No blood got on the Marra's cream carpet but there was a carmine smudge on Prue's cheeks from where Billy had tried to touch her face in his drunken, bloody state. With a gloss of tears in her eyes and a sigh heavy on her chest, Prue had looked up from the fallen Billy to Patrick Turner standing above them with a frown digging into his forehead.
"Can you help me get him to my car?" she asked her old boyfriend as Billy's laughter faded, his eyelids heavy.
"Sure," Patrick agreed instantly, bending down to hoist Billy's body up straight. "Grab his another side," he directed. Prue struggled with Billy's other side, holding him up around the torso, his arm lagging over her shoulders. He felt heavy like lead, dead weight. The two manoeuvred Billy Hargrove out of the house on Maple and into the night still rich with heat.
"Why do I always have to haul your ass home?" Prue muttered to Billy, who was floating in and out of an ocean of consciousness.
"Damn, this guy is freaking heavy!" Patrick whistled out. His sunburnt skin even glowed under the cover of night. The three weaved around teenagers that littered the front yard, plastic solo cups in their hands.
"It's all the muscle," she said, wheezing under Billy's weight. Nicotine and cologne clouded her, filling her senses.
"Are you sure it's not all the assholeness?" Patrick argued as Billy's head rolled back onto his shoulders, mumbling something inaudible, probably a rude dig at the boy helping to get his sorry ass home.
"Yeah, it's probably that too," she admitted, pointing out her car across the street. The street was quiet and Prue could see to the very end of the cul-de-sac, and even despite the party still raging on, the street was pleasant with dead grass and only illuminated by the soft glow of lights from house windows. "You got him?" she looked across Billy's body to Patrick.
"Yep," he declared before Prue ducked out from under Billy's arm to fish out her car keys and open the backseat door; she held it open with her hip as Patrick shuffled Billy's body into the car, rather gently all things considered. "You need me to come too?" he added as Prue closed one door to open another one, swinging her keys around.
"Nah, I got this," Prue said, leaning on the metal frame of the driver's door to look back at the severely sun-kissed boy. "Thanks though, Patrick," she said sweetly. Patrick Turner swayed on his feet, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his shorts.
"Hey, about Ronnie and me―" he began meekly; his sudden, blooming blush matched the harsh hue of his sunburn.
"We don't have to have this conversation," Pure interrupted with a warm smile. "Ronnie's great. You're great. And you'll be great together," she clarified genuinely. While her relationship with Patrick had ended with a big blowout last Halloween, she had no hard feelings for the boy and honestly wanted the best for him, and she believed Ronnie Marra was the very best. It was actually really sweet of him to ask if she would be okay with him and her best friend getting together.
"Great!" A smile leapt across his freckled face, and if he really were a puppy, surely his tail would be wagging happily.
"Goodnight, Patrick!" she said, hopping into her car and conjuring the engine to life. Patrick waved, caught in the headlights momentarily as Prue drove to the other side of town where Old Cherry Road sat, much less pleasant than Maple Street.
The small and old Hargrove house was dead in the darkness, no lights burning low in the square, dirt-streaked windows. As Prue cut the engine, she supposed that was better than the alternative. The alternative being Neil awake and waiting with steam for his son to come home. With the light of the moon acting as a lighthouse, the brunette teenager sneaked around the side of the house, rasping her knuckles on Max's window. It took a few minutes to wake the redhead girl, but finally her tanned faced popped up behind the pane of glass. Prue waved lamely at Max, who blinked away her sleep and confusion before nudging the window open.
"Prue?" Max uttered, leaning over the windowsill, her flaming hair hanging loosely and freely around her shoulders. "This is my window, not Billy's. He's not even home," she whispered out, not wanting to wake her parents up, especially not Neil.
"I know, he's in my car. Pretty wasted, actually," she explained, jerking her head towards her car sitting idle at the end of the Hargrove's driveway with its cracked cement, weeds thriving in the gaps. "Wanna help me get him inside?"
Max took a moment to consider it, biting at her bottom lip as she looked into the depth of her room, of her house. "Okay, but we can't wake my step-dad." Prue nodded quickly before hurrying around the front of the tiny, wooden house that needed some repairs and new paint. Max slinked out of the house in an oversized shirt and boxer shorts, her feet bare and joined Prue at the car. Both girls stared at an unconscious Billy, blonde curls tangled around his temples and blood dried and crusted around his busted lip.
"He got into a fight with Steve," Prue informed the younger girl, "but Steve didn't give him the busted lip or the bloody knuckles."
Max continued to stare at her brother, eyes hooded with pity and concern. She wanted to tell Prue that it had been her step-father, but Billy didn't like Max telling people about what happened inside the walls of their house. She had once tried to help him and he had pushed her away, wiping at his tears furiously as if they were signs of weakness and not pain. Yet Max had the impression that Prue was somewhat clued in or at the very least was coming to the conclusion that Neil Hargrove was the reason for Billy's wounds. "We'll have to be real quiet," she reiterated, pulling at Billy's hands, tugging hard. Together the girls managed to get Billy through the dark house and to his bedroom next to Max's without any trouble. Max flicked on the lamp and diluted light pooled out, showcasing Billy's heavy metal posters, leather jacket, bottles of cologne and hairspray, car magazines and a few empty cans of beers. Prue had been into Billy's room over a dozen times in the last six month so she was rather comfortable with being in his space. Max, on the other hand, wasn't as comfortable. Billy usually kept his door closed, shutting her out until he wanted something from her. Sometimes just to talk to someone that wasn't Neil or Susan and other times just to riff on her because he was bored and wanted to see what she would do, see how she would act when provoked. He once backed over her skateboard as a form of punishment disguised in his keen interest in seeing how she'd react, see how'd she explode. He always liked to see how similar they were, how their minds ticked at the same pace. Both were angry, hurt kids abandoned by one parent and neglected by the other. They both lashed out and both had a liken to violence. Max had once nearly smashed a hammer into Billy's face, and he had wanted her to do it too, egging her on. And both siblings had a need for constant movement, a desire for speed; Billy with his car and Max with her skateboard: they were both zoomers.
"Sleep well, Billy," Prue voiced as the girls heaved his limp body onto his bed.
"You have blood on your cheek," Max pointed out. "Did he hurt you?" The concern in her voice was sharp, nipping with fear. Fear for Prue.
"No," Prue replied rapidly, her fingers brushing over the smudge of blood on her face. "It's not my blood." Her eyes found the dent in Billy's wall, the wood and plaster broken in like someone had been punching at it, trying to let out the violence that demanded a way out. "I think it's his," she said, noticing the redness in the dent, gross and bright against the wall's paint.
Max cringed away from the damage, not wanting to look at it. "You should leave," she hinted. Max walked Prue to the front door, the house still hidden in shadow, but Max seemed grateful that Prue had the kindness to get her brother home, even if it was just a way not to give Neil another chance to pound on him that night.
Prue had ready stepped over the threshold when she quickly turned around, an idea flashing. "You know how to pick a lock, right?" she queried, thinking of the padlock on the basement door, still taunting her.
Max shrugged her shoulders. "Don't you?" Max was a resourceful girl and she was surprised that Prue, another resourceful girl, didn't know how to pick a lock.
Prue chuckled lightly. "Not yet. You would be open to teaching me? I'll give you free slushies at the arcade whenever you want." Max thought about the offer and then decided it was a bargain; she nodded. "Meet me at the arcade tomorrow?"
"Sure thing," Max agreed, her lips twisting with a grin.
◈
Prue balanced the phone receiver in the nook of her neck as she scooped cereal into her mouth. "How did the rest of the party go?" she mumbled to Ronnie down the line the following morning.
"Good, actually. Though the fight was probably the highlight of the night. You know because of all the drama," Ronnie said, her voice surprisingly bright after getting next-to-no sleep last night. After dropping Billy home last night, Prue hadn't gone back to the summer bash, seeking a shower and sleep instead. She actually spent a long time looking at her reflection in the mirror before her shower, staring at Billy's blood on her cheek, almost transfixed by it in the witching hour. But little did Prue know, that wouldn't be the last time she would have Billy's blood imprinted on her skin that summer.
"How's Selena going?" Prue was sitting on the kitchen counter, her legs swinging. It was still early but she was already dressed for work in her purple Palace Arcade shirt and shorts, her hair pulled back in a simple braid. She was actually eager to get to work so she could meet up with Max on her lunch break and learn how to pick a lock.
"She's wrapped around the toilet bowl. She's been puking red vomit from all the strawberry Jell-O shots," there was a giggle of sympathy in Ronnie's voice. Prue could imagine Selena with her cheek pressed up against the porcelain, teased hair astray with red-stained lips.
"And Steve?" she wondered next. The last she had seen of Steve Harrington last night was Robin helping him to the kitchen for ice.
"He was fine, bounced back and lost against that new kid, Jesse, in beer pong. I always imagined Steve to be a sore loser, but he was good about it," Ronnie continued on easily as Prue munched down Rainbow Brite as sunlight shone through the kitchen window.
◈
The arcade was dead on the last Tuesday of June. So dead that Prue spent her morning chewing into Stephen King's The Shining as Keith tried to level-up on Dig Dug, coating the joystick with chip dust. The day dragged on and it was a sweet relief when Max Mayfield showed up, tucking her skateboard under her arm.
"It's so quiet in here," Max said, looking around at all the free game machines, waiting to be played. Prue shrugged her shoulders, dog-earring her page in the paperback.
"Business has been slow since the mall opened up." It was a sad reality, but a reality nonetheless and all of the small shops and businesses in Hawkins were feeling the pinch. It was a miracle that the Palace Arcade was still open. The neon lights here seemed to dim in comparison to the ones at the Starcourt Mall. Prue popped up the flip-top door in the yellow counter, beckoning Max into the back office. "Come on through." But Max just stayed rooted in place, raising her eyebrows at the older teenager. Prue rolled her eyes. "Do you want Bursting Blueberry or Lemony Lime?" she asked as the slushie machine hummed, churning flavoured ice.
"You seriously have to ask?" Max replied sarcastically.
Prue scrunched up her nose, waving Max through the gap in the counter. "Lemony Lime is really gross," she agreed, before pouring out a large free slushie for Max. The back office was cluttered and smelled of stale air and Keith's strong body odour that Prue had tried to battle with a scented candle when she had first started at the arcade, to no avail. A busted arcade game sat in one corner, the screen dark and covered with dust, and a small wooden desk filled the rest of the limited space. The metal shelves were stacked with tools, broken consoles, game pieces and paper cups for the slushies.
"So, why do you need to know how to pick a lock?" Max questioned, pulling open her backpack to gather up a bicycle lock and some bent hairpins.
Prue joined Max at the desk, both girls standing close together. "I thought it might be a useful skill to know," she offered up, trying to remain aloof.
Max raised her eyebrows again. "Really?" While Max did agree that knowing how to pick a lock―which she had leant from her father―was a useful skill to have, she didn't buy Prue's reason, not for a second.
Prue's facade dropped. "I need to get down into my basement but a padlock is in my way," she explained to the fourteen-year-old.
Curiosity flickered on Max's freckled face. "What's in the basement?"
"If I knew that I wouldn't need to know how to pick a lock," she replied, her patience thinning.
While Max's curiosity was still bright, she accepted the answer and picked up the bicycle lock and the hairpins. "If it's a standard pin and tumbler lock, it's pretty easy," Max began, demonstrating the procedure with fluid and practised technique. "So, the first thing to understand is, to open the lock all the pins need to reach the same height and align together." Prue nodded along with the girl, watching as Max slipped in two hairpins―she called them a pick and a lever―jimmying them around. The lock sprung open easily. "See, pretty simple."
"Sure. Simple," Prue muttered, doubt creasing her forehead.
Max reset the lock and handed it and the hairpins to Prue. "Now you try." Under Max's helpful instruction, Prue slid in the pick―a hairpin that is completely curled over and used to rotate the lock―into the barrel of the lock, holding it with a tension that mimicked a turning key. She then placed in the lever―a hairpin opened and that is slightly bent―above the pick. The tick to opening a lock was finding the ceased pins because, as Max explained, not all of the lock pins would be ceased into place. While still holding the lever steady, Prue located the first ceased pin and forced it upwards with the pick. A small click sounded out and Prue's eyes bugged with delight.
"I heard a click!" she exclaimed, eyes shooting up form the lock to Max, who gave her a flat stare that said: well duh! Prue continued moving down the barrel of the lock, lifting up the pins so they were aligned together. Then suddenly the lock popped open and Prue's heart and smile jumped. "I did it! I picked a lock!" she cheered, showing Max her achievement.
"Bravo, you picked a lock once," Max said with sarcasm again, but a smile lifted her cheeks anyway. "Go again." she prompted Prue. Max sucked on her blue slushie as Prue practised picking a lock; she failed a few times but after a while, she was getting the hang of it. But being in Max's company had her mind nagging at something the redhaired girl had said last night.
"You asked last night if Billy had hurt me," Prue started, stilling jiggling around with the lock. Max's sucking stopped. "He wouldn't hurt me," she stated, trying to reassure the young teenager.
"I hope not," Max confessed, stirring around her slushie with the straw.
"Has he hurt you before?" The question slipped out of Prue's mouth before she had time to consider if the question was appropriate to ask. Prue wasn't unaware of Billy's tendencies for violence, she had seen it first hand a few times now, but she didn't really know his limits. She doubted Billy even knew the limits of his violence.
"A little but nothing scarring. He liked to scare me before―" Max stopped herself, eyes falling back to the slushie in her hands. But Prue knew the end of that sentence: before Max had threatened him with a nail-studded baseball bat. In some twisted way, the move had actually impressed Billy and he had eased up her since, finally seeing the steel under her skin, the steel he had always known was there. "You like him, right?" she asked softly, eyes drawing up to watch for Prue's reaction.
"We're friends, yeah," she decided on, but her cheeks were burning.
"Friends. Right." Max's sarcasm was blaring again. "Can you promise me something?" The sarcasm faded into sober seriousness. Prue nodded, the bicycle lock in her hands completely forgotten. "Dump his ass before he breaks your heart... he's only good at breaking things."
Prue's heart was beating fast but she nodded again. "I promise," she told Billy's sister.
"Good. Because Billy's the type of person that only likes the worst parts of people," Max explained, the truth was hard in her youthful voice. A child's voice shouldn't be so hard and jagged, sharp at the edges; Max's voice reminded Prue of Billy's voice. It had taken Max a while to figure out what Billy liked best about her when they were on decent terms―and there were times that they got on like good siblings―but they were all of her worst traits. Rambunctious. Restless. Resentful. Incorrigible and yes, sometimes violent. He didn't like her kindness, her empathy or her bravery. And Max suspected that Billy only liked Prue's worst traits too. The flaming teenager's words had stunk to Prue like glue and her mind gripped at the idea Billy that only liked the bad parts of herself with teeth and claws.
◈
She was met with Sam and Grey when she got home, her mind obsessive and fingers twitching to pick that damn taunting padlock on the basement door.
"Hey, honey," Sam started with a warm smile for his daughter as she crossed the foyer, her brain in overdrive and her eyes glazed over in thought.
"Mum's at the hospital so we were gonna go to the mall for dinner," Grey piped up, a broad smile pinching his cheeks. He was ecstatic to be spending time with his father.
"Wanna tag along too?" Sam asked, his eyes noticing the distance in Prue's eyes. She might have been standing in front of him, but she was far away. In a world like to theirs but not quite. Prue dragged her eyes up, seeing the sunshine on Grey's face: he was trying so hard to move forward that it might actually be working. "We could get Chinese?"
Prue blinked and blinked at her father and brother but she only saw the padlock on the basement door. "Nah," she replied, slumping her shoulders. "Work has me kinda beat," she added, the lie easy on her tongue. Her mother was at work and her father and brother were going out leaving her alone in the house for a few hours... it was the perfect chance to break into the basement.
"Okay, honey," Sam said, wrapping his arm around Grey. "We'll bring you back some sweet and sour pork."
"Sounds great," Prue commented back too quickly that Grey cocked his head in thought, his mind working fast. Prue dropped her eyes to the ground, letting her full fringe mask her plan for the continuation of Mission Strange that must have been shining on her face, flashing in her eyes. "Have fun you to," she muttered out, skirting around the pair, taking the stairs to her bedroom two at a time.
Prue waited at her bedroom door, waiting for them to leave. "Looks like its just you and me tonight, buddy." Sam's voice drifted through the front door.
"Can we get ice cream?" Grey's followed before the door closed with a thud. Prue gave it another five minutes before she scurried back down the stairs with the hairpins Max had graciously given her clutched in her palm.
The basement door was closed in her face but this time Prue's grinned back at as she kneeled down in front of the shining padlock, pick and lever at the ready. The house was quiet, almost too quiet, but the silence made the clicks of the pins loud in Prue's ears. And as each pin lifted and aligned with its brothers, her pulse quickened its pace; she was practically giddy when the padlock popped open.
"Pretty damn simple," Prue whispered out with pride as she removed the padlock from the handle. But her hand hovered over the brass knob for a long moment as she considered what she was about to do. Was Grey right? Was she being paranoid? Making something out of nothing? She gritted her teeth and twisted the knob and the basement door swung open on its hinges. The darkness of the basement invited Prue in with open arms and she moved down the steps with her pulse slamming against her eardrums. She flicked on the light switch and white-orange light flooded the basement, pushing the shadows back into the corner to watch and wait for the time to crawl back out. Prue didn't know what she was looking for, only that she was looking for everything and anything. Boxes were stacked high around a workstation that Prue decided could be a makeshift desk. A phone sat on the scratched wooden top and she wondered why anyone would need a phone installed in a basement. Prue didn't take her time and searched through the boxes quickly, flipping through files upon files. She pulled one out and studied the document with critical eyes. It looked like a scientific report, all written in dull, objective language. From what Prue could tell, the report was about contaminated soil that the Hawkins Lab had been testing last year, and when experimented on, the separated soil samples seemed to mimic each other, like they were all connected somehow. While somewhat fascinating, Prue wanted more than soil samples, so she kept digging from more, for something that captured her soul.
The old light in the basement was starting to flicker when her fingers closed around a pile of squares, secured together by a rubber band. Prue pulled the bundle of out from the bottom of the box. Her breath got trapped in her throat as the weak, orange light found a photograph, a polaroid, a whole cluster of them. She sat back on her heels, staring at the foggy picture of a dark, decaying world. She skipped to the next polaroid and then the next and the next after that. All of the edges were bleeding with blackness, with shadow and twisting veins and it didn't take Prue long to realise that these were polaroids of the Upside Down. All taken for scientific research, for craving curiosity that didn't know when to stop. She was engrossed in the glimpses of another world that shared so many qualities of her own save for that it was dark, lost without light. It was the last polaroid in the pile that she got stuck on, like the needle of a turntable getting stuck in a grove of a spinning record. She held the polaroid up closer, letting the light wash over it. Darkness stretched out in all directions, wide and tangible like dark webbing. And in the centre of it all was a red heart that seemed to be pulsing even in the photograph. Prue knew it was the Gate, a portal to the Upside Down; it seemed to suck her in, her eyes pouring over the picture with great, obsessive intensity. She knew the Gate was closed―El had closed it six months ago―but she had never seen it before, never seen the heart of it. That was the one polaroid that Prue took back to her room, and she curled up with it, devouring over it all night.