Chapter Text
Lunch has never been Chrissy’s favourite period. It wasn’t always her least favourite, either. Only since entering high school has she come to hate that stretch from twelve to one. It’s an hour most of her friends find synonymous with ‘freedom’ while the only word that’s screaming in her face is ‘prison’. She’s more acutely aware of numbers than any normal person should be. The number of hours, minutes, seconds, calories…The number that represents the sandwich she’s reluctantly putting between her teeth. She can’t remember a time without numbers, without thinking about them like it’s second nature. She’s sure she was happier then, more connected to the world.
Chrissy doesn’t engage in any of the conversations around her. Not Jason’s basketball talk to her left nor her teammates’ cheer talk to her right. She just…spaces out. Sinks into the seconds, the minutes, the hours . Every so often she’ll be interrupted by reality, by an earnest, “Right, Chrissy?” either side of her. Or Jason will place his hand on her thigh and squeeze gently. She guesses it’s an attempt to ground her, to make her feel included. She might appreciate it if it didn’t feel so hollow, like it’s a reminder of who she is, of who she has to be. Chrissy Cunningham, head cheerleader, girlfriend of the basketball captain and a shoe-in for prom queen. Middle-school Chrissy had written some form of that in glitter years ago after her mother had unearthed her own senior yearbook. She looked so perfect with that tiara on her head, with that charming boy on her arm, that Chrissy became lost in the fantasy herself. She doesn’t live in that fantasy anymore, but her mother still does and reminds her of that daily, reminds her of, “When I was your age, I could fit into that dress. When I was your age, my skin was as clear as day. When I was your age, I lost ṭ̸͛͗w̷̬̣̏̈̚è̷͍̳̯̜̕n̵̠̤̑̚ţ̵̦̟̲͌̏ỳ̵̧̭͈͜ ̷̭͐̎̓ṗ̶̧̪̙͇o̶͙̼̞͠u̶̡̗̭̜̾̌͆͂ň̶̢̛̰̓͘ͅͅd̵̢̟̗͓͐s̵̻̥͂̽̈́͝ ̸̜̒i̷̘͔͛̓̉͠ń̵͕̈́ ̸̨̥͔̆͝o̵̘͓̣̖͑̂͛n̵̯͗e̸̖͌̐ ̷͔͕̂m̶̘͔͆ȏ̴̢͚͉͆̏ń̸͖͈͈͝t̵͙̣̫̂̅̐h̷̞̬̲͛͘,̷͙̉̚ ̵̢̫̥̊̚a̷͇͉̓̐̾͘ņ̶͈̓͜d̸͎̮͈̯̈́̂̆͝ ̴͎͒̀̓̋Ĩ̸̟͜ ̴̡̡̱̜̆̃̏̂w̴̛̦a̶̮̅̍̒o̴̗̩̞̲̔̀u̶̡̬̹̭͐j̶͇̤̠́́́d̶̗͒f̴̺̾̾̋͠ͅs̴̫͕͛̓̀́l̷̟̐́k̸̼͙̖̻̍̐̈g̶̥͚̻̐̐̍i̶͍̽o̶͈̙͌n̸̛̩̭̻̺̏̓̚j̵̛͚̟̖͗̚d̵̞́͊s̵̯͝k̵̫̼̜̺͗̂l̶̛͉̞͍̫ṃ̶̱̪̃̋͝.”
Chrissy’s learnt to drown that out for the most part.
Today, the interruption doesn’t come from her boyfriend or anyone else at her table for that matter. It comes from five tables away, nestled at the edge of the cafeteria with the windows overlooking it. It’s a large thud, solid and momentarily humming with the vibration of the surface beneath it. When she looks up, she’s not surprised to see a pair of black, combat boots planted to that surface. Eddie Munson stands tall atop his lunch table like he’s observing his kingdom, though it’s one that ultimately shuns and labels him as ‘the freak’. It’s not a moniker she totally gets, even if his drug dealing is the furthest from secret, and she isn’t fond of the shift in Jason’s character when he uses it. Sweet, reliable Jason wets his tongue with acid as he comments, “Such a freak ,” and looks to her for validation, but Chrissy is only able to raise both brows and press together the idea of a smile.
She doesn’t know Eddie enough, if at all, to hold the same disdain that Jason does. Their worlds have never collided. They might have brushed in their rotation (a shared chemistry class here and a shared history class there) but never collided. If she made a list of the things they have in common, there would be a total of two items on it: the town they live in and the school they go to. Eddie is the kind of person who makes waves and Chrissy? Chrissy just isn’t. Even if she wanted to, it’s hard to make waves in a town that’s equivalent to a kiddy pool; she couldn’t even test the waters without causing a tsunami. Eddie has no issues with that. He thrashes about and demands that people are aware of him, of what he’s about; he stands on tables to make sure of it. So while the people around her roll their eyes and mutter insults under their breaths, Chrissy can’t look away.
Eddie’s arms are out and they stretch wide like a wandering albatross. He’s addressing the group of younger, though some look older, boys at his feet who view him with fervent interest. It’s hard not to see why; Eddie’s movements are erratic, his eyes wild, and his voice ebbs and flows with drama. She wonders if he’s telling a story but when he gestures out with a cry about ‘the man’ holding him down, she can’t be sure. She has to internally hush the rising chatter of voices nearby in an effort to listen in. She can glean from his loudest words that it’s not a story, not in the traditional sense anyway, it’s a rant. And it tickles her. It tickles her in a way she hasn’t felt before, or at least in a long time. The loudest she’s ever been was at her first pep rally, sucked in by fresh excitement, but it doesn’t count, not in a crowd.
Andy, Jason’s curly haired teammate who’s rarely seen without a cap, soon shouts, “Hey, freak, why don’t you just shut your mouth for once?!” and it echoes in the cafeteria. Eddie’s movements come to an abrupt stop. It feels unnatural to his purpose, like he’s not meant to stop for any will but his own. He doesn’t seem perturbed by the insult, though. In fact, he appears pleased. There’s a slight tug at his lips and he’s beginning to form an insult of his own; she can see the cogs turning in his brain.
But then the bell rings and the cafeteria descends into its regularly scheduled disarray. It’s a rude awakening. Everyone is on their feet and bounding out the door while she tries to recover her train of thought. Once she climbs off the bench, Jason’s hand guides her by the arm and he begins recounting his plans for the weekend. Amongst them, “Church, of course,” is sprinkled in and it’s not that she doesn’t believe in a God—it’s hard to avoid it in a town like Hawkins—, but Jason’s interest in it has grown stronger (and quicker) than hers. Her mother likes it, thinks it makes him a ‘good Christian boy’ and by all accounts, he is. He gets good grades and is well liked by students and teachers alike. Maybe not all students. Probably not Eddie. She takes one last glance at the cafeteria when they reach the threshold; Eddie has jumped down from his platform, easily shaking off the last few minutes. Then Jason says her name like he’s repeating it and in her acknowledgement, she loses Eddie in the crowd.
Chrissy barely makes it to final period, History, before her stomach begins twisting into knots. The water she generously sips is enough to settle the rumbling but anything their teacher, Mr. Lockwood, has to say simply passes through her. They’re learning about U.S. presidents for the third week in a row and they’ve only just reached the twentieth century. Her grades are far from poor but she’s begun to tire of presidents one after the other, each one another man with questionable intentions and an airtight smile. She curls herself into her desk for a majority of class discussion, trying to avoid being called on. She does sit up once, fifteen minutes in, when the door struggles open and a late Eddie Munson saunters in. He looks a little more dishevelled than he did at lunch; his long, permed hair is all over the place, the layers of his vest and jacket are skewed, and he’s out of breath as if he’d forgotten this class even existed.
Chrissy has only been late a handful of times and each time, she feels more guilty than the last. Her eyes follow Eddie to the back of the room where he slumps into his desk. Despite Mr. Lockwood’s objections, Eddie shows no acknowledgement or remorse for his tardiness. He just rustles out a pen and paper from his bag and looks ahead with disinterest. When his eyes spot her, she immediately looks away.
Cheer practice comes and Chrissy’s stomach has started to lurch. She knows that her choice of lunch was unwise, knows that the brief trip to the bathroom during fifth period was too, but Fridays mean flying. Lots of flying. Their coach has gotten more ambitious with their routines this semester and everyone is eager to follow suit, including Chrissy. So, she spends most of her stretches trying to breathe out the discomfort and gulping down water. Its effects are minimal but if she can get through their routine without no corrections needed, it’ll be worth it.
Chrissy used to love cheer, used to spend hours in her bedroom performing for her stuffed toys. Sometimes, she’d demand her parents sit and watch as she marched through the living room. Cheer was a dream, something she just got . Now, cheer feels like a mountain. She still loves it deep down, loves the way she feels when she lands a stunt, loves when the crowd screams in appreciation, but cheer has lost its spark. Every move she makes, every expression, none of it feels good enough. It’s just numbers. The number of jumps, the number of splits, twists, calories burnt.
Stood atop the palms of three of teammates, she’s tasked to complete an arabesque before twisting in the air and landing safely in their arms. They’ve done the move before; it’s simple but a crowd favourite. When she’s up there, viewing the empty space of the gym, it feels a lot higher than usual, a lot more daunting than usual. Her coach calls out for her to make the pose. Chrissy takes a shallow breath and begins to bend into position. It feels a lot harder than before, like she has to strain into it. She feels her balance waver when she does, but she manages to hold herself in place. Her coach calls out again, to go for the twist. This time, her voice and the world around Chrissy is a haze. That haze soon dizzies her until everything is spinning and she’s tumbling over herself.
The landing is much less painful than she would have predicted. It’s just a short fall, rapid and foggy, before she blacks out on impact. It’s almost…nice. Nice to have no thoughts for once. No numbers.
When her lashes flutter open and she tastes the dryness of her mouth, she’s in a hospital room, white walls and all. She can’t say she isn’t relieved to be waking up because she is, but waking up means facing the world again, dealing with her thoughts again. The numbers. The first number she hears is ‘two’. Her arm is broken in two places. It doesn’t feel like it, not until she dares to shift in her bed and the dull pain hits her like a ton of bricks. The next numbers are ‘eight’ and ‘twelve’. Eight weeks minimum for it to heal, twelve weeks maximum, but that maximum is flimsy. Her mom is less relieved that she’s alive and more concerned with what those numbers mean. She counters, “My daughter is a cheerleader , doctor. She needs to get back out there.”
The doctor, a man of average height and average looks, chuckles. Even Chrissy finds her mother’s emphasis on ‘cheerleader’ ridiculous. She’s no Olympic athlete or, heck, a doctor. Pushing his glasses up, he replies, “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” and proceeds to suggest one week off on bed rest.
Jason is the only person, after her parents, to visit her both in hospital and at home. His first words are, “Who did this?!” followed by a misguided vow to make the perpetrator he’d conjured pay. From that, she surmises that her mother spared all necessary details aside from ‘Chrissy’s hurt and in hospital’. She assures him it was an accident, that she’d attempted a stunt despite feeling unwell, but still, his jaw tightens as though he desires justice, desires to serve that justice.
The day she finally returns to school, bright eyed and ready to have seven hours free of her mother’s hovering, she feels more out of place than usual. She receives a few strange looks for wearing her cheer uniform still. No one says anything, of course. They just look at her with ample pity and a dash of discomfort. Jason is kinder, kissing her on the temple before he says, “That’s the spirit, babe.” He doesn’t explain further, just displays a crooked smile and rushes off to his locker. She knows what it means even if he won’t say it. That’s the spirit…even though you have no chance of joining the squad again before graduation. Somehow, it feels worse than having to bear the passing expressions of strangers and friends alike. Chrissy knows there’s no waving of any pom-poms in her immediate future, least of all any stunts, but it’s not like she isn’t a part of the squad. She can still support them, give them advice and maybe learn a thing or two along the way. She’s the cheer captain and a captain with a broken arm is still a captain , broken arm be damned.
Today, she’s a late captain.
It’s only five minutes, but she clenches with guilt like always. Going to the bathroom with a cast on one arm is painfully frustrating. She isn’t sure how much longer she can take it; twelve weeks is far too long to be shimmying her shorts down one-handedly. By the time she makes it out of there, confident nothing is askew, the halls are deserted. She rarely finds herself alone in the middle of school, never at this time of day, but it’s unsettling. Too much silence. Too many opportunities for her thoughts to creep in. Opposite the bathroom door stands a large display case. She doesn’t care much for what lays inside; it’s mostly trophies, a couple sashes and the odd ribbon. But in the reflection, she can picture her mother beside her, pinching at her hip and offering, “We need to work on this, Chrissy. I knew I should have gotten you off bed rest sooner.”
Shaking off the observation, she turns on her heel and bounds towards the gym.
Chrissy’s halfway down the east block when she catches the muffled buzzing of conversation. In the quiet of the hallway, she can hear it crescendo. She knows she should head straight to practice, especially when she’s already late, but she can’t help but gravitate towards the sound. At the intersection of the hall, she finds the source rumbling from behind the door to a classroom. There’s a number of voices all battling for attention and one deep laugh that trumps them all. She approaches the small, square window at the centre of the door and peers in. Inside, she spots a row of tables crowded in the centre of the room to form a large rectangle. Around it, five shadowy figures sit, their forearms planted to the surface and fists balled. The table is littered with an assortment of things. Dice, a lot of dice, paper, and a few pencils. The room is dimly lit by two desk lamps carefully positioned near the head of the table where a familiar figure presides.
Chrissy isn’t one to be nosy. Her mother used to scold her for asking too many questions. She stopped around age fourteen. “Why can’t I just have one cookie?” had been answered with, “Because I said so, Chrissy!”. And it wasn’t what she had said that squashed Chrissy’s natural curiosity, it was how she had said it. Her mother, firm but usually fair, had spat the words right at her, foaming at the mouth like a rabid animal. So Chrissy stopped asking questions. She sealed all curiosities and concerns away and replaced them with a smile each time.
Right now, though, she has all sorts of questions as to why Eddie Munson of all people is at school after hours. She would have pinned him as the type to make his escape at the first hum of the bell but here he is, joined by what appears to be his usual flock, in a room previously reserved for mathematics. Eddie raises his hands just below his chest and the conversation (can she even call it that?) that drew her to the room cuts itself short. Eddie settles his hands atop the table and glances down at a black partition before him. He begins to speak, casting his gaze over every person in attendance. What he’s talking about, she couldn’t even guess if she was in the room, but much like his rant at lunch, Eddie has his audience trapped by their own interest.
Chrissy then has another, somewhat unrelated question lingering in the back of her mind: why is she so mesmerised?
There’s a freshman at the table, his hair curly and brown, who exclaims, “No way! He can’t do that!” The baseball hat he’s wearing reminds her of Andy's; she can’t see much of it but it’s definitely not Hawkins High memorabilia like his.
“Oh, but he can,” Eddie replies. His grin unfurls itself and the rest of the group await his explanation with bated breath. “For you see, my friends, he reveals in his breast pocket…the crest of Daphnel.”
There’s just one word Chrissy can use to describe what happens now: chaos. The whole room erupts with it and she’s hooked. Not for long, of course—her tardiness to a practice she won’t participate in looms over her—but long enough to raise even more questions. She allows herself another moment of observation, taking note of the excitement they’re all feeding off of, and practically has to tear herself from that door frame.
When she quietly lets herself into the gym, the reception is colder than she anticipated. Sure, she expected some of the girls to turn their noses up, voice their disinterest in her hovering, but none of them do. Instead, they glance at each other and give her uneasy smiles that you’d miss if you blinked. A couple girls murmur, “Hi Chrissy,” in between stretches but spare nothing more.
Coach Jameson, a stocky woman with permed blonde hair and a comically large whistle hanging around her neck, is nice enough to greet Chrissy, even ask how she’s doing, but she does voice her surprise that she’s there. Chrissy stumbles through a brief justification, that she doesn’t want to lose her skills or give up supporting her squad, and it seems enough to placate her. Sat at the bottom of the bleachers, Chrissy watches as her squad runs through the motions. There’s no stopping to talk, no waves or nods of acknowledgement. There’s nothing to do but watch…and think. She spends at least thirty minutes observing their routines, thirty staring at her feet and the rest of her time recalling the last seven hours of her day. For just one moment, she recalls Eddie and his…well, whatever it was.
They’re two hours into practice when Coach Jameson returns to her side. She sits down on the bench, places her hands on her knees and views Chrissy with the same expression she’s been faced with all day. She says, “I know that you’ve given a lot to this squad, but some of the girls have come to me concerned that your presence will be distracting. I’m happy if you’d like to stay for the rest of practice but I think you should focus on getting better. Sitting here, watching them do stunts can’t be helping.” Chrissy looks out onto the floor. The other girls on the squad, some sympathetic, some less so, are laser-focused on their routines. Lydia, another flyer on the team, is the only one acknowledging her banishment; she rolls her eyes and tosses her auburn hair over her shoulder. Lydia never liked her. Then again, Chrissy never liked her either. Too stubborn and too blunt for her tastes.
It takes a second for Coach Jameson’s words to catch up with her but Chrissy springs up onto her feet. It’s a hurried and embarrassed mix of ‘I understand’s and ‘I’m so sorry’s as she slings her bag over her good shoulder and heads for the exit. Jenny, her co-captain, approaches her then. Her high ponytail and its brown locks swish into place when she rests her hand atop Chrissy’s shoulder. “Chrissy,” she begins with a lamenting sigh, “we’re all really sorry but it’s just…you know, a couple of the girls are feeling really bad about what happened and you being there is just a reminder. You get it, right?”
Chrissy stares, her lips parted and eyes fixed into space. Not really, no. I don’t get it. I don’t get why me getting hurt makes you feel bad, I don’t get why everyone’s avoiding me, and I really don’t get why everyone’s acting like I died! Her lashes flutter and instead, the words that leave her mouth are, “It’s totally fine. I wouldn’t want to get in the way.”
“Awesome. You’re the best, Chriss.” Jenny bounces on her heels, already backing away from her. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
Chrissy plasters on her best smile, one her mother would demand of her in pictures, and bobs her head in agreement. Jenny clasps her hands together. Satisfied and blissfully unaware, she re-joins the squad in the middle of the floor. Chrissy’s smile still remains, and remains as she bounds for the hallway. It’s only after crossing the threshold that it flattens.
Navigating her way to the front of the school, Chrissy finds herself nearing the east block again. She hears the same cluster of voices from earlier but this time, they’re on the move. When she reaches the hallway intersection, she stops at the corner. The door to the math classroom is wide open. The figures sat around the table are now piling out of the room. Illuminated under the cold, buzzing hallway lights, they’re chatting as they head in the opposite direction of where she’s standing. The curly-haired freshman is the last to leave, shouting, “See ya later, Eddie,” as he backs out of the room. The door swings shut after him and he rushes to catch up with the rest of the group.
It dawns on her that Eddie’s likely alone now and before she can even question why that matters to her, her feet are moving towards the door again. She spots him as soon as she peers in through the window. The ceiling lights are now on and Eddie’s switching off the two lamps that stood beside him. She sets her unrestrained hand upon the door. Curling her fingers on the edge of the window, she pushes up onto her toes to get a better look. Eddie begins collecting little figures off the table and shoving them into a duffel bag. He’s never been so quiet but even alone, he hums to himself. It’s a tune she’s heard, she’s sure of it, but not one she can place. She listens intently, trying to capture each note and eventually, predict the next.
Then hits her. Big Red Gum. It elicits a short giggle from her, one that she stifles with her hand.
Eddie looks up, squinting, and she ducks from the window. “Who’s there?” he calls out. Chrissy debates running away. She could easily make a break for it down the hallway. Even with her broken arm, he wouldn’t catch her. He might be taller but hey, she’s got that cheer stamina. “Guys, probably not the best idea to fuck with the DM a.k.a your all-powerful God !”
His implied threat is enough to give her pause. She wouldn’t want to be the reason his friends get in trouble. “I’m sorry!” she squeaks, bursting through the door, “I didn’t mean to— um— It’s just I was… Are you okay?” So wrapped up in her incoherent apology, she fails to notice the absolute shock debilitating the boy before her.
Eddie Munson, speechless, isn’t something she’s ever seen. From the ranting to the humming, she wasn’t sure if he was capable of it.
Eddie eventually scoffs, ”Uh…yeah— yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” He shrugs a shoulder, his stance growing relaxed. “Chrissy Cunningham, what a surprise. Shouldn’t you be…you know…?” With comically twisted expression, he begins shaking two imaginary pom-poms from left to right.
She bites down a smile. “Can’t exactly cheer with a broken arm,” she explains and gently wiggles the cast limb. Eddie’s mouth hangs open again momentarily before clamping shut at the dawning realisation. It’s with his eyes squeezed tight and his lips spread thin into a smile that he nods. If she’s honest, she’d be surprised if he hadn’t heard about it. Not that she’s some celebrity on the tip of everyone’s tongue, but ‘Head Cheerleader nearly dies’ isn’t exactly the type of lead you bury. His guilty expression pricks at her so she clears her throat and asks, “Were you guys playing a board game?”
“Sorta! Sorta…” His volume dwindles as he glances down. He abruptly picks up a figure off the table and holds it out. From across the table she struggles to make out the details but the plastic figure is dressed in blue, holding what looks like a tall stick at its side. He grins. “Dungeons and Dragons? The terror of all of small-town America? Corrupting the youth of today with devil-worship? Ring any bells?”
Chrissy pushes out her lips in thought, absent-mindedly running a hand along the edge of the table. The only thing that comes to mind is her mother’s regular Sixty Minutes viewing. The only thing that beats her mother’s religious belief is her undying belief in what the television tells her. Then there’s Jason, whose view of Eddie is whittled down to nothing more than ‘the freak’. She looks up at him and asks, “Well, is it? Are you corrupting the youth?”
Eddie’s response is delayed, his gaze burning into her. “Sorta,” he repeats and clears his throat. “It’s a role-playing game. Players make characters and I, the Dungeon Master,” he gestures grandly to himself, “tell them what’s going on.”
A smile creeps onto her face as her brows scrunch together. ”Dungeon Master?”
“It’s— well—” Eddie clears his throat again, “I’m like the narrator. I tell the story, they tell me what they wanna do, I fuck around with them a little bit, they fuck around with me…they fight…”
Chrissy doesn’t know much about their game, but what he’s describing doesn’t sound at all like devil-worship.
“Like you’re writing one, big story together,” she concludes.
That draws a smile from Eddie. “Yeah! Sorta,” he bites out the word for the fourth time and looks aside, clenching his jaw. Chrissy thought of him as some scary boogie man but here he is, unable to stray from this automated response. He scratches the bridge of his nose. “It’s, uh, fun. No functioning limbs required, just your imagination.”
That’s certainly a positive Chrissy can’t deny. The way he looked through the window, engrossed in their game, telling what she now realises are stories, took hold of her like it had his friends. Maybe it’s silly idealism or pure curiosity, but she doesn’t debate it for long; the question, “Can I play?” just escapes her.
Her words are almost an echo in the silence that follows.
Eddie Munson is, again, speechless. His ever-moving frame is still and his brown eyes blink at her as he scrapes together just one word in response, “What?”
It’s kind of cute, enough to make her giggle at the sight of it, but she swallows down that giggle and repeats, “Can I play? I’m kinda out for the rest of the year and watching cheer practice is, well, I guess I don’t want to sit on a bench by myself for three months…” She won’t mention how much of that decision is not her own nor the fact that deep down, she can’t bear the idea of sitting alone, watching alone, thinking alone. Eddie is still staring at her as dumbfounded as ever, so she shakes her head and laughs away the proposal. “I’m sorry— you guys probably have enough players already and I don’t even know how to play. I’d just get in the way—“
“We have a free spot!” Eddie sharply interjects, reaching a hand into the air with that little, plastic figure clenched within. Her lashes flutter in surprise and he quickly pulls back his hand. “I mean Lucas barely shows up nowadays ‘cause of basketball and hey, the more the merrier, right?”
“If you’re okay with that…”
He rolls his eyes, tossing the figure into his duffel bag. “Pfft. I am more than okay. We need to make you a character but I can totally just make you one myself. You don’t need to worry about that. It’s sorta boring.”
“How long does it take?”
He narrows his eyes and brings a hand to the back of his head. “Like, an hour? Two, tops.”
Chrissy shrugs. “We can do that.”
Eddie rapidly blinks back at her until he finally stumbles into his reply, “We— We can? We can. T-totally can, yeah!”
“Cool.” Another silence falls upon them and their eyes begin to wander. She murmurs, “When…?”
“Uh…”
“Are you free at Lunch tomorrow?”
It makes the most sense when their paths are unlikely to cross otherwise. Not counting their shared classes, of course. It also means she gets to avoid the endless suffering that is their cafeteria. No sitting there, counting the seconds and the minutes until the bell rings. No dealing with the pity that everyone around her has armed themselves with. And—she hates to admit this—no playing the pretty, agreeable girlfriend.
Eddie busies himself, picking up a stray pencil from the table, as he replies, “Y-yeah, yeah, absolutely. We’re not really allowed to use this room during Lunch but there’s this picnic table just off the edge of school? Middle of the forest, kinda rickety looking?”
“I think I know it.” Chrissy definitely knows it. Audrey Benson once bragged about scoring drugs from him out there. She recounted Eddie’s demeanour as being ‘freaking weird’ shortly followed by ‘and so rude’, to which everyone at their table agreed. “I’ll meet you there?”
Eddie simply nods, fiddling with the pencil now between his fingers. She prepares to make her exit but his next words stop her in her tracks: “Chrissy Cunningham,” he sighs out, “you are an enigma.”
She’s frozen at the doorway, one hand grasping at the frame. Of all the comments she’s received, good and bad, she can’t work this one out. His tone doesn’t align with the others; it’s too pensive. She looks back at him. “Is…that a good thing?”
His mouth opens but no sound comes out. He tips his head from side to side before eventually meeting her eyes once more. “It’s everything.”
It’s not a critique, Chrissy thinks. He isn’t lacing every word with the kind of sharpness her mother does. He isn’t pairing his observation with a tight smile and frozen eyes like her mother does. He isn’t even crowding her with a deceptively loving gesture like her mother does. No, definitely not a critique. So, she smiles. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
