CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
XXIV. solutions do not solve
[ season 3, episode 2 ]
Other than a potential secret Russian transmission network flowing through the tangled veins of Hawkins, and an unbidden feeling buried deep in her lungs that had blossomed last year during the whole monster-hunting business, Steph didn't have much else to worry about.
Not yet, at least.
She woke the morning after her reunion with the dweebs sporting a headache. Normal. The smell of sizzling bacon floated down the hallways and trickled into her room, infiltrating every air molecule bobbing around between the door and her bed. Just the scent alone had Steph's stomach growling, and then she remembered she hadn't eaten anything since mid-afternoon yesterday considering she'd been too busy helping Dustin communicate ── via a dodgy radio ── with his long-distance girlfriend, Suzie.
All the usual here in Hawkins.
Yawning, she clambered out of bed and glanced at her watch. Half an hour before her shift started. Great. She threw on her creased work clothes, brushed her teeth, and applied a fresh coat of mascara to her stumpy eyelashes. A Queen record that Nancy gave her last Christmas played delicately in the background.
Beyond her room, the house was notably quiet. Her Aunt and Veronica were typically engrossed in conversation at this hour. The lights were on, meaning they were both awake, but . . . silent.
Hesitantly, Steph pushed her bedroom door ajar, meandered down the dark hallway, and entered the kitchen. Relief swelled in her chest when she saw her Aunt standing by the oven, jabbing the bacon in the pan, and Veronica sitting at the small dining table, which could only sit three, looking rather glum. She was dressed for work at Scoops, the ostentatious sailor's cap situated atop her red waves.
The moment she looked up and saw Steph in the doorway, her mouth tightened, a muscle straining in her neck. Steph sensed something was off kilter immediately.
She frowned, "What's wrong?"
Noticing her presence, Jenny peered at Steph from over her shoulder. She didn't bother turning around, and prodded the bacon with the end of a spatula, returning her gaze to the breakfast, "Ask Ronnie."
Steph's eyes instinctively moved to Veronica, her throat bobbing nervously. The redhead cleared her throat uncomfortably, repositioning herself in the blemished, ancient dining chair. An envelope was set out in front of her. She pushed it across the table.
But Steph didn't need to read the contents to understand. She opened that same letter just last week.
Her heart stuttered, "You went snooping." she snarled, the words tumbling out of her mouth without any prior consideration.
She clenched her jaw and snatched the letter from the table top, feeling heat simmer and sear beneath her skin. They had no right to do that, to look through her things.
She fixed Veronica with a displeased glare, "Why?"
"I didn't snoop. I lost my necklace so I went looking for it in your room, and I found that," Veronica mumbled, pointing at the white envelope. She rubbed her nose, shamefully, "Sorry. I couldn't ignore it, Steph."
"Well you should have," Steph snapped, "That's my private stuff."
Aunt Jenny's attention was finally caught. She switched the hob off, twisting the dials to zero. The simmering bacon was forgotten as she came to sit down beside Veronica, knitting her fingers atop the table. She didn't look angry ── in fact, neither of them did. She just looked . . . sad. Or maybe disappointed.
Veronica opened and closed her mouth like a fish, unable to think of what to say. She threw her hands into the air, frustrated by her own inability to weave the right words into place. She settled with, "It wasn't my intention."
"Why didn't you tell us?" Jenny added softly.
Hotheaded as usual, Steph's fists clenched on their own accord. She shook her head and stormed away from the dining table, taking deep breaths to level her frustration. With a lot of inner persuasion, she managed to force herself into unfurling her fists, allowing her hands to dangle ineffectively by her sides.
Jenny's eyes bore into her. Uncomfortable, Steph turned her back to her Aunt and gazed out of the kitchen window just above the sink.
The envelope containing her acceptance letter from the University of Michigan was strangely heavy in her hands, and she felt the sudden urge to throw it outside. The trees and their spindly limbs could take it, for all she cared. The neighbours cat could tear it to pieces, it didn't matter ── she regretted her choices.
When she applied to college, it was a spontaneous action indulged during a moment of vulnerability that Steph'd doubted would end in joy. But, much to her surprise, she had been placed on the waitlist for a month, and then when that letter of acceptance arrived a mere day before she left Atlanta City for Hawkins, everything felt surreal. Out of place. Nobody even knew. She hadn't told anyone, tried to forget about it herself.
But there it was ── potential for change, a future, sealed in an envelope that had been buried in her draw.
The offer was a once in a lifetime opportunity. The University of Michigan offered the best Zoology course; the only downside was the university itself being so far away. Everything and everyone Steph knew was scattered between Hawkins and Atlanta. Travelling that far to pursue an education, her future . . . it didn't feel obtainable. Besides, her savings probably wouldn't amount for the inevitable cost of it all.
She was used to disappointment by now. What did one more dose of it matter?
Steph placed the envelope on the countertop and lifted her shoulders meekly, refusing to look her Aunt in the eye, "Because it's not going to happen."
From the corner of her eye, Steph saw her Aunt Jenny and Veronica share a brief look. Veronica appeared indistinctly relieved by that statement, like she was expecting something much worse, but Jenny looked mildly irritated. Displeased, if anything.
Her trimmed brows furrowed, "Why on earth not?"
Taken by surprise, Steph staggered back a little. Her Aunt was pushing it, tempting the notion. Why? Wouldn't it make more sense for her to reject the idea, forcing Steph to stay in Hawkins? That's what all parents and guardians were meant to do, right? Plus, she didn't even look mad, regardless of Stephanie keeping a secret like this from them . . . which surely felt like a betrayal. After all, Jenny had given her niece sanctuary, a place to escape to during her mother's continuous problematic episode, but all along she had been planning a way out.
Although, Steph's argument was valid. Nowhere ever felt tameable. She always felt misplaced. Perhaps college would give her some . . . meaning.
Reality, however, had its way of disbanding ambitions.
"Michigan is hours away," Steph explained, staring longingly at the letter, "It's too far."
"It's just a couple hours," Jenny retorted matter-of-factly, standing up from the table. Hands on her hips, she shook her head firmly, relaying back to her original thought, "But that's not the point. You could've been accepted into a college in Los Angeles, and it wouldn't have made a difference. If you want to do this, then that's your choice. You aren't obliged to get permission."
"I don't want to do it. It was just a stupid idea."
"You and I both know that's a lie."
Steph huffed, rolling her eyes in agitation, "I'm not lying. And even if I wanted to go, I couldn't. I'm going back to Atlanta next month, and Mom needs me there. She's . . . fragile."
Jenny's frustration visibly grew. She lifted her gaze to the ceiling, a muscle ticking unpleasantly in her jaw, "Your mother is a grown woman. She is capable of taking care of herself."
"Yeah, right," Steph muttered, picking at a hangnail. "She can't stick to rehab, but she can take care of herself. Totally."
Jenny reeled back, blinking hard. Her jaw slackened; she hadn't known that.
Her sister had told her repeatedly over the phone that rehabilitation for her addiction was going swimmingly ── she was close to receiving a badge of honour, she hadn't touched alcohol for months, she was proud of her own achievements. But it seemed like Loretta had spun a well constructed web of lies, and Jenny wound up getting stuck to it.
She should have known.
Steph appeared to realise what she had said. Her eyes bulged, one hand flying to her mouth. A small, barely audible gasp worked through her fingers, and her cheeks paled.
Jenny wasn't meant to know.
Hand in hand with silence, the tension in the room thickened. Veronica looked out of place, awkward. She deeply wished the ground would open up and swallow her whole so she wouldn't have to see that dejected, sorrowful expression on Stephanie's face. It was her fault this conversation was even happening in the first place; she should have minded her own business.
Unable to stand there silently any longer, Steph yanked open the kitchen drawer dedicated to miscellaneous items beneath the cutlery draw, and shoved the acceptance letter inside. She couldn't bear to look at it any longer.
"Whatever. You don't understand," she began, her words sharp and cutting like a blade, deflecting the focal point of the conversation, "My Mom needs me. That's just the way it is."
"She's holding you down," Jenny urged, stepping toward her niece.
She knew her own sister, Steph's mother, like the back of her hand. She was familiar with her nature, her ability to concoct and plan and tempt to get what she wanted. Her rehabilitation was just an excuse to get Stephanie out of her hair, to give herself free reign, liberty, without anyone standing over her shoulder, redirecting her away from indulging guilty pleasures. Disgracefully enough, Loretta perceived her own daughter as a burden.
Jenny clamped a hand down on Steph's shoulder. She immediately shrugged her off, stepping away, unable to tolerate the pity. Cobalt eyes welled with tears, but none fell.
Steph could feel her pulse thrumming wickedly, and she couldn't seem to grasp her fury, to keep it buried beneath the seams ── they were beginning to split. Her anger was imbued in every sense; an inescapable rage.
They just didn't understand. Why couldn't they see? Not everything could be oh-so easy.
"You deserve a future," Jenny said softly. She said it like it was true, like it was oh-so-easy, her smile warm and genuine, "That acceptance letter is a ticket to one."
Steph shook her head, "I can't go." she mumbled, eyes trailing over the floorboards, "I haven't saved enough money, I don't have a car or a license, and I don't want to leave everything I know behind for a stupid Zoology course I'm probably going to hate."
Jenny's mouth drew into a firm line, and she lowered her head.
Steph continued, "I just can't. It was a stupid decision I made, applying. College was never in the books for me. I don't know why I thought for a second it would be possible."
"It can be," Veronica piped up, her voice infused with childlike hope, "There are solutions for everything, we just have to find them."
"There isn't," Steph retorted, unable to see those solutions, those possibilities.
Involuntarily, she felt her shoulder twitch, the place two pale white lines resided, scars from her past. There was no solution to absorb her traumas; she couldn't find a way to toss the memories from her mind. Everytime she caught a glimpse of her gnarled, scarred flesh, she remembered everything that went down in that lab like it was yesterday ── she saw the sharp talons, the Demodog's soulless eyes boring into her, endless rows of teeth, Death's glacial breath plunging her into turmoil.
Some things couldn't change. She'd remember that forever. There wasn't a solution to fix that.
She pinched the bridge of her nose, forcing her erratic heartbeat to slow down. She couldn't stand the heat inside of the house anymore ── or the smell of the bacon, or the brightness of the overhead lamp, or the staggeringly close presence of her Aunt Jenny and Veronica. Her head swam. She needed space. She needed to go outside.
"Just . . . don't go in my room anymore, okay?" she blurted, storming toward the front door.
"Steph──" Jenny tried.
The blonde interrupted her immediately, "I have to go to work."
"I'm sorry, Steph," Veronica pleaded. Her hand hurtled forward, attempting to latch around the strap of Steph's bag, but she missed.
The front door slammed, and the head of bleach blonde hair disappeared from sight.
Wasting no time, Jenny lurched out of her chair and grabbed the telephone, the tangled wires coiling like vines around her fingers. She punched in a familiar number, pressed the curved, yellow phone to her ear, and listened to the line ring once, twice . . . a third time.
Then, someone on the other end picked up.
"What?" the voice demanded, annoyed.
"Loretta," Jenny snarled, clutching the telephone so tightly in her hand that her knuckles blanched, one by one. "We need to talk."
✧.｡. *.
Mick was asleep again. It hadn't even been an hour since they opened the store, and he was already flopped over the counter, snoring.
Steph rolled her eyes miserably; she wasn't in the mood to deal with him today. Her morning had kicked off to a terrible start ── her anger from the altercation earlier ( or could it be called a disagreement? ) had dissipated, leaving only guilt in its wake. She shouldn't have raised her voice. She shouldn't have blamed Veronica or Jenny. It wasn't their fault she kept something like that from them, and it was only a matter of time before they discovered the truth themselves.
She tried not to think on it too much. Instead, Steph focused on stacking the Jazz and Rock music records onto their respective piles.
"Psst!"
She momentarily stopped to peer over her shoulder.
There were endless rows of records pressed together in synchronised harmony, but nothing beyond that. She suspected someone was winding her up ── probably one of those annoying clans of middle-school idiots who prowled Starcourt Mall in search of their next victims to tease. Sure, pick the miserable record-store employee and make her already intolerable shift all the more excruciating. Hiss for her attention, and then hide behind the shelves!
Goddamn kids.
She rolled her eyes and turned back to the cart. Her eyes snagged on a Tears for Fears record, and she hummed in approval, running her fingers delicately over the black and white front cover.
"Psst!"
The hiss was louder this time, more urgent.
Steph whipped her head around, narrowing her eyes. There was a plume of brown curls distending from behind one of the elongated shelves. Her lip curled deviously.
Gotcha.
Footsteps light and almost inaudible, Steph approached the delinquent. She was empty-handed, but would be prepared to throw records like frisbees at the target if necessary. Children always needed reprimanding, put into their place, and little idiots like this one often required a severe telling off.
She would be more than happy to do so.
The moment she reached the part of the shelf where the brown curls were sprouting, Steph couldn't help but smirk triumphantly. They hadn't even heard her. She strained toward them, expecting to hear mischievous giggles erupting from other potential delinquents, but strangely heard nothing of the sort.
Then, suddenly, the head of brown curls rose and a face materialised ── a very familiar face.
She stumbled back, "Dustin?"
He almost collapsed in sheer shock. Fortunately, Dustin managed to swallow down the shriek welling up his throat ── which would have otherwise drawn attention to themselves and been extremely embarrassing. His hand flew to his chest, and he blinked rapidly, every breath sharp and unsteady.
Steph rolled her eyes at him.
"Jesus," he hissed in an amusing high-pitched tone of voice. "Why didn't you announce yourself before sneaking up on me like a crazy person!? I could have died from a heart attack!"
"Well, my intention was to scare you, and it worked, so. . . " Steph drawled, folding her arms. She gestured to the shelving unit lethargically, "Why are you hiding, Dustin?"
After a long moment of attempting to recollect himself and return his erratic heartbeat back to its regular pace, Dustin seemed to remember his entire point of being there. He dusted himself off and stood up, revealing his usual get-up consisting of a nerdy t-shirt and khaki shorts. Steph also happened to notice the sudden, stark maturity slowly attempting to bloom in his face. He looked grown up.
She felt a weird twinge in her chest, like maybe she couldn't quite believe how fast he was growing up. How fast the dweebs were growing up. It made her feel . . . sad.
She knew what happened when kids grew up: adulthood took hold. Life lost its spark. She didn't want Dustin, or the others part of his squad, to lose their sparks. They were always so energetic, so determined to find the joy in everything. Raw and beautiful and pivotal. Indirectly, they uplifted everyone else.
"This is a top secret mission," Dustin hissed, pulling Steph from her melancholy trance.
Her brow wrinkled, "What?"
Dustin shot a wary glance over his shoulder, and then grabbed her wrist when he saw the coast was clear, tugging her toward Scoops Ahoy. She sputtered in protest, signalling back to the record store, but the fact he was pulling her away from her job didn't actually matter ── Mick wouldn't wake until later that afternoon. He would never know she left the store unattended, sort of. And what he didn't know couldn't hurt him.
What she wanted to know, however, was Dustin's motive.
But before she knew it, Steph was crashing through the doors of Scoops Ahoy, and then dragged into the storage room out back. Already sitting in there was Steve, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
He whirled around in his chair at the sound of the doors thudding open, and his eyes widened ever so slightly at Steph's appearance. Self-consciously, he removed the sailors cap from his head, discarded it on the table, and fixed his hair. Dustin rolled his eyes, but didn't waste any time confronting Steve about his obvious desire to look good in front of Stephanie. Instead, he pushed Steph into one of the chairs around the table, and then stood between them, exasperated.
Awkwardly, Steve jerked his chin upward in greeting, "Hey, Blondie."
"Hi," she replied curtly. Then, she turned on Dustin, and he visibly shrunk in the spotlight of her incandescent gaze, "Do you mind informing me of my purpose here?" Steph demanded shrilly.
Dustin scoffed, shifting uncomfortably to the side, "Remember last night, with the Cerebro, the secret Russian communication we infiltrated?"
"No, there is no we. You infiltrated it."
"Whatever," Dustin waved off, rolling his eyes yet again. He folded his arms, and that worryingly mischievous grin began to bloom across his mouth, "I plan on translating, word by word, what we heard transmitted through my Cerebro. And before you ask me, yes Steve knows, I told him."
Anxiously, Steph drummed her fingers against the table, mumbling to herself, "Dustin, you are a beacon of bad ideas."
"No, I am a beacon of hope, Stephanie," the middle-schooler quipped, narrowing his eyes impatiently in her direction. He spread his arms wide, like some kind of inspirational mouthpiece representing an entire continent, "They may be plotting something against our country, and we could be the ones to stop them. This could lead to something big!"
"Prison in Russia, maybe?" Steve piped up.
He, too, looked just as anxious about Dustin's big plan, and kept shooting Steph unconvinced looks when Dustin's back was turned. She returned each of aforementioned looks with an over-exaggerated shrug.
"Just . . . get the dictionary, Steve."
Scowling, Steve let out a vehement scoff, "I liked it better when you were at science camp, man."
Nevertheless, he unzipped Dustin's backpack and pulled out an old, ratty copy of a Russian dictionary. He threw it into the centre of the table, and they all gathered around it as if it held some kind of historical magic that could make them young forever. Unfortunately, Hawkins was not that kind.
"So, we're going to translate it?" Steph wondered aloud. "with zero Russian knowledge whatsoever?"
"Basically, yeah," Steve confirmed.
Dustin sighed, "It sounds difficult, but it is 100% achievable. I know it," he said hopefully, attempting to convince them both. "Just think, we could be true American heroes. People will know our names three hundred years from now."
The reactions of his accomplices differed greatly. Steve wanted the glory, the achievement. He nodded alongside Dustin, imagining himself pictured in History books for taking down a Russian communication with nothing but a dictionary and brains . . . well, minimal brains. But Steph, on the other hand, could think of nothing worse. She didn't want glory, or to be deemed an American hero. She wanted to be normal. She wanted to be un-endangered. A life with a constant threat of Russians figuring out their little scheme sounded horrifying.
But . . . Dustin looked so hopeful. Of all the people, he chose to put his trust in Steve and Stephanie. Not the dweebs. Not Nancy or Jonathan or Hopper. Them.
How could she refuse him?
She snatched the dictionary from Steve's hands, "Fine. I translate, you two write it down."
They nodded, but remained seated. Her stormy eyes flickered between the two of them, narrowing almost comically, and in the silence that ensued, they came to realise what her sternness meant. Danger impending. They jumped into action without wasting a second, clumsily rattling through the drawers for a whiteboard pen, and Dustin fumbling with the sound recorder to replay the Russian message.
Steph grinned to herself.
"Alright," she said. Steve settled in the chair beside her, placing the whiteboard on the table. He poised his hand, pen clasped between his fingers, above the board, ready to scrawl any necessary words down. "Play it."
Russian gibberish streamed through the speakers at an alarming rate. She struggled to pick apart the sentences, which word differentiated from the other, how many words were in each sentence. It sounded like English but reversed and played backwards, and then tweaked with to sound even more incoherent.
She gnawed on her bottom lip.
This was going to take a while.