Fault Lines • Steve Harrington

Chapter Four

I barely see Will, Jonathan, or Joyce the next day.

I'm too wrapped up in the Russian code—too wrapped up in them, this weird little team that somehow made me feel like I belonged in Hawkins.

I even pick Dustin up and drove him to the mall.
(He talks the entire ride, no surprise.)

Robin's stuck working inside Scoops Ahoy, but Dustin, Steve, and I are out in the mall hiding behind big decorative plants with binoculars like absolute idiots.

"Do you see anything?" I whisper, nudging Steve lightly with my elbow.

He looks through the binoculars, squinting. "Uh... I guess I don't totally know what I'm looking for."

"Evil Russians," Dustin says matter-of-factly, as if this is obvious.

"Yeah, okay, sure," Steve mutters. "But I don't know what an evil Russian looks like, Dustin."

"Tall. Blond. Not smiling." Dustin says firmly. I raise a brow at him. "That's...very specific."

Dustin shrugs. "Also look for earpieces, camo, duffel bags—spy stuff."

"Right. Okay. Duffel bags." Steve nods and lifts the binoculars again.

He looks for all of three seconds before groaning loudly. "Oh, you've gotta be kidding me!"

"What?" Dustin and I say at the same time.

"Anna Jacobi is talking to that meathead Mark Lewinsky."

I roll my eyes. Dustin groans. "Steve, if you're not going to focus, just give me the binoculars—or let Laura use them."

"Aw, Jesus Christ," Steve mutters dramatically, lowering the binoculars. "Whatever happened to standards? Lewinsky never even came off the bench."

"Dude, you are the worst spy in history," Dustin says, snatching them away. "Why are you even looking at girls? You have the perfect one in front of you."

I freeze. Steve tenses beside me. Oh God. Oh God, please don't—

"Seriously, if you say Robin again—" Steve starts, annoyed.

"Robin. Robin. Robin. Robin!" Dustin chants on loop like a gremlin.

I bite my lip, feeling awkward as hell.

"No, man, she's not my type." Steve shakes his head.

The tiniest, most stupid part of my heart flutters.
Not his type. Good. Great. Totally irrelevant. (Not irrelevant at all.)

"She's not even in the ballpark of what my type is, alright?" he insists.

"What's your type again? Not awesome?" Dustin says.

"Thank you," Steve scoffs sarcastically.

"For your information, she's still in school. And she's weird. She's a weirdo. And she's hyper. I don't like that she's hyper." Steve rambles. "And she's in band? No."

He waves his hands like the idea physically pains him.

"Now that you're out of high school—technically an adult—don't you think it's time to move on from primitive constructs like popularity?" Dustin asks.

"Oh, primitive constructs? That some stupid crap you learned at Camp... know... nothing?" Steve fires back.

"Camp Know Where," Dustin corrects proudly. "And no, it's crap I learned from life."

"And he's right," I finally say, joining the conversation. "Popularity means nothing. It's not real. If you like someone, you should just...take a chance. Like them for who they are, not what they are."