- 8 -
The day I took my English test, Chrissy had a surprise waiting for me. She pulled me out to the woods after school, and she started unloading her bag on the rickety picnic table, building a pile of snacks that could have fed a whole lunchroom—Ding Dongs and Nerds and Doritos. In the bit of space left, she laid out graph paper and a little shoebox diorama of a classroom.
"What is this?" I couldn't tame my grin.
Last of all came the set of blue dice I'd given her.
"Edward Munson." She held her chin high. "Today, I will be your Dungeon Master."
If there wasn't a table between us, I would have kissed her silly.
She'd crafted an epic conflict of Eddie vs. the English Test. She didn't understand any of the combat rules, but I wasn't about to correct her. Not when she was glowing so bright. I ate what must have been a whole box of Ding Dongs, and I rolled when she told me to, and I wished I could have recorded her voice on a cassette to listen to whenever I needed encouragement in the future.
In the end, the hero Eddie valiantly stabbed the English Test with his enchanted pencil, felling the beast for good.
I gave a standing ovation like I was at a Metallica concert. Chrissy blushed, her nose wrinkling under her most adorable laugh.
"What's my loot?" I asked, retaking my seat.
It was a joke, but Chrissy pointed to a little box in the back corner of the diorama. Raising my eyebrows, I lifted the treasure chest, surprised to find it actually had a bit of heft to it, certainly more than the cereal-box cardboard it was made of. There was a sticker on the front and back keeping the two halves together, and after I peeled the first, it hinged open on that second one like a real chest.
There was a silver ring inside.
My throat got tight.
When I looked at Chrissy, she had a soft smile.
I tipped the ring out onto my palm. Around the blue center stone, it said "Hawkins High School," and one side had the tiger mascot while the other had its pawprint. But the best part was that big silver lettering above the tiger's head. 1986.
"You got me a class ring?" I could hardly manage the words.
In my first senior year, my uncle had offered to buy me one. I'd told him it was conformist—just one more symbol to separate some form of elite from the peasants. What I hadn't told him was that I was failing three classes and wouldn't graduate. Since then, even while I boldly claimed this year was it, I avoided anything that would physically commemorate it, because it made the humiliation run deeper if I failed. And I kept failing.
Chrissy said, "It's your year, Eddie."
I never believed it when I said it.
But I believed her.
"Come here," I whispered. She'd barely made it around the corner of the table before I reached for her hand and pulled her to sit on the bench next to me. I caught her face with both hands and kissed her with everything the words couldn't say. She picked up the ring from where I'd left it on the table, and she slid it onto my thumb.
"It looks good on you." She squeezed my fingers in hers. "I know you passed that test. I just know it."
With a smirk, I pulled that very English test from my bag and held it between us. Chrissy gasped.
The top corner said 80% in red ink.
Chrissy snatched it, flipping through the pages. "You got the grade already!" She gave me a light push while I laughed. "You didn't say anything!"
"Mrs. O'Donnell made me stay after class so she could grade it right there, since it decided my future and all. She gave me extra points for the essay, said I made a 'compelling argument' for why Hamlet couldn't run even though he should have."
"Eddie, this is awesome!"
She threw her arms around me. Holding her was better than the test, better than the ring.
My heart played the truth like the thumping baseline of my favorite song. And I couldn't keep the music inside.
I said, "I love you."
I didn't expect her to say it back, but she did, her voice buried in my shoulder but still clear, her arms locked around me like she'd never let go. I leaned my head against hers and just listened to the rhythm of our hearts weaving a melody all our own.
The next morning, everyone at school was frantic—Did you hear? Another murder. Neck torn open.
People had cared when it was Fred, but they'd cared in a sensationalized way, the way small towns flip at any big news. Now it was Patrick McKinney, beloved basketball boy, and everyone took it personally, like it was their own brother left to bleed out by the lake. Not that I was happy about Patrick, but the hypocrisy was infuriating.
The mayor announced a curfew. The school had a grief assembly.
And when I got home, the cops were waiting.
Not again.
"Sheriff, I won't keep missing work for this nonsense," my uncle said flatly. "You have one minute to give any good reason to be here."
So the sheriff was blunt in turn. "Some of Patrick's team members claim you threatened him. Said you do animal sacrifice to gain power over people."
"I didn't say a word to Patrick." This was really the same dance, step for step. "Jason Carver brought his team to my band practice. They threatened me. He's out to get me because I'm dating his ex."
"Chrissy Cunningham. You do spend a lot of time with her."
"Dating," I re-emphasized.
"Were you with her last night?"
"We were here, eating celebratory mac and cheese because I'm actually graduating this year—that is, if I'm not framed for murder just for existing."
"Can anyone confirm that?" He looked to my uncle.
"Sheriff"—my uncle got deadly calm, a calm that makes you shiver, the one trait he shared with my dad—"get out."
"Wayne, I'm just doing my due diligence—"
"What you're doing is pissing me off. I know you're new at this, and I know you've got big shoes to fill after Hopper, but you didn't give a thought to the consequences. Killers can't bring down a town nearly as fast as unfounded rumors can, especially ones backed up by damn fool law enforcement. You remember Victor Creel?"
The silence told me I was missing something. After a moment, my uncle opened the door, and with a tight nod, the sheriff left.
"Who's Victor Creel?" I asked.
My uncle pulled a beer from the fridge. To my shock, he offered me one too. Usually he was a stickler that I was still two months shy of twenty-one.
"'Bout thirty years ago," he said, "there was a family murder at that mansion up the hill. Horrible. Woman and her daughter both torn apart. From the start, the dad claimed it was his son, even had proof, but the son was twelve, and that was uncomfortable. Business rival pointed the finger at the dad with no proof at all, and the town jumped on board. Everything in uproar. The police locked him up, and he went mad. Slashed his own eyes out. He's still at Pennhurst, far as I know." He shook his head and took a swig of beer. "Son killed six more people before anyone did anything about it. By then, it was too late for Victor."
The single swallow of beer I'd taken seemed to curdle in my stomach.
I tried to tell myself Victor's fate couldn't happen to me, but I was all too familiar with how people treated outcasts. And if the police couldn't even arrest a twelve-year-old boy for murder because that was too far-fetched, I had no hope they would correctly pin the current murders on a vampire. Why believe in a supernatural monster when they could make a comfortable one out of me?
Something must have shown on my face, because my uncle came over to grip my shoulder.
"I won't let anything happen to you, Eddie," he said.
"Thanks," I managed. Desperate to bury the fear, I showed him the silver ring on my thumb. "Didn't get a chance to show you my new bling. Class of '86, how about that?"
"Looks real good on you." My uncle even smiled.
I did, too. "Chrissy got it for me."
His eyebrows went up at that, and something knowing crept into the expression.
"What?" I asked.
"Oh, nothing. There's no rush."
"No rush on what?"
He took his beer over to the chair and settled in with a too-satisfied sigh, turning on the TV.
I said, "Cryptic doesn't suit you, old man."
He sipped away, ignoring me.
I shook my head and went to my bedroom. The little whisper of remaining fear couldn't reach me with my ears full of Metallica.