Apocalypse, Steve Harrington

Chapter Fifty. Commie Codes

FIFTY
— commie codes

SHE LOOKED DIFFERENT, from when he last saw her.

  In May, her hair reached down her back, and stopped at her waist. The brown-waves had curled at the ends, in a light, caramel color. She would wear it in braids, often, and he liked it— weaved down her chest, tied at the ends with a pink-scrunchie. It was shorter, now, ending at her mid-back, and the ends weren't caramel-colored any longer. Her cheeks were pale, in the spring, and her lips were pink. Now, she was entirely more. . . more red, more vibrant. Her face was sun-kissed, splotches of light-brown freckles dancing over her skin. Her nose, around her lips, the apples of her cheeks. She was less fidgety, now, and her shirt was tucked in. Never, ever had he seen Lucy with her shirt tucked in. Company protocol, he assumed.

He watched, and noticed this all, from a safe distance. Eight-feet away, behind the counter of Scoops, his hand steady on the scooper connected to his belt. Lucy and Dustin stood by the booths, and, he assumed, the boy was retelling his story on the reception of a secret Russian code. Her face had that look on it, so distinct, and so telling. Brows narrowed, lip tucked, eyes wide. She crossed her arms tight over her chest, and blocked the Orange Julius plastered on the shirt. She covered the name-tag, too, the one that read her name in lowercase letters.

She ran a hand over her brow. Lucy exhaled, and her chest fell, and so did her shoulders. Her back slumped, into her usual posture, and she resisted the urge to sprint across the mall and away from this situation. Looking ahead at Dustin, she pursed her lips, and fought the words. "Fuck me, dude," was all she said, worriedly, "it's just Russians. . . can we ignore it?"

Dustin blinked. He scoffed, and lifted a hand, "I'm pretending you didn't say that," the curly-haired boy said, "we can't ignore this, Luce. American heroes, remember?"

  Her eyes widened. "American heroes? Fuck being an American hero!" Lucy leaned closer, and shook her head, "not so sure about you, but I value my safety, and yours."

  He whined, and practically stomped his feet. Dustin grabbed her wrist, and yanked her forward, nearly sweeping her off her feet. She gasped, and planted herself, "hey, stop," Lucy warned. "Dustin. No!"

  Steve dropped his scooper. He ripped the sailors hat off his head, and brushed it to the floor. Quickly, in a shameful effort, he brushed stray pieces of hair off his forehead and onto the heap of locks balancing from his scalp.

  Dustin dragged her into the shop, an immediate coolness enveloping both of their warm bodies. She couldn't pry his pudgy hand from her wrist, and she couldn't run away— she only resisted his dragging force as much as possible, until they reached the counter. Her eyes were everywhere but on his face— the clock, the ice-cream, the overflowing trash-can. Her sneakers, Dustin's wristwatch. Not Steve.

  The curly-haired boy exhaled. He rubbed his brow, and shook his head, "oh, Jesus. Are we doing this?" Dustin raised both brows. "Steve, Lucy. Lucy, Steve. Glad you finally met each other! Can we get to the bigger problem, now?"

  She ground her teeth, and clenched her jaw. Lucy exhaled, shakily, and knocked a fist against the counter. Her green-ish eyes wandered to Steve, and she blinked, "you heard Dustin has a girlfriend, now?"