NINE THIS IS ME TRYING
(I'M HERE IN YOUR DOORWAY)
💀
ESME'S HEART WAS BEATING RAPIDLY against her ribcage as her eyes were locked with Steve Harrington's. He knew something. Esme knew that he knew something. Why else would she feel that terrible urge to talk to him; why else would her gut tell her that he had talked to India yesterday before she disappeared— got taken by the Midnight Man; why else would she feel anything that was connected to Steve Harrington at all if it wasn't important, if he didn't know anything? She only felt things like that when it came to her sisters because of the bond they shared. But Steve? Apart from anger and hatred, she had never felt anything about him...
Steve averted his gaze abruptly to Carol and Tommy H., which brought Esme back to reality. She blinked a few times, then quickly crossed the parking lot. What must Steve think now? She was staring at him for a solid minute, when, normally, she would avoid his gaze at all costs. OK, honestly, she didn't want to know what he was thinking now... Probably that she had a crush on him, or something along those lines, like every other girl at Hawkins High.
She shook her head, discarding those thoughts, and entered the school building. And immediately, everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at her. Esme froze. It was dead silent. No one said anything, there were no whispers heard, no insults thrown her way. Just silence. Suffocating silence. As if the whole world got muted.
Everyone knows, she thought. Everyone knew what had happened, what her dad had done. Allegedly. They all thought that her dad had ... killed himself, that Usher Deverell had decided to leave his family in the worst way possible. But he wouldn't do that, Esme was sure of it. Since Hopper had mentioned the possibility that it might not have been a suicide (although he didn't believe that himself), she couldn't stop thinking about it. The thought had been planted into her brain, and it had already bloomed into doubt and— and hope. Hope that this had not been her dad's choice, that someone had decided for him.
She didn't think she could live with the knowledge that her dad had wanted to leave them.
She hoped she wouldn't have to...
Esme shook herself out of her paralysis and hurried down the hallway to Tatum's locker, where Tatum would hopefully be, and Vinnie too, because she really needed them right now. She wouldn't get through the day on her own... Not when everyone around her just wouldn't stop staring.
Esme didn't know what was worse: the name-calling and the bullying, or this. Being stared at, scrutinized, studied. It felt wrong that everyone knew what had happened to her dad, something that only concerned her family and no one else. It felt terrible. Exposing. Like being pilloried, locked into the wooden framework by your hands and neck, put on display for everyone to see.
She walked around the corner and — Thank the Lord! — they were there, talking to each other while waiting for their first period to start. Tatum spotted her first, and her eyes widened to the size of saucers, shocked to see Esme at school. Vinnie then turned around as well, and as he laid eyes on Esme, his expression became incredibly sad. Seeing that look on his face caused tears to well up in Esme's eyes but she blinked them away. She swore to herself that she wouldn't cry at school, ever.
"Jeez, what are you doing here?" Tatum asked, incredulous.
"It's a school day, isn't it?" Esme shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant, like she wasn't on the verge of breaking down. But that didn't work — her voice was quivering and thick with emotion. And she hated that. Why couldn't she be as strong as Anita was? Why could she hardly keep her emotions at bay?
Tatum and Vinnie exchanged wary glances. Esme decided to ignore that.
"Are you ... OK?" Vinnie asked, careful.
Tatum gave him an are-you-serious look.
Esme scoffed and crossed her arms. "Peachy. What do you think?"
Vinnie faltered. "That's—" He sighed. "I know you're not OK, I... I'm worried, is all."
Esme's gaze softened. "I— I know, I'm just—" She inhaled a strained breath. Lord, why did she snap at him like that? He just wanted to help, and she reacted like that — what had gotten into her? "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have— snapped at you." She rubbed her temple with the palm of her hand, distressed.
"It's OK," Vinnie said.
"No, it's not," Esme countered. "It's not."
Vinnie's expression became even sadder, even more concerned, lines of worry appearing on his forehead.
Esme didn't want them to be worried about her, both Tatum and Vinnie had enough to deal with in their own lives, with their own families, so they shouldn't be concerned about her as well... But she also couldn't really blame them, could she? She'd be worried too, in their position. She'd want to take care of them, to make sure that they were OK, or, at least, do everything in her power to make them feel OK again. She knew that wouldn't work, though. She couldn't just be OK. Not when her dad was gone. And not when her sister was missing.
"My life is falling apart," Esme whispered, shaking her head. A lump started to form in her throat, and she could feel tears pricking her eyes.
"Your life is not falling apart," Tatum said, quiet, and took a step closer to Esme.
"Yes, it is." Esme looked up at Tatum (she was a little taller than her). "My dad's gone—" She cut herself off when she felt a tear drop onto her cheek. Quickly, she wiped it away. She wasn't going to cry, she wasn't.
Tatum had to blink away tears too. "I'm so sorry."
"Me too," Vinnie said.
Esme nodded, appreciating it.
"Y'know, I'd really like to hug you right now," Tatum said.
Esme instinctively took a step back. "Please don't."
Tatum smiled sadly. "I won't, don't worry." Esme exhaled a sigh of relief. "I just— I'm here for you."
"I know," Esme replied. She really wished she could hug Tatum, wished she could bury her face in her neck, and just be comforted by her best friend. But she couldn't. And that made everything so much harder. Why couldn't she have a normal life?
"Why did you come to school?" Vinnie asked, shaking his head, bewildered.
"Because Anita wanted to go to school." Esme shrugged. "And—And I have to be close by, in case she needs me."
Vinnie's stunned expression softened. "You're too good for this world."
Esme furrowed her brows. "I'm really not."
"Yeah. You are," Tatum said, her voice firm, not leaving room for Esme to disagree with her. "I mean, I don't see India coming to school just to be there for her little sister."
Esme froze at the mention of her older sister and, suddenly, it was hard for her to breathe — she felt like someone wrapped their hands around her neck and was strangling her. "India is, um..."
Tatum rolled her eyes. "You don't always have to defend her, Esm—"
"India's missing," Esme cut her off, and Tatum fell silent.
Esme knew that Tatum wasn't the biggest fan of India, and, honestly, she could understand why — India was friends with the people that bullied them the most, and she never did anything against it, just stood by and watched. And that wasn't justifiable in Tatum's books. So, the only side Tatum got to see of India was the one that ignored her little sister to stay popular, although, in reality, India wasn't like that — most of the time, at least. Sometimes, Esme just wished that Tatum would hold back some of her comments; India was still her sister after all, and Esme loved her.
Vinnie's eyebrows shot up. "She's what?"
"Missing," Esme repeated. She swallowed. "... Like Will."
"How do you know that?" Tatum asked, skeptical, and crossed her arms.
And Esme felt herself getting annoyed. Everything that had something to do with India displeased Tatum, and, usually, she understood that. But not right now. Not when India was kidnapped by the Midnight Man. Not when she was in danger!
"I just do, alright? Stop questioning it!" Esme snapped. Tatum took a surprised step back, and, immediately, Esme was consumed by regret. Lord, what was wrong with her? She never snapped. Today, though, she felt the control slipping through her fingers, and she hated that. It felt like she was losing herself... "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She buried her face in her hands.
She just wanted everything to be OK again.
"Uhh... Did you — tell the police? About India?" Tatum asked, hesitant.
Esme let her hands fall to her sides again. "Yeah, I talked to Hopper before school... He said he'll look into it."
"That's— That's good," Tatum said, nodding.
"He'll find her," Vinnie reassured her.
But Esme couldn't really believe him. How could she? Yes, Hopper was looking for her and that was a good thing. But how could she think that he'd be able to find her and bring her home before it was too late? How could he do that, when he didn't even know the full story? He had no idea about the Midnight Game, he had no idea what actually happened the night the sisters disappeared three years ago, why they were kidnapped—
Jonathan Byers walked past them.
Esme's train of thought came to a sudden stop, only one idea remaining in her head. If she knew more about her sister's disappearance than the police, maybe he knew more about his little brother's disappearance... Maybe there was something that he couldn't tell the police about Will, just like Esme couldn't tell Hopper about the Midnight Man. She had to talk to him.
"Esme?" Tatum snapped her fingers in front of Esme's face.
Her eyes darted back to her. "I need to talk to Jonathan."
Tatum did a double-take. Vinnie blinked in surprise.
"What?" Tatum asked.
"Maybe he knows something. His brother's missing too."
"You mean" — Vinnie furrowed his brows — "something that the police doesn't?"
"Maybe." Esme nodded. Vinnie raised his eyebrows at her. Esme faltered a little. "I mean— It's worth a shot, right?" She looked back and forth between the two, hoping that they would agree with her.
Vinnie still looked unconvinced. "I guess..."
Tatum shrugged her shoulders. "I mean, what's the harm?"
Esme turned away from her best friends, toward Jonathan, and was about to call out to him, but the ringing of the bell interrupted her, and Jonathan disappeared around a corner.
Shit.
💀
WHISPERS DRONED IN HER EARS as Esme walked down the hallway toward the exit. The students of Hawkins High had overcome their initial shock about her presence at school by the time first period had ended and they had resolved back to whispering, to snide remarks, to vicious looks. Esme tried to ignore all of it, tried to ignore the words that they said, but that was anything but easy — not when they were talking about her dad, saying things like, "No wonder he killed himself, with that family."
Every now and then, she heard someone say something about her sister, about India, how she wasn't at school like Esme was, and she couldn't help but think that whoever talked about her wouldn't dare to open their mouth if India were at school, if there was even a slight chance that she could hear them. People were scared of her — more than they were of Tommy H., Carol, and Steve Harrington. It was painfully obvious who ruled this school with an iron fist.
And Esme just wanted to hide from it all. She just wanted to go home, lock herself in her room, and cry until there were no tears left to cry, or until she passed out from exhaustion. She didn't even care about talking to Jonathan anymore. (She had tried to talk to him, but every time Esme had seen him, he had disappeared a second later, as if he had fallen off the face of the earth.) She just wanted to get out of here, to get Anita, and then go home.
Tatum offered to give them a ride, and, as much as Esme didn't want to be a burden, she had accepted. Everything was better than sitting in a bus with a bunch of people who'd whisper atrocious things about her and her family. Tatum said she'd wait for her at her car, so Esme walked out of the school building—
— only to almost crash into someone's back.
She stopped dead in her tracks, her heart pounding against her ribcage, "Jesus Christ!"
The person who stood so impractically in front of the door whirled around, and — lo and behold — it was Jonathan Byers. His eyes were wide, almost bulging out of their sockets. He looked at her like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car before it would be run over, like she had caught him red-handed at a crime scene.
"Sorry, I—" He cut himself off, the words refusing to come out of his throat, so he just gave her a sheepish smile and started walking away, probably in the direction of his car.
Esme couldn't really wrap her head around the fact that she just coincidentally stumbled upon Jonathan Byers (almost literally) when she hadn't managed to talk to him all day. Maybe it was fate, she thought, Maybe it was God's doing.
"Actually, um..." she started as she caught up to him and fell into step with him. "I wanted to talk to you."
Jonathan frowned. "To me?" Esme nodded. "Why?"
It didn't surprise her that he sounded and looked like he didn't understand the world anymore. They usually didn't talk to each other at school. Not that they didn't like each other or anything like that — it was just that they weren't friends, and never interacted with each other except for the occasional small talk when Jonathan would pick up Will from their house after he had spent the day with Anita. But those conversations never blossomed into a friendship. Jonathan was a loner and spent most of his time in the school's darkroom since he was part of the photography club — he never seemed to care much about finding friends.
"It's about — Will," she said and started playing with the ends of her sleeves nervously. "And my sister."
"Anita?" Panic flashed across his face.
"No. India."
The panic dissolved, the initial confusion taking its place. "What does India have to do with my brother?"
Esme swallowed and diverted her gaze from his face to the floor. Tears welled up in her eyes once again and a lump formed in her throat. She blinked the saltwater in her eyes away and inhaled a strained breath. Still, her voice was hoarse as she finally spoke, "She's missing, too."
Jonathan stopped dead in his tracks, his feet planted onto the ground, which forced Esme to stop walking as well. They were about ten meters away from Jonathan's car, but neither of the both had noticed the group of students standing at his car, watching, waiting.
"What?" he breathed.
"She didn't come home yesterday..." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I already talked to Hopper about it and he said he'll look for her, but I..."
Jonathan raised an eyebrow at her. "You what?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "I just ... wanted to ask you if there's something that Hopper doesn't know ... about Will."
"What do you mean?" Jonathan asked, his forehead scrunched up.
Esme felt like she was entering dangerous territory.
"Well... If there's something that you just ... can't tell Hopper."
"Why would I keep anything from Hopper that could help him find Will?"
Those words caught her off guard. Why would he keep crucial information from the police? He wouldn't, it was as simple as that. Because they didn't have a sinister secret to keep, they didn't have a monster, a demon, from their past coming back to haunt them. She should've never asked him about this, she should've known that it wouldn't end well. What did she expect? That he would tell her every dark secret he had? If Jonathan had asked her if there was something about India's disappearance that she kept from the police, she wouldn't tell him about the Midnight Man, about the Game. How could she think that he would entrust her with all his secrets, if he had any?
This was so stupid.
"I— I don't know, that—"
But Jonathan wouldn't let her speak. "Do you think I'm holding back information?" Irritation laced his voice, and Esme couldn't blame him. She was so stupid. She should have never asked him that.
"No—"
"Are you holding back information?"
Esme froze. Yes, she was. But she couldn't tell him that. She couldn't tell anyone about that. No one would believe her, not her — the Deverell Witch. If she started talking about a shadow monster called the Midnight Man that had kidnapped her and her sister after they had played a game that was originally a Pagan ritual, the people of Hawkins would accuse her of blasphemy, would hunt her with their pitchforks, and burn her at the stake for spreading non-Christian ideas.
"No! Of course not," she lied. And she hoped he believed her.
Jonathan eyed her for a few seconds, studied her expression, searched her face for any sign of a lie, and Esme hoped that she looked convincing enough for him not to question her. Eventually, he let out a sigh, "Well, anyway... I gotta go."
With that, he turned to walk away. But Esme couldn't just let this conversation end like this.
She started to follow him, her eyes trained on his back. "Jonathan!"
"Just leave me alone—!"
"Wow, hey!"
Esme froze. That was when she — and Jonathan, too — noticed the group of people at Jonathan's car, waiting for him, like predators stalking their prey before they strike. Steve Harrington, who had so rudely cut Jonathan off, jumped off the hood of the car, taking a few steps toward Jonathan. Tommy H. and Carol had matching smirks on their faces, and the other girl whose name Esme didn't know (she was hopeless with names) stood beside them, her arms crossed, and her nose in the air.
An anxious feeling settled in the pit of her stomach as she came to a halt next to Jonathan; this couldn't mean anything good.
"What are you two fighting about?" Steve asked, looking at Jonathan, and Esme couldn't tell if he was genuinely curious or if he was mocking interest.
Then his gaze landed on her, and — just like this morning — Esme felt her whole body going rigid, every muscle suddenly tensed, and her throat constricted. She fought the urge to gasp for air, didn't want anyone to see what effect Steve Harrington had on her. Her heart was racing inside her chest cavity, and — again — she felt that peculiar sensation in her gut, telling her that he had seen India yesterday, that he had talked to her before she vanished, before the Midnight had taken her... Telling her that he knew something.
"Nothing," Jonathan said, instantly growing defensive. "What's going on?"
Esme blinked back to reality, tearing her eyes away from Steve's and focusing on anything but him.
Steve diverted his attention back to Jonathan. "Nicole here" (So, that was the girl's name!) "was, uh, telling us about your work," he said, a condescending tone in his voice.
"We've heard great things," Carol said.
"Yeah, sounds cool," Tommy added, grinning.
"And we'd just love to take a look, y'know, as ... connoisseurs of art."
Esme frowned at Steve's comment. What was going on here?
It seemed to strike a nerve in Jonathan because his grip around the strap of his bag tightened, his knuckles turning white, and he grew increasingly agitated. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, then tried to get to his car, but Tommy grabbed his bag and yanked it off his shoulder. "Hey!" Jonathan exclaimed, but Tommy only grinned, finding joy in seeing Jonathan panic.
"Please, give me back my bag," Jonathan begged and reached for his bag, but before he could take it, Tommy tossed it to Steve, almost hitting Esme in the face with it — she quickly stepped aside to avoid the collision.
"Man, he is totally trembling. He must really have something to hide." Steve started to open Jonathan's bag, looking for something. What was he looking for? "Ah! Here we go," Steve exclaimed, holding up a stack of photos he found and throwing the bag onto the hood of the car, discarding it like it was worthless.
Esme frowned. "Harrington..." Steve looked at her, and the grin on his face shrunk slightly. "What are you doing?"
"Look, this has nothing to do with you," Steve said. "You should go."
She should go? Esme didn't understand anything that was happening here. If they just wanted to showcase their power by harassing an unsuspecting victim, then Esme was the perfect target, she always had been. But they had waited for Jonathan, they were interested in his photos, and Steve Harrington just told her to leave because this had nothing to do with her. What the hell was going on here?
A high-pitched giggle erupted from Carol's throat, snapping Esme out of her thoughts. "Yeah, listen to him. Skip along home, to your fucked-up family."
And, just like that, anger started bubbling in her stomach, making her blood boil, and she felt the control she so desperately clung to slip through her fingers like sand.
"You do know that your best friend is part of that fucked-up family, right? Or are you too dumb to realize that?" The words escaped her before she could stop them. Esme's eyes widened, and her heart was pounding in her chest, so forceful and loud that she could hear it in her ears, feel it in every fiber of her body. And, immediately, she wished she could take them back. She just insulted Carol Perkins, the second most popular girl in school. What had she been thinking?!
Tommy's mouth fell agape, and his eyebrows shot up, almost disappearing in his hairline.
Jonathan stared at her, dumbfounded.
"Oh, shit," Steve said, with a tone in his voice that almost sounded like amazement.
Amazement? Why would Steve Harrington be amazed by anything that she did? The answer was simple: he wouldn't. Not even Esme was amazed, no, she was mortified. This was not good. At all. Because Carol looked like she wanted to scratch out her eyes with her own fingernails.
"Did you just call me dumb?" Carol shrieked.
"I— I mean—"
"You insulted her family, what did you expect?" Steve spoke.
He looked at Carol like that was obvious, like she should've seen it coming. But, honestly, not even Esme had seen that coming. She never talked back, she never defended herself, because she knew, if she did, it would only get worse — the name-calling, the insults, everything — talking back wouldn't make it go away, it would make her a bigger target. Jesus, why didn't she have her emotions under control? She had snapped at her mom, at Vinnie, at Tatum, and now at Carol... This wasn't like her. What was wrong with her?
Tommy's eyes darted to Steve. "Are you defending the witch?"
Esme flinched at the word witch.
"I'm defending India. Or did you forget that they're sisters?" That seemed to shut them both up. And Esme had never been more grateful that Steve Harrington was India's best friend. "Can we return to this now?" Steve held up the photos.
"Please, no," Jonathan begged.
Steve dismissed his protests with a scoff and focused on the shiny, freshly developed pictures in his hands. He shook his head, pulling a disgusted grimace. "Oh, man."
"Let me see," Tommy said, grabbing the photos from Steve's hands. "Dude."
Carol, chewing obnoxiously on her gum (disgusting, Esme thought), took the photos. "Yeah, this isn't creepy at all."
Esme frowned. She was confused.
"I was looking for my brother," Jonathan said.
"No. No, this is called stalking," Steve replied.
Esme's eyebrows shot up, and her eyes darted to Jonathan. "Stalking?"
Jonathan frantically shook his head. "No, it's not— it's—"
"Stalking," Steve finished for him. "This is quite literally the definition of stalking." He took the pictures from Carol and held them out for Esme to take. For a moment, Esme just stared at the outstretched hand clasping the photos, not sure what to do — she didn't want to take part in exposing Jonathan like that. But, if Steve was telling the truth... "C'mon, take a look — don't you wanna know who you're friends with?"
"We're not friends," Jonathan quickly said.
Esme felt a pang in her heart at those words. She knew they weren't friends, yet hearing him say that... It hurt a little.
"Ouch," Tommy said, laughing.
That was when she snatched the pictures out of Steve's hands, curiosity winning the upper hand (and maybe a little spite). And what she saw made her breath hitch in her throat and her stomach twist into knots. The first photo was of Nancy, topless, photographed through the window from behind a cover of trees and bushes, as was indicated by the leaves that framed the picture. She looked at the next photo — again, there was Nancy, but now she was joined by Steve. This had been at Steve's house, Esme realized. They had been in his room, sharing a moment that was supposed to be theirs only. It wasn't meant to be captured by someone lurking in the darkness, it wasn't meant to be stolen from them.
"I told you, I was looking for Will," Jonathan repeated.
"No, you weren't—"
"I was," Jonathan interrupted her.
"Not—Not when you took these." Esme shook her head as she looked up at him, into his pleading eyes.
"Now you get it," Steve said, his voice softer than before.
Esme turned to him, and, again, she felt that strange feeling in her gut, and a need to talk to him, to ask him about India, but she dismissed it — she couldn't talk to him. Not right now, anyway. So, she focused on the pictures in her hands again and looked at the rest of them — there were ones of Tommy, Carol, Steve, and Nancy in Steve's pool, laughing and having fun; there were ones of Barb, sitting alone in the darkness...
A thought popped into her head. "When was this?"
"Yesterday," Steve answered.
"Was— Was India there?" she asked, her voice unsteady.
Steve pulled his brows together in confusion. "No, why?"
"No reason."
Esme gave the stack of photographs back to Steve, not wanting to look at them any longer. His frown deepened, but before he could question her further, Nancy walked up to them, her gaze wandering from one person to the next, tentative, nervous. "What's going on?"
Tommy's grin grew, becoming clown-like. "Here's the starring lady."
"What?"
"This creep was spying on us last night," Carol said, snatching one specific photo out of Steve's hands. "He was probably gonna save this one for later." She handed it to Nancy. And when she saw what the picture showed, her face fell, and her skin became as white as a sheet, almost as white as Esme's. Her grip on the photo tightened, crinkling the edges.
Esme's heart broke for Nancy. The look in her eyes was haunting. She did not want to imagine what went through Nancy's head now, how exposed she must be feeling. Finding out that you had been watched, had been photographed, while thinking you were alone, sharing an intimate moment with someone else, must feel nauseating. Invasive. Like being cut open so everyone could see what she looked like from the inside.
Steve clicked his tongue, and Esme's gaze darted to him. But he was fixated on Jonathan. "See, you can tell that he knows it was wrong, but... Man, that's the thing about perverts..." He stepped closer to Jonathan, who looked defeated and ashamed, and reached forward, pretending to brush off some lint from his shoulders, ridiculing him. Steve was radiating arrogance, his hubris taking control of his actions. "It's hardwired into 'em. Y'know, they just can't help themselves." He ripped apart the rest of the photographs he held in his hands, throwing the shreds to the floor. "So, we'll just have to take away his toy."
Steve took the camera out of Jonathan's bag. And Esme realized what he wanted to do.
"Steve..." Nancy said weakly.
"No, please, not the camera," Jonathan begged. He wanted to reach forward, to take it out of Steve's hands, but Tommy pushed him back.
"No, no, wait, wait... Tommy, Tommy." Steve turned around, Jonathan's camera in hand. Esme watched him with a horrified look on her face. Yes, what Jonathan did was so wrong on so many levels, but... Destroying the camera was not the solution. "It's OK," Steve said. Esme's eyebrows shot up, surprised. She did not expect that. She noticed Nancy let out a breath of relief as Steve held out the camera for Jonathan to take. "Here you go, man."
But, just as Jonathan was about to grab the camera, Steve let go, and it crashed onto the floor, shattering into pieces. Esme gasped, taking a step backward. The noise was gut-wrenching, ripping apart the air around them.
Esme snapped out of her shock and looked at Steve. "What is wrong with you?"
Steve rounded on her. "Seriously? Who's side are you on, Deverell? The pervert's?" Esme blinked, not sure what she was supposed to answer. Steve shook his head at her, scoffing. "Y'know, India said you had a thing for fairness. ... I guess she was wrong." With that, he turned to leave, "Come on, let's go. The game's about to start."
And Esme was left standing, stunned, staring after Steve and his friends.
Her focus shifted to Nancy, however, when she knelt down on the floor and picked up one piece of a photo. Her expression was concentrated, determined even; so, curious, Esme stepped closer to Nancy, seeing that the photo showed Barb, sitting lonesome at Steve's pool. Esme frowned. She would've thought that Nancy would be more interested in the photos of her topless.
Weird.
Esme squatted down next to Nancy. "Are you OK?" she asked quietly.
Nancy's eyes flitted to Jonathan, who also crouched down and started picking up the shards of his camera, before looking back at Esme. She nodded and a small smile crept up on her lips. But Esme could see that it was forced. Esme wished she could do something, comfort her somehow, but she didn't know Nancy that well, and— well. It wasn't like she could hug her or something like that anyway.
"Hey, Nance!"
Nancy and Esme both turned around to Steve, who stopped to wait for his girlfriend.
"Come on!"
Hurriedly, Nancy stuffed as many scraps of the photographs into her bag, then stood up and was about to walk away when she turned around once more. "I'm sorry — about your dad."
Esme got up as well, looking at Nancy, tears gathering in her eyes, but she blinked them away. A lump formed in her throat and she felt her chest tightening, it becoming hard to breathe. She nodded curtly. "Thank you."
With that, Nancy walked away toward Steve, Esme's gaze following her, and, as if attracted by a magnet, she locked eyes with Steve, just for an infinitesimal second, but it was enough for that terrible urge to talk to him to resurface. And she decided that she didn't have a choice — if Steve knew something about India, as her gut was telling her, then she had to know. She had to ask him. But she couldn't do that now, in school, he wouldn't talk to her — she was still the Deverell Witch after all.
She had to think about a way to talk to him... Maybe India had his phone number written down somewhere in her room...
She sighed.
And after one last look at Jonathan, she left to find Tatum.
💀
PLUMES OF SMOKE DANCED around in front of Steve's face as he blew out the toxins he had inhaled through the cigarette in his hand. His elbows were propped up on the sill as he leaned out the window, the cold November air biting at his skin. The sun was setting already, painting the sky a warm orange before Hawkins would be enveloped in darkness. The swimming pool in the garden was glowing, illuminating the surrounding woods.
Steve scowled at the trees. There, somewhere between the bushes, Jonathan Byers had been hiding with his camera, taking photos of him and his friends. And Nancy. It was disgusting. The look on her face when she saw the pictures was ingrained into his brain — she looked so hurt. He didn't regret smashing that camera, no matter what anyone said. Esme Deverell or Nancy. Nancy hadn't been happy with him either, she had told him that after they'd left for the basketball game, which they had won, by the way.
But, who cared about that, right? His father certainly didn't.
Well. India did. She always did. But he didn't want to bother her with things like basketball when her dad had just killed himself. She had looked so tired and broken when he had seen her yesterday. He had tried to comfort her, but she wasn't having it — that hadn't been the reason why she came here. And India generally wasn't someone who would let others comfort her; she liked to suffer in silence. Steve was not a fan of that, though — it worried him.
And it worried him that she hadn't been at school today, considering that her sister was there. He thought India would make sure that her little sister would be OK, and not leave her to fend for herself. But, apparently, Esme Deverell didn't need a protector anymore, judging by the way she had insulted Carol (he had been a little impressed by that, if he was being honest). Still. It confused him that India hadn't been there...
Well, India always had her reasons, he guessed...
His gaze wandered to the snow globe on his desk.
... Sometimes those reasons were just unfathomable.
He took another drag of his cigarette.
His parents had come home this afternoon — his father had been on a business trip and his mom went with him because she didn't trust him, which was ... completely understandable. Loyalty was not a word his father was familiar with, and his mom had to pay the price. Steve felt sorry for her, really; she had thought they'd be in love forever, get married, start a family, and live happily ever after — but life was not a fairy tale, and his father definitely wasn't a family person. Steve assumed that his father had only wanted a family because it looked good on paper.
"Steve!"
Steve turned around to the door, sighing, before putting out the cigarette.
"I need your help in the kitchen!" his mom called.
"Coming!" he yelled back.
He threw the cigarette stub into the trash can, grabbed the bottle of cologne that stood at the ready on top of his desk and sprayed some onto his sweater — his parents weren't supposed to know that he smoked —, and then left his room. "I bet Dad's not doing anything," he muttered under his breath as he jogged down the stairs. And, who would've thought, his father was sitting at the dining table, reading the newspaper, not making any effort to help his wife in the kitchen.
Steve suppressed a scoff. He wasn't even talking to her.
"Ah! There you are!" His mom's lipstick-covered lips stretched into a big smile. Yet Steve could see right through it, through the false cheerfulness — it was just a mask. A persona she put on for his father.
For as long as Steve could remember, Alice Harrington had tried everything to keep her husband looking at her. Tried everything to be the picture-perfect wife, the ever-lovely jewel whose shine reflected on him. She faked smiles until her cheeks grew tired, never let herself relax, never let her hair down (figuratively speaking; her hair was always in perfect curls), just so she wouldn't lose his attention. What she couldn't see, though — or, what she didn't want to see — was that she had lost his attention a long time ago. Steve wished she would stop trying to be everything for her husband, would stop twisting herself into a pretzel just for him.
"Could you set the table, please?"
Steve smiled back at her. "Sure."
"Thank you, honey," she said as she turned back to the stove, tending to her pots and pans.
Steve fetched three place mats, plates, and sets of cutlery from their respective cupboards, then started placing them on the dining table. Of course, his father didn't offer to help or anything, he didn't even look up from his newspaper — it was like Steve was invisible. In response, Steve daggered him with glares.
Ding Dong!
The doorbell rang, and Steve almost dropped the plate he was holding in his hands; he had not expected the sudden noise. Who would visit them anyway? He didn't think they were awaiting any guests — his mother would've told him to put on something nicer than the black sweatpants and blue hoodie he was wearing right now if they did. Curious, he turned to his father, checking if he had any knowledge of someone coming by, but there was a glowering frown on his face, telling him that he didn't expect anyone either, and he wasn't pleased about being disturbed at this hour, as dinner was almost ready to be served.
Steve was about to go to the door, ready to send whoever it was on their merry way to bother someone else, but his father got up, saying, "I got this, help your mother." He walked out of the kitchen to the front door.
Steve shrugged, not very bothered, and finished setting the table. He could hear his father talking to someone, and he noticed that he didn't sound happy. At all. There was a hatred in his voice that Steve didn't hear often, and that was saying something coming from him, because all Steve did was disappoint his father, and Kenneth Harrington let him feel it. But this level of hatred was different — it was cold and stony and cut to the bone.
He felt sorry for whoever was on the receiving end.
"All right! Dinner's ready," his mom said, and Steve looked toward her, watching her as she carried the food to the table. "Can you get your father?"
"Mm-hmm." Steve nodded and left the kitchen, entering the hallway, his gaze focused on the wooden floor as he started to speak, "Dad, Mom says dinner is—" He looked up — and froze. "... ready."
There, in the doorway, stood Esme Deverell.
Well, that was unexpected.
She had a frown on her face, her eyes were wide, and Steve could swear he could see tears glistening in them, making her pitch-black irises appear even darker. Steve furrowed his brows in confusion — what was she doing here? She didn't like him — she hated him, actually, so why would she come to his house?
When her gaze landed on him, her expression changed. From whatever that look on her face was to ... hopeful. Her face literally lit up. Weird, he thought. Though, to be fair, he supposed anyone would be an upgrade compared to his father. Especially after he had talked to her with that much hatred in his voice.
"Harrington—" Esme started, but she was cut off by his father: "Get the hell off my property."
A tear dropped onto her cheek as she looked back at his father. And she sounded so desperate when she spoke, "No, please, I—I just need to ask him something, it's about—"
His father slammed the door in her face. The Bang! echoed through the whole house, making the walls tremble. Steve winced. What the hell? Shocked, he took a few steps toward his father, glancing back and forth between the shut door and the man in front of him.
"What did she want?" Steve asked him, pinning him with a firm stare. Yeah, he might not like Esme Deverell very much, but she seemed really distraught — she was about to cry! —, and his father was being a total dick.
His father's eyes bore into him, impassive, but at the same time threatening. "She wanted to talk to you. Didn't ask why," he answered, his voice cold, unemotional.
"You didn't ask?"
"That's what I said."
His father brushed past him, walking back toward the kitchen.
Steve followed him. "Well, what if it was important? It definitely seemed important."
Abruptly, his father whirled around, pointing his index finger aggressively at him. Caught off guard, Steve took a step back. "Listen to me, son — that family... They're no good. You stay away from them." With that, he stalked off into the kitchen. Steve could hear a chair screeching across the floor and guessed that his father must've sat down at the table.
Steve dragged his hands down his face. His father was driving him crazy! He knew Kenneth Harrington couldn't stand the Deverell family because, apparently, there was some history with Opal Deverell (which was why his parents weren't aware that India was his best friend). But this... Steve didn't know what to think. He put his hands on his hips and looked back at the closed door. It must've been important, he thought, Right? Esme Deverell hated him. So, if she came to his house to talk to him, then she must've had a pretty damn good reason.
And Steve would very much like to know what that reason was.
shoutout to allisonsarrows- for helping me with steve's pov -- without you, this whole story would probably not exist as it does now, i love you <3
esme is really going through it atm and she and jonathan are not off to a good start whoops ... but steve has finally entered the chat YAY
soo, i hope you enjoyed! let me know what you thought!