowned, clearly confused about the comparison. "Because I'm an intimidating criminal mastermind?"
She snorted. "More like because you're a pasty white giraffe." Mike groaned and rolled his eyes, tossing the ID back on the counter while Max couldn't help but cackle at the subtle dig. "So does this mean we can go to the concert..?" she asked hopefully once her laughter died down. He nodded as he pivoted towards the counter and leaned on his elbows, looking down and picking at the chipped paint.
"I also um, thought we could stay overnight? Then we wouldn't have to worry about staying sober or a long drive back afterwards. I'd pay for a hotel of course," he added quickly. Max felt her cheeks grow hot at the thought of spending the night in a hotel with Mike, certain the flush spreading down her neck and chest as well.
"Are you serious?" she asked, tracing invisible figure eights on the countertop and willing her suddenly increased heart rate to slow back down.
Mike shrugged. "Sure, why not? Then we can both have a good time and I don't have to explain to my parents why I'm coming home at four in the morning." Max bit her lip anxiously, realizing the concert would fall before her next payday.
"I just don't um, I don't know if I can afford a hotel room after the cost of the show and food and stuff."
He seemed unsurprised and glanced over at her nervously, tapping his fingers on the counter as he looked back down. "You don't have to, I'll cover it."
Max looked over at him sharply before frowning and shaking her head. "Mike, I can't ask you to do that…" Mike turned to face her again, an earnest expression on his face.
"Dude, it's really no big deal. I was gonna pay for half my ticket for uh, for California, but that didn't happen, obviously," he muttered as he ran his hand through his hair. "Anyway, now I have all this extra cash." She looked at him dubiously and bit her lip, still unsure whether she should accept this act of charity.
"Seriously Max, I want to," he pleaded. "It should go to good use." She let her head drop down and took a deep breath as she considered the offer. It would be a lot more fun if they both could smoke pot and drink at the show, and she didn't love the prospect of the three-hour drive home afterwards.
"Yeah okay," Max finally relented, and she threw him a shy smile as Wayne and the customer approached the cash register, records in hand. "Thanks, Mike."
Max sighed as she lay back against her pillow. It was probably the most thoughtful thing anyone had ever done for her and she'd had to physically stop herself from throwing her arms around his neck and jumping on him again. Damn him, she thought as she looked back down at the book in her hand and flipped it open to where she'd left off. Her eyes drifted down the page, landing on a monologue from Bianca's lovesick suitor. 'I burn, I pine, I perish,' he agonized.
Me too, Lucentio… Me too.
That night she lay on her stomach and pressed her fingers between her legs thinking of full lips and twinkling brown eyes, muffling her moans in her faded floral pillowcase; and instead of a low tide, it felt like a goddamn tsunami.