Apocalypse, Steve Harrington

Chapter Forty-Four. It's Always Been You

FORTY-FOUR
— it's always been you

      IN 1979, SHE attended the Snow Ball as a seventh grader. Her hair was in its best updo, she figured out how to use mascara, and her father had taken a million pictures. It was like a right of passage, attending the Snow Ball dance, and she had never been so excited. Then, Tommy Hagan spilled his drink on her. She couldn't deem whether or not it was an accident, but by the smirk on his freckled-face, he had dumped that bright-red fruit-punch all over the front of her dress on purpose. She punched him. Spilled punch for a punch in the face.

"This dress is itchy."

Now, she was returning to Hawkins Middle, as a chaperone for the Snow Ball.

Things had changed, since November. After the Demo-dog attack, and after Bob Newby's death, she wanted things to be different. She spent more time with her father, helped him build triple-decker-Eggo-extravaganzas. She went to her brothers basketballs games, now, and tried not to boo when he stepped on the court. She helped with Dungeon and Dragons campaigns, taught El how to braid hair, and had movie-nights with Riley every Saturday. She walked with Steve in the hallways differently, now, and embraced the stares. She wanted to make life worth living.

"I'm sure you look fine, Luce. Great, even."

Holding the telephone between her shoulder-blade and ear, she tugged at the top of her dress. It was red, with traces of black flowers, and ridiculously thin spaghetti-straps. Cinched at the waist, stopped above her knees, and gave her a wedgie. Lucy exhaled. "Yeah, whatever," she grumbled. "Are you sure you can't stay? I mean, drop Lucas off, hang around..."

    "...hang around a middle school dance?" Riley chuckled. "Pass."

    She stuck a bobby-pin between her teeth. "I'm going to be bored," Lucy exhaled. "And don't— don't bring up Nancy, she takes the punch-serving business seriously."

    "You should, too. You've got twelve-year-olds depending on you," she widened her eyes, the sound of Lucy's laughter transferring through the phone.

    She dropped her shoulder, and took the red telephone in her left hand. "Alright, well," Lucy said, the bobby-pin still between her teeth. "I gotta finish getting ready. Talk to you later?"

    Riley sighed, "Have fun, okay?" she spoke, "bye-bye." She hung up first.

    She couldn't get the earring in her right ear. With one eye squinted, Lucy leaned closer to the mirror, poking and prodding at her right earlobe. Finally, she clasped it, and dropped her hands to her sides in relief.

    The music in the living room was blaring. Her father had found a box of records in the attic, and practically jumped in celebration upon the discovery. Amongst the bunch, somehow, was a collection of Christmas music. Festive and fitting, Jim said, before  he played "It's The Most Wonderful Time of The Year" on repeat. She plucked the tube of mascara from her dresser, and exhaled. "Dad! The music is too loud," she called. "I can't even hear my thoughts."