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CHAPTER TWENTY TWO " PUNK ROCK "
SURPRISINGLY, DYLAN DIDN'T MIND BEING IN THE COMPANY OF NANCY AND JONATHAN. The new couple kept PDA to a minimum, which she appreciated, and while the old Dylan had written Jonathan Byer's off as loser without thinking twice, he was actually kinda cool—in his own way, of course.
"I love The Clash," Dylan argued with the boy, leaning in between the two front seats. "But they've completely sold out with the last album, Byers."
"No way!" He glimpsed at her through the rearview mirror, shaking his head. "Their music is just finally catching on — just because more people like it doesn't mean they've sold out."
She scoffed. "Actually, it does—"
"Can you two stop fighting?" Nancy butted in, amusement laced in her voice. "We've been driving around for an hour and all you two have done is argue about every song that has played."
The two other teens laughed—Nancy was right, that was all they had done but Dylan hadn't minded, which was weird. She felt like she was bonding with Jonathan Byers—the old Dylan was rolling in her nonexistent grave.
"You're not as vapid as I thought you were, Holland." Jonathon said tilting his head back to her for a brief moment, a hint of a smile on his features.
"What does vapid mean?"
Nancy and Jonathan exchanged a worried glance and Dylan chuckled to herself. "I'm kidding! I know what vapid means, jesus—thanks, Byers, I think. You're not as much of a freak as I thought you were."
The song switched from The Clash to Black Flag and Dylan sparked another debate.
"Okay, real question," Dylan looked at Jonathan seriously. "Black Flag or the Dead Kennedy's?"
Nancy groaned in protest but was ignored. Without hesitation Jonathan said "Black Flag."
Dylan shook Jonathan's shoulders, displeased with his answer. "You are so wrong! How can you even say you like punk?"
"No, you're wrong—"
"I hate both of you!" Nancy yelled over them playfully.
They drove around like that for what seemed like hours and Dylan was grateful for it since it kept her mind off the dance incident. Not even just the bad parts—she was also glad to be distracted from the fact that Steve Harrington had the audacity to kiss her and that she was stupid enough to let him.
After awhile all three teens claimed to be starving so Jonathan Byer's pulled his car into the Midwest Eatery parking lot and they piled in to the diner, all of them dressed to the nine's.
They took up residence in a booth near the back and a familiar waitress handed them out menus and glasses of water.
"Sooo," Nancy drawled out nervously. "Feeling any better?"
"Much," Dylan nodded. "Thanks, really. You guys didn't have to be so nice."
"I think we have a lot to make up for," Nancy smiled gently. "So don't thank us."
Dylan glanced at the menu—she knew it off by heart but wanted to seem nonchalant when asking her next question. "Do you think Steve's alright?"
"I'm sure he's fine," Jonathan reassured her. "I think he's grown accustomed to taking a punch."
Dylan laughed, remembering that Jonathan knew that first hand. Dylan hadn't seen it herself, the news came to her second hand when Steve showed up to her place, with a bloodied face and burst knuckles finished off with a frozen drink can over a swelling eye, and pleaded with her to help clean him up. She had done so and then proceeded to ask him why he was in this predicament — then promptly persuaded him back to the movie house to scrub off the graffiti.
The guy had also taken quite the beating from Billy just a few weeks ago — Dylan was beginning to wonder if she should force him to go see a doctor for a brain scan. He had to be concussed from at least one of those hits.
"Maybe I should have stuck around though," she said quietly, lost in her thoughts. "He did get in trouble for me. Maybe he thinks I'm a total bitch right now—"
"He doesn't." Nancy assured, reaching out to squeeze Dylan's hand that wasn't hold the menu. "It's Steve, Dylan—you've guys have been friends since Pre-K."
"God, this is so fucked up," Dylan frowned. "The guy I was sorta seeing just publicly embarrassed me in front of the whole school. He literally called me Secret Slut in front of the whole school."
"Hey, I can relate," Nancy chuckled lightly. "You may recall that Steve let Tommy H and Carol write Nancy the Slut Wheeler on the movie house for the whole town to see."
"I hate boys," Dylan sighed and Jonathan sat up straighter in the booth, frowning. Dylan ignored it and glanced at the clock behind him. "You know it's past 12 now which means it's technically my eighteenth birthday—which means Billy Hargrove managed to ruin that, too."
"Is it really the 21st already?" Nancy's bright eyes widened. "Happy Birthday, Dylan!"
"Thank you, thank you," Dylan grinned. "But this is so not how I expected me eighteenth birthday to go—sitting in a booth with the school loner and my sister's best friend."
"Trust me, I never thought I'd be sitting at a table with you. Ever." Jonathan said, amusement on his features.
"Here's to being eighteen!"
Nancy Wheeler flagged down their waitress to inform her it was Dylan's birthday. The lady excitedly congratulated the teenage girl and promised to return with a surprise. Which was quite obviously going to be today's dessert special with a dollar store sparkler placed on top.
As predicted, their waitress returned with a large brownie, ice cream melting over the top, and a lit sparkler stabbed through the middle. Nancy watched Dylan with genuine enjoyment, singing Happy Birthday terribly off-key and nudging Jonathan to join in. The boy grudgingly sang along with his girlfriend.
All three of them dug into the brownie, greedily trying to devour the most and then laughing at each other's gluttony. And for a moment — things seemed like they were normal, that she was just a regular teenager, not the girl that fought inter-dimensional creatures, not the stuck-up popular bitch, and not the girl who had lost her sister. She was a normal teenage girl, celebrating her birthday with friends (acquaintances, really) without a true care in the world.
That would change the moment she entered her darkened home and crawled into her empty bed, letting tears fall about the wreck her day had been—but she would always appreciate that little moment in time before reality knocked her off her feet again.
