Apocalypse, Steve Harrington

Chapter Forty-Six. By The End

FORTY-SIX
— by the end

      EVEN AS A child, she hated change— she despised change. It was the little things; which parent was driving her to school, what she ate for breakfast, who tucked her in late at night. If things in life were going well, she could make sure those things stayed good, by not changing her routine at all. She wanted people to stay. She wanted to be there, in the moment, with the steady comfort of what she had always known. Don't leave. Don't go. Don't leave. Don't go. Stay, stay, stay. Please. . . don't change.

    She had cut bangs, in April. They were a little too long, now, and got in her eyes when she blinked. She didn't know why she did it, in all honesty, because they got dirty when she sweat. Then, she had to dip her head in the sink, and wash her bangs, which, in essence, looked and seemed ridiculous. They framed her face, Jim said. . . as if he knew anything about hairstyles. It was change, without her realizing. A change in hairstyle. Really, she was reverting to her ten-year-old self. The ten-year-old Lucy who would clip her frizzy bangs back during recess, because they'd tickle her eyes.

    Her stomach hurts. It could've been the fancy cheese she had eaten, or the lack of water in her system, or she was nervous. All of the above, probably. She sank into the sofa-cushions, and clutched the glass of Ginger Ale tighter. The red dress she wore splayed over her thighs, and ruffled at the ends. She was sitting improperly, so she guessed. Her shoes made her heels throb. She was thinking too much, now. She could've been sick on the spot.

    She saw the poster, the big, obnoxious: CONGRATS, GRAD! It was written in giant, blue, painstakingly neat letters, that she had taken an hour perfecting. Ten wasted posters, and an aching wrist, for no one to notice the sign. She saw it, at least. She saw the poster, and she saw the layer of blue ink that was still stamped on the side of her right-hand. With that, she sank deeper into the sofa.

    He didn't want this, and she knew that. Mr. and Mrs. Harrington, in their neglectful, snobby nature, had done something for their son, for the first time in his eighteen-years of living. The two-story house was brightly lit. Champagne sat on the countertops, older people walked the halls. She had heard a thousand, "Congratulations, Steven!"-s, all before eight o'clock. It was a graduation party, and she had an obligation to be there. Did she, though? Were Steve's begs an obligation? Yes. . . yes, they were.

    She didn't know how to talk to parents. Correction, Steve's parents. Looking that woman in her cat-like brown-eyes, smelling her expensive perfume, feeling her thin, bony-fingers as they shook hands. And him, god, he was even worse. He was smug, and he was demanding of his son, and his posture was annoyingly perfect. His shirt had no wrinkles, none, and her dress had been hemmed perfectly. They called her by her full first-name. They didn't like her father. They didn't like her.

    Daniel spoke with Steve's aunt. Somehow, much to Lucy's dismay, he was good with adults. He stamped a smile on his face, used his charm (?), and made twenty-two grown-up friends by the end of the miserable night. From the sofa, she could see her brother. His grin and all the fake-ness in it, not like the woman could tell. She was jealous. Jealous that the Harrington's had known Danny longer, and that they introduced him to family as Steve's star-quarterback best-friend. To them, she was Lucille, Daniel's twin. Oh, and Steve's girlfriend, they suppose.

    She heard what they said about her. She's a bit sloppy, said Steve's cousin. Her hair is untamed, but it's not her fault, really. She seems nice, but she's loud, said his aunt. She picks her fingernails. She wanted to wear sneakers to the party. Blah, blah, blah. She's holding Steve back, said his mother. She's not graduating until next year. She's the reason Steve wants to stay at home. She's holding Steve back.