CXVIII
"What did you want to talk about, babe?" Jason asks her as soon as he sees her waiting for him outside the men's locker room.
Chrissy smiles at him and kisses him before saying: "Take me home?"
They end up talking in Jason's Jeep, parked a block from Chrissy's house.
"You were saying?" he asks her again, unbuckling his seatbelt and turning to her.
Chrissy takes a deep breath as she imitates him. She has waited until Friday afternoon in order to carefully weigh her options and find the right words to address the topic. Despite this, she still feels insecure as she tells Jason: "There is a situation… that I'd like to talk to you about."
"If I can help you with anything, just tell me."
The girl nods and proceeds to explain.
Although Jason has trouble keeping quiet and letting her talk—he keeps interrupting her with questions like "how do you even know this?" or "aren't you taking a couple of jokes way too seriously?"—Chrissy manages to finish her story.
Her boyfriend, unfortunately, doesn't take a single second to consider it. "And how is this your problem?" At the look of horror that she's unable to hide, Jason replies: "What? Am I wrong?"
"I made the situation worse, Jason."
"I mean, yeah, you acted badly by telling Mr. Mundy: imagine if Angela had gotten suspended or something for a joke!"
"A joke?" Chrissy mumbles, incredulously. "Jason, she tore up her notebook!"
"Well, yeah, maybe it was a bad joke," he concedes. "But you're not going to tell me what Jane did was right…"
"Defending herself in a more than humiliating situation? That's what you're talking about?"
"Babe, I don't understand why you're being like this." Jason lowers his voice instantly, as if the situation wasn't horrendous. "Like I said, it's not your problem."
"Jason, please, listen to me—"
He, however, takes her by the shoulders and cuts off her pleas completely, saying: "I'm going to tell you the truth, Chrissy, okay? I don't like the fact a girl like you, a girl so… good and pure, is getting involved with these people."
The young woman frowns. "What are you talking about?"
"That girl, Jane," he explains, "is part of a group full of freaks. They meet at night at a club called Hellfire to do who knows what… Well, I wouldn't be surprised if…" Jason settles better in the seat, although he doesn't let go of her at any time; his discomfort is palpable. "I wouldn't be surprised if they worshiped the devil."
Chrissy gapes at him. "What?"
"I didn't want to tell you." Jason shakes his head, a long-suffering expression on his face. "Like I've said, I didn't want to get you involved into any of this. But if it is necessary for you to stay away from all those people…"
The first thing that comes to her mind is Eddie's face. Eddie, who welcomed her into his home and, although he clearly needed the money, did nothing but listen to her and offer support. For once in her life, Chrissy puts aside diplomacy and her conciliatory attitude to affirm with all the conviction she is capable of to say: "You're wrong".
Jason's face contorts into a grimace of pain. "I see they've already brainwashed you, Chrissy." He finally lets her go and places a hand against his forehead, sighing. "This was precisely what I wanted to avoid…"
"Jason, there is no satanic cult," Chrissy murmurs, stunned to find herself having to pronounce such a combination of words.
"I didn't want to mention this, either," he adds, as if he hadn't heard her, "but Patrick told me he saw you talking to Edward Munson. Is that true, Chrissy?"
"Yes, it is, but Eddie is not—"
"He's a freak!" Jason suddenly explodes, and Chrissy is a girl again, her mother yelling at her to let go of the candy that a schoolmate has gifted her. "How can you be so blind?!"
"Jason—"
"No, I will not stand this!" he roars. "I want you far away from that Munson and his gang of weirdos!"
Everything around her seems to be quivering. It takes her a moment to realize that it's not that the world oscillates; it's just that she can't stop shaking.
Beside her, Jason exhales a huge breath. "Chrissy," he clears his throat then, evidently making an effort to calm himself, "baby, I didn't mean to raise my voice… It's just I care about you, you know that, right?" He slides an arm behind her neck, and she can't help but lower her head, submission etched into her muscle memory. "If you had listened to me, it wouldn't have come to that. Do you promise you'll listen to me next time, my beautiful girl? Come on… Say yes."
It's not just Jason talking to her. No, the other voice, the one that hides like a shadow beneath his words, hammers her skull: "Chrissy, promise me you won't eat sweets again; it's bad for you! It will make you look like a toad, and no one will ever love you! I'm saying this for your own good, because I love you! Come on, promise me!"
She opens her mouth to apologize, to say 'yes, I promise, forgive me', to somehow stop the screaming, to avoid the disappointment that she has once again caused someone important in her life, to finally be left alone, please, to be allowed to breathe, to be allowed to cry secretly in her room, to be allowed to…
And then, a third voice, like a hand over hers: "I don't think you owe anyone anything."
Eddie Munson's smile is engraved behind her pupils—he's there, somehow, with her, pushing her to be who she is, to show herself as she is, to say: "I don't owe you anything, Jason."
Few things in her life have been as satisfying as ignoring his screams, getting out of the truck, and slamming the door in his face.
Chrissy does not return home. No, instead, she climbs over a fence—Jason is following her, after all—and runs cleanly through one of the neighbors' yards, escaping into the woods. Escaping to where neither Jason nor her parents will find her.
She walks aimlessly for a long time, trying to calm both her anguish and her excitement. However, leaving aside the problem that Jason has added to her, the truth is the situation will continue to squeeze her heart out until she talks to the last person involved.
And that is why, an hour later, she finds herself standing in front of Angela's house. It's not too far from hers, after all: she knows where it is because there have been a few parties here that she's attended on Jason's arm.
She rings the bell. The door opens almost instantly.
"Hi…!" Angela's smile freezes on her face, and Chrissy realizes then that she was expecting someone other than her. "Oh. Chrissy. What are you doing here?"
"Hi, Angela. I want to talk to you."
The girl frowns. "Talk to me? Can't it wait?"
"No, it can't wait." Chrissy tries her best to smile. "It's about the issue you had with Jane."
Instantly, a pout of disgust disfigures her beautiful face. "Ugh, that freak. Chrissy, no offense, but I really have nothing to say about what she did to me; she is crazy, and—"
"I don't want to talk about what she did to you," she interrupts. "I want to talk about what you did to her."
Angela's face mutates again, this time, into an exaggerated, even manic smile, which makes her disbelief clear. Chrissy finds herself—despite her inclination toward benevolence—being increasingly repulsed by the exaggeration of her expressions.
"What I did to her? Excuse me, did I maybe assault her at some point?"
"Not physically," Chrissy agrees. "But you did hurt her in other ways."
"She broke my face with a skate!" she exclaims, pointing to her nose, where a small line of blood coagulated long ago marks the scene of the crime.
"After you made her life miserable on a bunch of occasions," she calmly replies.
"She accused me with Mr. Mundy!"
Chrissy swallows: she can't back out now. "That wasn't Jane." Angela is already opening her mouth to contradict her when she adds: "It was me."
For a moment, the girl is silent, her gaze fixed on her. Chrissy, who has had a decidedly long day, is not intimidated by her.
"It was you?"
"Yes, because I saw what you did to her notebook. To the notebook I asked you to return as a favor."
Angela's chest rises and falls hastily, the base of her neck and her face becoming redder and redder. Chrissy is about to ask her to calm down and to continue talking things over—better if it's inside, quietly, and not on the porch of her house—when Angela takes a deep breath and says: "I know why this is."
"Oh." She doesn't know what else to say: isn't it obvious why? She didn't beat around the bush, but rather put her cards on the table from the first moment.
Angela, however, takes her by surprise when she says: "There's no need for you to act like this just because you're jealous, you bitch."
"What?" For the second time that day, Chrissy can't believe what she's hearing.
"You obviously felt threatened." Angela smiles an angelic smile. "I mean, look at me: it's evident that Jason would have left you like this"—she snaps her fingers for greater dramatic effect—"if I ever gave him a chance."
Chrissy blinks slowly, trying—and failing—to combat this surreal feeling of being the only sane person in Hawkins.
"But don't worry, babe," she pronounces the nickname Jason usually uses with her with all the vitriol she's capable of, "I'm not interested in your boyfriend anymore. I'm dating someone way hotter."
She knows she should point out the incriminating "anymore" in her words, but the situation completely overwhelms her.
"Angela, this isn't about Jason," she refutes. "It's about your attitude, about the way you acted with—"
"Ugh, spare me the preaching, okay? And don't ever talk to me again."
The door slams in her face.
Inside the phone booth, Chrissy inserts the coins into the slot and dials a number. She presses the receiver to her ear, listening to the ringtone once, twice…
"Hello?"
She'd like to say hello, but her mouth—her entire being—seems to be prioritizing her own well-being over politeness right now: "I feel like I'm going crazy."
A pause. And then: "Chrissy, where are you? I'm coming to get you."
It doesn't even take Eddie ten minutes to arrive and park in front of the sidewalk where she waits with her arms crossed.
"Chrissy!" He practically throws himself out of the vehicle as soon as he sets the handbrake. "Are you okay?!"
Although his hands rise as if to rest on her shoulders, he does not touch her. No, Eddie would never, not without her permission.
"Yeah, I…" She inhales a big breath of air to admit it: "You were right."
Eddie purses his lips. "Let's talk about this somewhere else, okay? Want me to take you home?"
"No," she instantly rejects the idea. "No, please, let's go… Let's go to your place? Can we?"
"Sure we can. Come on."
On their way home, Eddie keeps the conversation casual—his teachers' irritation with him, shenanigans with his bandmates—and Chrissy is relieved he doesn't expect anything from her right now, now that they're driving through this horrible neighborhood full of bad people.
They're approaching Angela's house, and Chrissy can't help but look toward her porch.
…
To her surprise, the door to the house is open, and Angela is not alone: no, there is a man in front of her, tall and with blonde hair, dressed in jeans and a black sweater.
Hearing the engine, the man turns his face towards them, and Chrissy can clearly notice his perfect features, the icy blue of his eyes…
And the intelligent smile that curves his lips.
