AUGUST 26, 1985
Early in their career at Family Video, Robin considered it her duty to teach Steve about cinema. Steve had never been a good student, but he let her lecture him during quiet spells behind the check-out counter. It was nice to be deemed worthy of the lesson.
Robin told him that scary movies were like an ice cream shop, that directors portrayed fear in many flavors, often scooping from multiple cartons but each one adding its own essence. There was creeping, mounting suspense; heart-stopping, jolts of terror; vile, repulsive horror.
Steve appreciated her Scoops Ahoy-adjacent analogy, but this was one of those rare concepts he understood innately. He'd tasted these gradients of fear and knew how each distinct, bitter sample burned his tongue.
But there didn't seem to be a movie that captured what happened when all those robust frights grew familiar. When adrenaline surged in the heat of the moment, but the body knew what to do with it. When those other scary feelings had room to fester. When it was guilt that seeped through the veins, sludge-like and certain to clog arteries, even as fear still quivered, rabbit-heart quick, in the core.
It was boring, not very cinematic, maybe. That static, relentless dread. But Steve didn't need a movie to illustrate that sensation for him. Not after going a fourth round against the Upside-Down.
But on this day, Steve had only known three ghastly entanglements with a hellish alternate dimension. And he was focused on the horrors of a minimum-wage retail job on a broiling August afternoon in small-town Indiana.
"Have a nice day, sir," Steve said in his most pleasant customer-service voice.
"You too, young man," the old guy with a loud-printed rayon shirt responded with a solemn nod.
Steve and Robin watched the man shuffle toward the exit of Family Video. After what seemed like an eternity, the door thudded shut behind him, and Robin heaved a sigh of relief that they had a moment without any customers frequenting the store.
"How do you test well in every demographic?" she groaned, leaning over the counter so that her cheek was squashed against the bright plastic surface.
"What?" Steve frowned at her.
She aimed a petulant, horizontal look his way. "Cute girls, little brats, jocks, nerds, moms, dads, old geezers. They all love you. How do you do it?"
Steve scoffed. "You've got a whiteboard with a dozen tallies from this week alone suggesting otherwise, Rob."
Robin straightened and sighed again, more violently than before. "Striking out trying to score a date is different than people just being generally charmed by you."
"To be fair, you've made me man the register for every rental in the last two hours. Maybe a grandma will pinch your cheek if you—I don't know—do your job?"
"What's that?" Robin said, tilting her head sharply. "Did I hear you want to sort the returns? Because, by all means, divvy 'em up. You know the difference between children's movies and gory slashers, right?"
"Come on, that was, like, a month ago," Steve winced. "We had only just started this gig."
"You shelved Sleepaway Camp with the family films, Steven," Robin pointed out. "It's got oodles of graphic mutilation and psychological warfare neatly packed into 90 minutes. You're lucky I spotted it on the kiddie shelf before Keith did. Imagine how many children you could have traumatized."
"Kids go to camp, don't they?" Steve protested. "How was I supposed to know the movie features someone getting stung by bees to death on the shitter?"
The bell above the door jingled, and they both twisted to face the front with guilty looks. But instead of the horrified little old lady that Steve pictured, there were two teens, barely glancing their way before heading to different sections of the store.
The boy, about Dustin's age but taller and rounder, beelined for the action movies. His colorfully checkered shirt disappeared among the shelves.
The girl he came with looked about the age and height of Robin. She lingered at the New Releases display near the door with a contemplative frown, fiddling with the thick strap of a cross-body bag and rocking back and forth on the heels of old black work boots. She wore denim shorts that Steve doubted she donned often, considering the sallow shade of her thighs, and a black t-shirt with a gold chain printed across the chest. Steve couldn't read the words on the shirt, but he felt confident assuming it was a band.
Steve aimed a pointed look at Robin with a slight nod in the direction of that deliberating customer who could use assistance. Robin scowled, brandishing a tape in the air before stacking it firmly in a pile that Steve was only mostly sure was romance movies. Steve conceded defeat with a roll of his eyes, and he maneuvered his way to the other side of the counter.
As he moved closer, he got a better look at the girl. It was as if her features were drawn with the broad side of a marker: heavy brows, a long, stern nose, full lips, and thick black hair parted to the side and grazing her shoulders in choppy layers. It could use a brush, Steve noted. But oddly enough, the dishevelment seemed to suit her. Enough so that when her sharp brown eyes flicked over to him, he found himself instinctually leaning against a nearby shelf with casual aloofness. He tilted his chin down to meet her gaze in the coy, half-lidded way that won over half the girls at Hawkins High.
"Looking for anything in particular?"
The girl watched him with that thoughtful downturn of her mouth unchanged, as if he was just another of Family Video's selections. Which wasn't exactly stroking his ego. Eventually, she held up a tape.
"I think I already know the answer to this, but am I going to be able to watch this without scandalizing my mother?"
Desperately Seeking Susan. A movie Steve watched on Robin's recommendation that he enjoyed in a similar fashion as Fast Times at Ridgemont High. A decidedly not mother-approved fashion.
Steve shrugged. "Well, I mean, it's got. You know. Boobies."
God, he was smooth once, wasn't he? He swore he used to be cooler than this. Say "tits" like a normal man, Harrington. Even "breasts" would be less weird.
The girl raised her eyebrows, and that corner of her mouth lifted too, much to Steve's relief. "Not that my mother doesn't see boobies in the mirror on a daily basis, but maybe I'll leave Madonna's for a viewing outside of family movie night."
Steve smiled at that, especially because she gave him an in. The window to an evening with this girl was wide open, and he had one leg looped over its sill. But as she dropped the video back on the shelf, he couldn't resist adding, "Who said they were Madonna's boobies?"
"Interesting," the girl conceded drily. Before he could speak again, she plucked Witness from the display, and Steve was happy that her frown didn't return. "I'll go Harrison Ford then. Can't miss with Han Solo, right?"
"Boobies in that too," Steve said, and he winced. He did it a-fucking-gain. Maybe he was spending too much time with Robin. That word vomit of hers must be contagious. He cleared his throat and continued. "Honestly, not a lot of new releases at the moment that scream mom-friendly. How prude is she exactly?"
She let out a small sigh as she put that movie back on the shelf too. "It's my selfish preference more than hers. I'd rather not share a couch with my mom and little brother with some chick's naked heaving bosom on screen. Is this safe?"
The girl had picked up another movie, this one bearing a gleaming sword and a bright-eyed Matthew Broderick looking ever the dashing, up-and-coming hero in a tunic.
"Ladyhawke." Steve read aloud from the cover. "Haven't seen it. Looks like medieval knights fighting with swords and whatnot. And a hawk, apparently. But with Michelle Pfeiffer as the leading lady? I don't know. Could be risky."
"A risk I'll take, I guess," the girl sighed. "My brother's into this kind of thing, so at least someone will have a good time."
"With Michelle Pfeiffer? I'd imagine so."
The girl smirked. "I meant knights and castles and shit, but yeah, Michelle Pfeiffer is certainly appealing, isn't she?"
Steve huffed a laugh, and then a thought occurred to him. This chick was cute and not opposed to discussing the value of Michelle Pfeiffer or Madonna's boobies. Maybe she… was not opposed to boobies in general? Okay, he had to get the word "boobies" out of his brain.
"You from around here?" Steve asked carefully.
"No, my family just moved here," the girl responded tightly. She didn't look thrilled at the turn the conversation was taking. But it'd been ages since Steve had a chance to wingman, so he wasn't going to back down easily.
"You gonna be at Hawkins High?"
"Uh, as of next week, I will, yeah."
"Cool, what year?"
"Senior."
"No way, Robin will be a senior too," Steve said with practiced surprise, throwing a thumb back toward his friend at the check-out counter. "I graduated last year, but let me introduce you two. Then you'll have a familiar face in the hallway."
He turned to walk back toward the counter and was pleased when he heard the girl's heavy boots follow after only a brief hesitation.
"I'm Steve, by the way," he said, smiling over his shoulder.
"Uh-huh," she responded with a smirk.
He waited a beat before pressing. "And you are?"
"I don't know if I should tell you," she said. "I want to see how you planned to introduce me without knowing my name."
"You're hilarious," Steve told her drily. Then they were at the counter, and Robin was eyeing them both with mild trepidation.
"Okay, stranger, this is Robin. Robin, this is a girl who won't tell me her name. She'll be a new kid at Hawkins High. A senior, same as you. Just moved here from…"
Steve trailed off, waiting for the girl to fill in the space he left for her. Then he noticed the twin unimpressed looks from both women.
After a long beat, Robin sighed and gave the other girl an apologetic grimace. "Sorry about him. He's such a dingus. I'd say he's not always like this, but unfortunately, that would be a lie. I am Robin Buckley, soon-to-be senior at Hawkins High, though."
The girl smiled, a slight but sweet thing. One of her teeth tilted forward a bit, disrupting the clean line of her smile. "Donna Martinelli. Nice to meet you."
Robin glanced down at the movie that Donna brought to the counter. "Matthew Broderick fan?"
Donna opened her mouth to respond, but Steve cut in sharply, "Michelle Pfeiffer. She said she likes Michelle Pfeiffer." He tried to convey the significance of preferring the actress over the actor through weighted eye contact. But Robin's returning gaze was only bewildered.
"Uh, I guess," Donna replied with a frown.
They were saved from the awkward downturn of the conversation by the other young teen arriving and dumping a small stack of movies on the counter. Steve assumed the kid was the little brother Donna mentioned, especially when Donna scoffed at the tape on the top of the pile.
"No, not again. This shit is three hours long."
"But it's Kubrick," the kid protested. But he was already sliding 2001: A Space Odyssey out of the stack, shoulders slumped in defeat.
Donna was making some kind of scathing retort, but Steve's eyes caught on the next movie in the pile.
"Hey, my friend loves this movie," Steve smiled, tapping the cover of The NeverEnding Story.
The kid looked up at him doubtfully, and his cheeks flushed. "Really?"
"Yeah, he's… wait, how old are you?"
The boy's face burned a shade redder, and he mumbled, "Fourteen."
"Same as my friend Dustin, then. Are you gonna be a freshman?"
He blinked. "Yeah."
"Dustin too," Steve said with glee. "You should totally hang out with him. The kid's into Star Wars, Dungeons Dragons, arcade games… Actually, I can give him your phone number so you can meet up or something. Then you'll know someone before school starts next week. What's your name?"
"Uh," the kid darted a glance at his sister who shrugged, but she was watching Steve carefully. "Gene," he said finally.
"Well, Gene, what do you think?" Steve had the vague sense that setting up ninth graders for a playdate was lame. And if the date in question was anyone less genuinely friendly than Dustin Henderson, he wouldn't push it on the nervous kid in front of him.
"Okay," Gene muttered. Steve pushed a notepad and pen toward him and waited. Gene blinked at the blank paper before shooting a sheepish glance toward Donna.
"Seriously? Two weeks we've lived here, man. You don't know your own phone number." Donna grumbled, but she jotted down the number in scratchy handwriting along with his name: Gene Martinelli.
"Perfect," Steve beamed. He ripped the paper from the pad and jammed it into the pocket of his denim shorts.
"If the friendship matchmaker is finished," Robin said with raised eyebrows. "Do you have a Family Video card, or would you like to sign up for one today?"
While Robin went through the motions of registering Donna in their system, Steve was about to grab the stack of tapes Robin had assembled and take them to the romance shelf (he was about 80% sure that was where they were meant to go). But Gene spoke up softly.
"Do you do this often?"
"Do what often?" Steve asked.
"Help people make friends." Gene's voice was quiet, and his cheeks flushed again. Where Donna was all heavy-handed brushstrokes, Gene was sketched with a fine-tipped pen using careful, purposeful lines that made him soft and bright. Steve felt a twist in his chest at the tentative question.
"Nah, I just thought your sister and Robin would get along and I got carried away," Steve smiled. "I mean, hey, they're doing okay so far."
He gestured to where Donna was spelling "Martinelli" in a bored voice, and Robin tapped dully at the computer keyboard.
"I guess," Gene said uncertainly.
"It's just an idea, you know," Steve shrugged, leaning toward the kid. "If you don't like him, you don't like him. Don't feel obligated to give him the time of day. But fair warning: he's a chatty one. So know that if I give Dustin Henderson your phone number and tell him you're a fan of his favorite movie, you can expect an earful."
Gene squinted at him. His eyes were a few shades lighter than his dark hair. At last, he nodded. "All right." He glanced at Steve's nametag. "Thanks, Steve."
"No problem, man," Steve said with a pat on the kid's shoulder.
"Ready, Gene?" Donna said. She had a plastic bag with their accrued tapes in one hand. Her other was on her hip as she raised an eyebrow at her brother.
"Yep," Gene acquiesced. Donna aimed a parting nod at Steve and made her way out of the store with Gene at her heels.
Steve watched them both climb into an old grey Chevy that might have been silver, generously, a decade ago. They chatted amiably, and Gene said something that brightened his entire face and made Donna smile for real, teeth bared fully and unreservedly, before she put her car in reverse and guided them out of the parking lot.
"What was that about?" Robin asked, watching Steve with unbridled suspicion.
Steve shrugged. "She mentioned she was new in town, and you were the same age. Figured you two might… be compatible."
"You're being weird," Robin said, eyes narrowing. "Why did you think we would be compatible?"
"She likes Michelle Pfeiffer," Steve said lightly.
"She's a very popular actress," Robin said drily.
"And she's not opposed to Madonna's boobies."
Robin scowled. "Excuse me?"
Steve glanced around the shop to make sure it was empty of customers before relaying the interaction by the New Releases display in detail.
"So maybe she… shares your interests?" Steve made a vague gesture toward Robin, who was standing stock still.
"Steve, you can't just…" Robin's voice came out in a harsh hiss. "What if she doesn't? What if she's… not okay with that kind of thing?"
"I didn't bring it up, didn't even hint at it," Steve assured her. "I was just helping two people make each other's acquaintance."
"Okay, okay, okay," Robin shook her head. "You're right. I didn't notice you were wing-manning me in a non-platonic way, so she probably didn't either. But going forward, absolutely do not do that again. The stress will give me an aneurysm."
"Noted," Steve agreed, squinting at the way Robin did seem paler beneath her freckled cheeks. "But did you get her number?"
"What?" Robin squawked. "No, I didn't get her number. I didn't know I was supposed to get her number."
"Even a new girl looking for just-a-friend would have wanted your phone number. To talk about what school is like or nail polish or whatever you girls gab about. Just the facts."
Robin rolled her eyes at the last phrase. "Gee, thanks, Erica. But do you really think so? It's not like she offered it."
"Did you not register her for Family Video membership?"
"That was business related!" Robin protested.
"Do you want to make a copy of this?" Steve asked, withdrawing the paper with Gene's name and number in Donna's scrawl.
"No! That would be… dishonest! She'd think I was some creep stalking her!"
"So give her your number the next time she comes in then."
"If she comes in," Robin groaned. "It could be Gene returning those movies."
"But you do want to talk to her again?" Steve teased.
"Stop that, I don't know, yeah, why not," Robin grunted. "You're putting things in my brain that don't belong there, Harrington. We need to stop talking about it."
"Fine," Steve conceded, but he was glowing with satisfaction all the same.
That warmth carried him through the rest of his shift, his drive home in the dark, an apology to Mrs. Henderson for phoning at such a late hour (again), and a snarky complaint about pimping him out to strangers from Dustin. But Dustin agreed enthusiastically to ring Gene in the morning, so Steve deemed the whole affair a success.
He'd think back to this pleasant moment later, mere months down the line, as the day he condemned the Martinellis to the curse that refused to leave Hawkins and its miserable inhabitants alone. And that gnawing, decaying, guilt-riddled scary movie would roll on repeat in his mind.
It's easy to forget you're in a horror film when the monsters are far away, irrefutably ensconced behind a gate that no longer exists, when your friends are laughing and vibrant at your side.
But then you drive home on a night only a little colder than this one. And Donna Martinelli is ashen and petrified on your stoop, panicked eyes fixed on you like you possess all the answers to make her nightmare end and prove none of what she saw was real—just some cruel dream.
And you remember.
