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❛ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴄᴋᴇᴅ. ❜ ° . ༄
- ͙۪۪˚ ▎❛ 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 ❜ ▎˚ ͙۪۪̥◌
»»————- ꒰ sʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ʜᴀʀᴅ
ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏɴᴇʏ ꒱
❝ SO YOU BETTER
TREAT HER RIGHT ❞
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Mrs. Johnson was an elderly, white-haired woman who lived in one of the large houses on Loch Nora. Her lawn was always clipped to perfection and every plant had its proper place. The inside of her home was just as neat; she had no children and her husband had died several years ago. She didn't even own any pets as their dandruff-filled fur was one of the many things that she looked down on.
Jessie didn't particularly like her (she didn't really like anyone, if she was being honest) but, when the woman remembered to pay her, she paid well. It was the only steady job she'd had in awhile as she usually went over on Saturdays to clean the almost-spotless home. It was almost worth listening to the woman drone on about her (usually bigoted) opinions and even the insults she sent the teen's way.
At promptly nine a.m., Jessie rang the doorbell. It took several minutes for her employer to get to the door since she moved slowly— her joints were another one of her usual complaints. It was almost three minutes later that the door opened to reveal the woman's (unfortunately) familiar, wrinkled face.
She had watery, blue eyes that were extremely near-sighted. She often wore her glasses around her neck on a beaded chain but she forgot about them more often than she used them. After a moment, she recognized the girl. "You're late, again. I'll have to dock your pay."
The brunette swallowed back the retort she would've given had this been Mike— or someone who wasn't her only source of income. Instead, she gave the woman a curt nod and entered the home. What Mrs. Johnson had said was factually incorrect: Jessie had, actually, arrived on time. Unfortunately, her employer counted the three slow minutes to open the door against her. There was no point in arguing the matter, though, since after the first few times, she'd learned the hard way not to do so.
Thankfully, the woman left her alone as she cleaned the upper floors and let her listen to her portable radio. It was only when she got to the first floor— where Mrs. Johnson spent most of her time— that she became agitated.
Since she lived alone, the older woman took advantage of Jessie's "listening ear" and used the time to ramble about all of her thoughts. The teen did her best to ignore them since they were usually all negative; anything from how the country was being run to personal attacks against immigrants and even her Jewish culture.
"You should consider converting, dear" was one of Mrs. Johnson's favorite conversation starters, "Jews are unwelcome in any town— they always get the blame. Why not convert to Christianity? You'll save yourself a lot of trouble down the line. . ." She would continue to spout the religious propaganda her church probably fed her while the brunette refrained from pointing out that Judaism was older than her precious Christianity. This, at least, was easier to listen to than her preaching about why Jessie should like men instead of women.
Today, she made an effort to cut off the lecture before it started by placing her radio on the kitchen counter while it continued to play. A woman's voice was currently reporting Indiana's weather as she started scrubbing the granite surface.
Growing tired of the unappealing information, she paused to switch the channel. Almost immediately, the story caught her attention: "' . .occurred here is sure to touch a nerve across the community of Hawkins which is still reeling from last year's devastating mall fire. Over thirty innocent lives were lost that day. Right now, the road is completely blocked off. . .'" Her radio went static and Jessie let out a grunt of annoyance.
She fidgeted with the antenna of the device to try and recover the sound. "'. . .is the newly appointed police chief, Calvin Powell, who served as deputy under Chief Hopper. As you can see behind me, Chief Powell and the Hawkins Police Department are actively investigating the scene. . .'"
Mrs. Johnson slowly made her way into the kitchen and glared at the offending report. "Turn that off, would you?" It was more of a demand than a request. "I don't need to hear that this whole town is going to heck in a handbasket. I knew that the moment my husband died. He was perfectly healthy right up until he went to sleep that night. . ."
This was also untrue: Mr. Johnson had definitely not been the picture of health in his later years. He'd hardly ever left the house and had gained enough weight that it had made going up the stairs difficult. While Jessie had never met him, she'd seen his pictures that his wife kept on the walls. (And if she was being honest, she was glad that she'd gotten to skip that introduction.)
With a sigh, the brunette acquiesced to her employer's order and shut the radio off to subject herself to another hour of mind-numbing boredom.
.・。.・゜✫・.・✫・゜・。.
As usual, Jessie had never been happier to finish a task. After she'd finished putting away the cleaning items, she made her way back to the kitchen where the elderly woman was making herself a sandwich. (And, of course, she never once offered to feed her younger employee. Not that she needed to, but Jessie would've disliked her marginally less.)
The brunette cleared her throat. "Mrs. Johnson, I've finished for today."
She didn't even bother to look up from her task. "So soon? Are you certain you've gotten to every item? I'm too old to check behind you but I certainly don't need a—" Here, she used an unpleasant term for Jessie's Jewish heritage. "—to scam me. I know you lot like your money so I wouldn't put it past you to do a haphazard job just to get a quick wage."
Jessie sighed; they had a similar conversation every week and by now, she had grown to expect it. "No, Mrs. Johnson. I've made sure to get every surface you showed me on the first time. Can I have my paycheck now?"
The woman finally looked up from preparing her meal as she replied dismissively, "you can have it next week."
Again, another common phrase. "That's what you said last week," the teen said. She did her best to keep her tone patient rather than accusing.
Apparently, Mrs. Johnson didn't appreciate her efforts. She raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Are you giving me lip, young lady? You should be grateful that I've given you a place to work. You know, most places wouldn't even higher someone with your. . . colorful background. You've never even thanked me for hiring you! Here I am, giving you a steady job each week and paying you out of my retirement funds— which could be going to my own children, mind you— and you have the audacity to talk back to me?" She let out an indignant little snort. "Employees could never get away with that back in my day—"
"Thank you, Mrs. Johnson," Jessie cut in through gritted teeth. "I should be paying you instead of the other way around, really— that's how appreciative I am of this job. You have no idea how grateful I am for your-your charity. You really are doing God's work here."
Mrs. Johnson's one redeemable quality was that she couldn't pick up sarcasm even if it hit her in the face. Instead, she became rather flustered. "Well, I would certainly say so. Very well, just a moment and I'll settle out your wages."
Unfortunately, the elderly woman never tipped her.
.・。.・゜✫・.・✫・゜・。.
After working at different houses into the afternoon, Jessie abandoned her usual routine of. . . well, doing nothing. Instead, she made a beeline for the video store where Steve and Robin's job was. She made it there in record time and burst through the glass doors, only to stop short at the sight of familiar red hair.
"Oh," she greeted the others haltingly. "Um, hey."
The group froze at the sound of her voice and turned to her. To her surprise, Max's expression filled with relief. "Oh, good. You're here. Do you know a guy named Reefer Rick?"
After the other girl's distant coldness towards her the past several months, the sudden questioning caught her off guard. It took a moment for the words to sink in so she stared at the redhead with a blank look. Then, she asked slowly: ". . . who's Reefer Rick? Why would I know him?"
"You know things," Max explained patiently. "You know a lot of people and-and conspiracies. You know Eddie Munson, right?" Jessie nodded. (He was just as much of an outcast as she was, after all. How could she not know him?) She continued: "well, apparently he gets his drugs from a guy called Reefer Rick and we have to find out where he lives, except that's the thing— no one knows. You get around so I thought you might."
This was what Max was trying to say but she wasn't doing a very good job of it: I went to your house this morning but you weren't there. I needed you because I knew you'd believe me immediately, like you had with Will. I'm sorry that I broke things off and made things awkward but I need your help. You're smart in ways that people don't expect. Unfortunately, the sentiment wasn't delivered properly.
Jessie frowned as she thought. "If he sells drugs then the cops would probably know him. I mean, I've heard his name a couple of times so he's pretty famous. He's bound to have gotten busted at some point so his last name would be in the system. If you don't want to go to the cops then how many Ricks live in Hawkins?"
"Good thinking!" Robin exclaimed. She sat on the stool in front of the computer and began typing in the name. "Twelve Ricks have accounts here."
"That's a lot of Ricks," the redhead commented.
"What if drug dealers don't like movies?" Jessie wondered.
Dustin rolled his eyes. "Everyone likes movies."
"I don't. They're too long."
"That's exactly why people like them," he argued. "A full-length feature film—"
"Can you discuss the benefits of moviegoing later?" Robin interrupted them. "We're doing serious work here." She moved on without letting them argue with her: "the amount of Ricks doesn't matter if we can narrow down the list. Rick Alderman's latest rentals are Annie and Dumbo. Chances our drug dealer has a family?"
"Not likely," Max replied.
"All right. Rick Conroy. Sixteen Candles, Teen Wolf, Romancing the Stone."
Almost in unison, they answered, "no."
"Okay. Rick Joiner. Mask, Footloose and Grease."
"Nah."
"Rick Kimbrough. The Blue Lagoon and Splash." That earned a laugh despite their negative reply. "Okay. Rick Lipton. Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Cheech & Chong's Next Movie. Cheech & Chong's Nice Dreams. Cheech & Chong's Up in Smoke."
"Bingo."
"Really? Aren't you stereotyping him a little?" the brunette asked. "I mean, he couldn't be a very good drug dealer if his movie choice was this obvious."
"Jess," Steve began, "it's literally a movie about people who smoke pot. How much more proof do you need?"
"Well, if I checked out the movie Scared Straight! would you think that the counseling meetings finally worked and I'm no longer gay?"
"That's not the same thing," he disagreed. "The Up in Smoke plotline is literally Reefer Rick's life. Have you ever spent three hours with a convict?" When she didn't answer, the older boy gave her a smug look. "See?"
.・。.・゜✫・.・✫・゜・。.
It was dark out by the time they arrived at Lipton's house. As they'd suspected, it was far-removed from the rest of the population and had a long, winding gravel road as a driveway. It was rundown and the metal mailbox had definitely seen better years.
They piled out of the car once Steve had parked and made their way up to the door where Dustin rang the bell several times. When no one answered, they were ready to turn away with defeat. Steve didn't seem too disappointed. "Okay. Well, that's settled. I guess he's not here."
The curly-haired boy wasn't so easily deterred. He gave up on the bell and started knocking on the door. "Eddie! It's Dustin!"
The other teen sighed. "Great."
They began to spread out so they could circle the house as Dustin continued to call to the absent residents: "look, we just wanna talk, okay? No cops, I swear. We just wanna help. Eddie!" He tried calling Eddie's name several more times until Steve got tired of it.
"Don't scream like that."
As the two boys continued to argue, Jessie pointedly took the opposite route Max did around the house. While it had been nice that the redhead had talked to her for a moment, she didn't fool herself into thinking that it would last. Besides, she'd never had a problem with her own company— and she could shine her flashlight anywhere she wanted without blinding someone.
At Max's call, though, she retraced her steps to meet up with everyone else. Their lights shone on a metal boathouse that sat on the edge of the lake. Unlike the house, the door was unlocked so they entered the apparently abandoned building cautiously.
"Hello?" Robin called into the darkness. "Is anyone home?"
They crept quietly behind her until Steve spoke up: "what a dump."
"Uh, that's offensive to everyone who lives in a place like this," Jessie countered immediately.
He shot her an apologetic look. "Sorry, Jess."
She shrugged. "It's not my house."
He didn't respond; instead, he made an abrupt movement as he suddenly decided to attack a tarp. Dustin startled. "What are you doing?"
"He might be in here."
"So take the tarp off!"
"If you're so brave, you take the tarp off."
"I'll take the tarp off," the brunette cut in. She stepped over to it to do exactly that.
"Absolutely not," Steve told her sternly. He put an arm out to prevent her from getting any closer. "Do we have to have the don't touch items of unknown origin talk again?"
She huffed. "Well, you and Dustin were being scaredy-cats. I'm not afraid of anything."
Despite their loud arguing, the eerie sound of creaking floorboards could still be heard and it caught Max's attention. She switched the direction of her beam of light to the general area it came from. "Hey, look over here. Someone was here."
"Maybe he heard us," Robin suggested. "Got spooked and ran."
"Don't worry." Dustin spoke up sarcastically. "Steve will get him with his oar."
"I know you think you're being funny but considering everyone in this room has nearly died a hundred times, personally, I don't find it funny in the slight—" Steve's words were cut off as Eddie Munson flew out of the shadows to attack him with a broken beer bottle.
A/n: a friendly reminder that the unpopular views and opinions expressed by some characters in this book are not a reflection of my own beliefs.