I jolt awake to the blaring of my alarm clock, disoriented by the harsh sound. My cheek is pressed against crumpled English homework, the desk light casting long shadows on my bedroom walls. Rubbing my eyes, I take in the familiar decor of my bedroom, trying to calm the quickened pace of my heart. On the other side of the wall, Dustin's pounding fists demand that I silence my alarm, pulling me from the groggy haze of sleep and back into reality.

Gray light filters through the curtains, casting a soft glow that stretches across my room. I open the window, shivering slightly as the cool air brushes my face, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and crisp morning dew. The familiar smell brings a sense of comfort, reminding me that some things in Hawkins never change.

My bedroom door swings open, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Mom never knocks. She bursts in, her movements quick and slightly frantic. Her smile is bright, but it doesn't quite reach her tired eyes, shadowed by dark circles. The forced cheeriness in her voice is like a brittle mask.

"Good morning," she says, smoothing out the quilt and plopping Mews onto the bed.

"Mom," I say, sitting at my vanity table, watching the cat with a slight amount of disgust, "I can make my own bed."

"Oh dear," she says, waving me off with a grin. Mom straightens the quilt with precise, hurried movements, as if fixing the bed can somehow mend everything else. I watch her guilt gnawing at me as I see the way her hands tremble slightly from exhaustion. "Will you and Dusty be okay for dinner tonight?"

I bite back a sigh, my chest tightening with the familiar weight of responsibility. Dustin and I had learned to be okay on our own, even when it felt like we were just holding everything together with frayed strings. "I'll make him spaghetti or something," I say with a shrug.

This isn't a new routine for us, but we're still adjusting. When Dad left for Indianapolis with his secretary, Mom had to go back to work, leaving me to pick up the parenting of my brother. She compensates with guilt, and Dustin pretends everything is okay.

"Dustin's going to want to go to the arcade or something anyway," I say, forcing a smile that feels too tight when I notice the worry lines deepen between her brows. "He's too cool for me now."

Mom shares the smile but aggressively massages Mews' neck. "He's at that age, isn't he? You were too cool for us by the time you were in 8th grade."

"I still am," I agree, and Mom laughs, though it's forced. "We'll be fine. I'll take him to the arcade and force-feed him soggy diner fries afterwards."

Mom smiles and stands, pressing a kiss to the top of my head before heading to the door. "Make sure you have time to get your homework done," my mom reminds me. It's a subtle, but unnecessary warning. Dustin and I always get our homework done, even in the midst of their divorce.

As soon as mom leaves, I take a deep breath facing my vanity mirror and try to shake the guilt of my mom's guilt from lingering. I catch a glimpse of myself and frown at the smudged mascara and tangled hair. I grab my brush tugging through the knots with quick practiced strokes, and dab a q-tip in makeup remover, carefully erasing the smudges of the leftover mascara. My mind is already running through the day. After school, I have tennis practice, which means that I would have less time to clean up the house before meeting Dustin at the diner. I sigh, carefully wiping away the shaky line of my eyeliner before reapplying it with a steady hand.

I take my time with my makeup and hair, ignoring the ticking of the clock. The makeup goes on meticulously layer by layer, until the mirror reflects someone who looks perfect, even if she doesn't feel that way. If anyone outside of my home looked at me they would see Lacy Henderson Tennis Captain: perfect, pretty, popular, smart, and athletic. I sit back, squaring my shoulders, tilting my head from side to side, each angle confirming my facade.

The clatter of dishes and the hum of Dustin's morning routine drift from the kitchen. The smell of burnt toast tells me he's up and getting ready for school. I take a few more moments for myself, picking out my outfit, straightening up my room, and organizing my school bag. Each detail, even small, in its place before heading to join him.

In the kitchen, Dustin is sitting at the table, a book pushed close to his face, but the smell of his toast is overwhelming and his breakfast is smoldering. He barely glances up from his book as I rescue his burnt toast from the toaster. "Can we please not start fires before 8:00 AM?" I scold, tossing the blackened bread into the sink.

Dustin shrugs, a playful spark in his eye. "Can we start fires after 8:00 AM?" he teases, his lips twitching into a barely constrained grin. I shoot him a warning look, the kind Mom uses when she's trying to be stern but can't quite manage it.

I grab a fresh piece of bread and pop it back into the toaster, taking a moment to wipe the crumbs off the counter.

"We're on our own for dinner," I tell him, taking a moment to grab a granola bar out of the cabinet for myself.

"I figured," Dustin shrugs, looking up from his book. "I'm going to go to the arcade anyways."

"Okay," I smile, pulling out some lunch meat to make his sandwich, "just meet me at the diner at seven for dinner."

Dustin sighs, setting his book aside, "You don't have to make my lunch, you know." His voice is soft, almost hesitant, and I pause, knife hovering over the sandwich.

"I know," I say, my tone more defensive than I intend, "but I like to."

He doesn't argue but I see a flash of concern in his eyes. "You should hang out with your friends more," he says, trying to sound casual. "Like go to the movies or something."

"I hang out with my friends plenty," I reply, rolling his lunch bag closed and handing it to him. But even as I say it, I know it's not entirely true. Between school, tennis, and taking care of Dustin, I barely have time to breathe, let alone hang out with friends.

"Yeah," he sighs, his tone a little sarcastic, "but not really. You're always so … busy."

I pause, the weight of his words settling in. He's right, he usually is. Between school, tennis, and taking care of him and our mom there isn't much time left for anything else. My lips press together into a firm line, agreeing with him would feel like I am not living up to my own expectations of perfection, but even worse – it would feel like I am saying my brother is a burden.

"Maybe this weekend," I say, ruffling his hair and setting his toast in front of him. "Hurry up. We need to leave in ten."

Dustin gives me a small smile and goes back to his book, biting into his toast with a loud crunch. I begin clearing the crumbs from the counter, my mind ticking through the day's checklist: school, tennis, dinner. Each task looms large, like pieces of a puzzle that don't quite fit together. I square my shoulders and plaster on a smile that says Lacy Henderson has it all together. But as I fuss over Dustin, making sure he has everything he needs, I can't shake the feeling that I'm juggling too much and it's only a matter of time before one of them drops.

We walk outside together, Dustin cutting through the side of the house for his bike. I throw my tennis bag into the bed of my truck before unlocking the doors and turning the key over. The engine sputters for a moment and I hold my breath. The truck, once my grandfather's, is a relic of another era – old and tired. The leather seats are cracked, and the dashboard is worn and smooth from years of use. I lovingly pat the dashboard, muttering a few words of encouragement and a silent prayer before turning the key again. The engine sputters then roars to life, a comforting rumble beneath me.

I climb back out of the cabin, waiting for Dustin at the bed to help him load his bike. During the warmer months, Dustin usually rode his bike straight to school, but during the colder months, my brother enjoyed the heater in the early mornings like everyone else. We hoist his bike up and Dustin gives the truck a pat. "This thing is a beast," he laughs, listening to the engine rumble.

"I was worried it wouldn't start this morning," I sigh, climbing into the cabin and shutting the door with a heavy slam.

I add the truck to my list of worries, part of me deeply hoping that it doesn't need to go back to the mechanic anytime soon. When Grandpa was around, he always took care of it. Dad promised to do the same when he gave it to me, but now…

"Dad said he'll be here in a few weeks," Dustin says like he can read my mind, there's an infliction of excitement in his voice that makes me slightly concerned.

"That's nice," I nod, pressing my lips together, "but…"

"I know," Dustin cuts me off, his voice slightly harsh, "don't get my hopes up."

I swallow, my throat tight. The issue hangs in the air, unspoken. The radio hums softly, filling the silence between us. Dustin taps his fingers against the door frame in time with the music, the rhythm a subtle distraction. My mind races to think of something to talk about, but Dustin caught me off guard by mentioning our dad. I knew he called most nights. Dustin always tried to convince me to talk to him, but I feigned busy most times by locking myself in my room, jumping in the shower, sometimes just leaving the house entirely.

"It will be nice to see him," I finally sigh, trying to fix my face into a smile for Dustin's sake. "What did you guys talk about?

Dustin is still slightly annoyed with me, but I can see the corners of his mouth twitch. "School and my campaigns, mostly." He pauses for a moment before laughing, "Dad thinks I should try to get into basketball before next year."

I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. This is typical of our dad, he's never tried to understand Dustin, never appreciated him for his brain and charisma and kindness. I'm glad Dustin can laugh about it, but I can feel the same blossoming resentment rising in my chest that grew there the day he left. My dad and I were close, both of us athletic, competitive, and driven. He was the one that got me into tennis, he was the one that stayed out in the hot summer sun training me, he was the one that showed up to every match, his yell from the sidelines always the loudest. The day he left is the day I stopped wanting to be like him, stopped wanting him a part of tennis, a part of me. Of course he's trying to wriggle his way back by asking Dustin to pick up a sport.

"Do you want to play basketball?" I ask, keeping my tone as pleasant as possible.

"No," Dustin laughs, the sound relieving, "but, maybe you can invite him to your next match. He might start coming around again."

The lump in my throat is rough when I try to swallow it. "Maybe," I agree, but I keep my eyes forward, not wanting to watch the way Dustin's face flashes with disappointment. In the distance, the school building looms, gray and imposing, breaking the treeline. My grip around the steering wheel tightens slightly turning into the school parking lot.

The morning rush is in full swing. Students mill about, some laughing, others rushing to get to their first class. I spot an empty parking space and maneuver the truck into position, only for a sleek car with California plates to screech in front of me, stealing the spot.

I slam on the brakes, the truck groaning in protest. "Asshole," I mutter, blaring the horn and throwing my hands up in frustration.

Two individuals step out of the blue Camaro that's probably worth more than most of the cars in the lot put together. The younger one, a middle school girl, doesn't look at us, but the driver – an older guy puffing on a cigarette – glances our way with a smirk. His eyes meet mine briefly, a spark of amusement dancing in them as I flip him my favorite finger.

"New kids," Dustin observes, "wonder when they got here."

"Who cares," I frown, the driver is still watching me, as I back the truck up into a spot a few spaces down.

"Don't forget, meet me at the diner at seven for dinner," I remind Dustin, killing the engine of the truck. The new kid is walking away now, his gait confident, the smoke of his cigarette trailing after him. A creeping feeling of apprehension builds in my chest, noticing the curious looks from my classmates as he passes.

Dustin nods, rolling his eyes playfully, "I won't forget."

I help him pull the bike from the bed of the truck, the morning chill nipping at our fingers. As I reach to fix the collar of his jacket, he slaps my hand away, a blush burning through his cheeks. "Lacy," he hisses, glancing around, "not here."

I smirk, lifting my hands in a mock surrender. "Sorry," but I can't help but laugh, watching the blush deepen, "be careful riding to the arcade."

He waves me off, pushing his bike down the path to the middle school. I catch a muttered word, but the rest is lost in the distance. As I watch him go, a mix of pride and worry settles in my chest. I shake it off, adjusting my tennis bag on my shoulder and balancing my books on my arm as I make my way through the parking lot.

Carol and Nicole are leaning against Nicole's car, their laughter carrying through the lot. Carol's snapping a piece of gum loudly, while Nicole fixes her makeup in her compact. They spot me and their giggles intensify. My eyes automatically start to roll.

"You look like a pack mule," Carol comments, eyeing my tennis bag, book bag, and textbooks in my arms. Her tone is playful, but there's a slight edge to her words.

"Are you saying I look like an ass?" I ask, shifting my weight to keep my shoulders from slouching.

Nicole laughs, picking up her own school bag from the hood of her car. "Seriously Lacy," she says, eyeing me herself, "you look like you're moving in."

"Well," I tease, following them into the school, "one of us needs to pass junior year."

"Speaking of which," Carol smiles, "did you finish the math homework?"

I roll my eyes, but nod, knowing what she's insinuating. "I'll give it to you at lunch."

"You're a doll, Lace." She coos, the smile doesn't quite reach her eyes but Nicole laughs, like it's some kind of joke.

The front steps buzz with morning chatter and laughter, a backdrop of casual chaos. But near the doors, a tight-knit group draws my attention. There's a palpable excitement around them, like static electricity in the air. Tommy Hagan, Carol's boyfriend, and his friends are standing with the new kid, an electricity of excitement buzzing from their circle. The apprehension washes over me again, but I twist my face into a cool look.

"Who is that?" Nicole gasps, grabbing my arm with a tight squeeze.

"Who cares," I sneer, refusing to look in his direction again. "Let's just go," I say, desperate for my friends to follow, but I'm unsurprised when they ignore me, beelining for Tommy and his friends.

I pause for a moment, weighing my options, I know I have to follow them. It's expected for me to follow them.

The new kid's tousled hair falls perfectly into place, framing piercing blue eyes that scan the crowd with practiced ease. He leans against the wall with a relaxed arrogance, a smirk playing on his lips as if he knows how carefully he's being watched. He is enjoying this attention, really getting a kick out of everyone making him into such a big deal. Carol and Nicole are clearly smitten, their eyes wide and their smiles giggly.

I hover at the edge of the group, my gaze fixed on him. He has that look – the kind that promises excitement but warns of inevitable disappointment. I've seen it before: trouble disguised as charm. He's soaking up the attention, and it's obvious to me that he's used to being the center of it. I feel a twinge of annoyance, realizing how easily he fits into Tommy's friend group. Hawkins High School already has enough arrogant jocks.

"Lacy, come on!" Nicole calls, waving me closer, but I hesitate, watching him carefully. My grip tightens around my books as I take in the scene of him, unimpressed by what I see.

"I'll catch up with you later," I say, forcing a smile. "I need to stop by my locker first."

Nicole looks like she's about to protest, but Carol nudges her, their attention quickly refocusing on the new kid and Tommy. I take this opportunity to slip away, heading to the school building alone.

The hallways are abuzz with whispers circulating about the new kid already. The brief glimpse of him upclose is enough to set my thoughts racing. It's rare for someone to move to Hawkins, even more so for someone from California to arrive. I think back to when I moved here in 8th grade, how quickly Carol and Nicole had latched onto me, the pretty new girl. I swallow, trying not to dwell on the similarities between myself, the new kid, and the connection to my friends.

The whispers swirl through the halls, circulating from each group. "Did you see the new guy?" "He's so hot." "I heard her got kicked out of his old school." The comments blend together, creating a buzz that follows me down the hall.

I reach my locker and start to put away my things, the familiar routine grounding me back to reality. My thoughts drift back to Dustin and the responsibilities that fill my day. Between him, school, and tennis, there's no room for distractions – especially not the kind that comes with a bad boy reputation.
The bell rings overhead, signaling the start of the day. I take a deep breath, readying myself for the challenges ahead. With one last glance at the bustling hallway, I head to my first class, determined to keep my focus. The new kid might be the talk of the school, but I have enough on my plate without getting involved with someone who screams trouble.