Chapter Text
Need was a weird concept for Chrissy Cunningham.
Throughout her childhood, Chrissy’s needs were secondary, sometimes tertiary, concerns for her mother, Laura. While Laura was generally a cold, reserved woman, her fury ran hot and loud whenever Chrissy was needy or greedy, two cardinal sins in the Cunningham house.
Chrissy didn’t need a full dinner, she just wanted it because she was a fat pig.
She didn’t need to bounce around and flap her hands when she got excited, she just wanted to make a spectacle of herself and embarrass her family.
She didn’t need markers or colored pencils, she just wanted them because she was greedy and refused to make do with what she already had.
Chrissy quickly learned that if she wanted to survive, she needed to make Laura happy. That meant doing and being whatever her mother needed her to do or be.
The same was true of Chrissy’s baby brother, Jack. When the Cunningham children performed well, when they were perfect, when they wanted nothing and gave everything, life was okay. Anything short of perfection, however, resulted in empty stomachs, hidden bruises, and ears full of hateful threats.
Laura needed Chrissy to date someone impressive and wealthy, so Chrissy said yes when Jason Carver asked her out. She worked very hard to be a giving, loving girlfriend. She acquiesced to all of Jason’s needs. He needed her to be happy, to smile all the time, but he also needed her to stay calm and quiet. He needed her to kiss him in the hallways, even if she didn’t like how he shoved his tongue into her mouth. He needed her to get on her knees or on her back and give him what he wanted.
Chrissy tried not to ask for much in return, but Jason still said she was too needy, and if something went wrong in Jason’s life, it was always Chrissy’s fault.
That made sense. It was how Chrissy had been raised.
Of course, Chrissy knew this was all wrong. None of the characters in her books had lives like this (except for, like, Cinderella, which was a fairytale). She knew her existence was weird and bad and that her mother was a monster and her father was, at best, a pushover and, at worst, an accomplice.
But that didn’t change the fact that it was her life.
For most of her time in high school, Chrissy rebelled in small, secretive ways. She allowed herself to want things, even if she knew she’d never get them. She learned to moderate her performance in certain things so as to keep them for herself (she never did her best work in art class, for example, out of fear that a kindly teacher might try to put one of her pieces in an art show, which would mean her mother might see it .) She maxed out her library card. She used her pocket money to sneak Pop-Tarts and Oreos (that were not always thrown right back up).
And when things were at their worst, she rebelled in a larger, though still terribly secret, way, which paid off beautifully and painfully and well.
It all worked out for her in the end, but not as she’d expected.
In the three years since Phil Cunningham had suddenly grown a shiny new spine and divorced Chrissy’s mom, the Cunningham children had done a lot of work to recalibrate their warped understanding of the differences between needs and wants.
Still, when Keith, Chrissy’s general manager at Vito’s Bar and Grill in Chicago, called her dad’s place in Indianapolis a few days after Christmas saying he needed Chrissy to come in for the New Year’s Eve shift, it took her a few seconds to process the demand.
“You want me to come in on New Year’s?” she asked, opening the kitchen drawer beneath the phone cradle to look for a pen and some paper so she could doodle while she talked.
The checkered, black and white kitchen counter camouflaged one ballpoint pen shoved up against where the tile met the backsplash. Snagging it, she pulled out a heavily varnished drawer of the same dark wood that made the entire kitchen feel cramped. Atop the piled odds and ends inside (mostly takeout menus) lay a legal pad marked up with other notes from prior calls.
“We need you,” Keith said. He was nice enough, most of the time. Not the worst boss Chrissy ever had. She tried to stay on his good side, but she tried to stay on everyone’s good side, really.
“I put in my leave early,” she reminded him, starting a sketch of his mop of brown hair beside her dad’s old order for chow mein written sideways on the notepad. “I’m not on the roster until January fourth, and even then, I–”
“Come on,” Keith wheedled, nasal voice high and whining through the phone. “Mary’s kid has the flu, and everyone else is out of town.”
That did sound more like a need, but it wasn’t Chrissy’s responsibility to fulfill it, right?
Around the phone’s plastic body, she picked at the nibbled cuticle of her left thumb until it stung. “I’m out of town, too.”
“It’s, what, a three-hour drive back to Chicago?”
Glancing up, Chrissy’s eyes caught on the calendar hanging next to the kitchen’s little serve-through window. It was printed on a long strip of fabric like a tea towel with all twelve months arrayed below a big 1989 wreathed in flowers. A new cloth calendar for 1990, still wrapped in plastic, sat beneath it, ready to be hung up in a few days.
“Three and a half,” she said. “But it’s supposed to snow, and my dad–”
Keith scoffed, just like he always did any time anyone insinuated that they might have something that could be considered more important than jumping at the opportunity for more work. “You want to stay in Indianapolis through New Year’s Eve? I thought you didn’t even get along with your family.”
Ah, Chrissy thought. That’s why she hadn’t told Keith to piss off yet. He was, perhaps, giving her an out because he wasn't exactly wrong when he said that Chrissy didn't get along with her family.
Obviously, Chrissy didn’t get along with Laura, but that was a moot point now that they didn’t speak.
She almost always got along with Jack, her younger brother. They’d been comrades in arms for the first thirteen years of his life, despite their mother’s attempt at pitting them against each other. Playing the role of big sister had always come naturally to Chrissy–it was so much easier than perfect daughter, perfect girlfriend, perfect student, perfect cheerleader. Jack never needed her to be perfect. He just wanted her to be there.
And her dad, well…
Phil was complicated.
Through the handset, Keith was still whining.
“You said last month you wanted more shifts. This is definitely the best shift of the year. Our tables are all booked, including a big private party in the wine cellar.”
He wasn’t wrong about Chrissy asking for more shifts, either, and she wasn’t entirely against the idea of working New Year’s. She hadn’t planned on leaving so early, but being at her dad’s place was… yeah. Complicated.
But she was trying to be less of a doormat these days, so she pushed back a little. “So, you’re saying it will be crazy.”
“The tips will be crazy, and you’ll be on time and a half for the holiday. That’s good money! You’re always scrounging for cash, aren’t you?”
She flicked her eyes over to the living room, still doodling.
Jack and their dad had fallen asleep in front of the Die Hard VHS they rented from Family Video.
At fifteen, Jack was still all elbows and knees beneath his mop of blonde hair. Those elbows and knees were prominently on display, stuck out from beneath the crocheted blanket Chrissy had draped over him when he started to doze. He sprawled across the low-ply carpet in front of the gargantuan entertainment console that dominated the otherwise naked wall nearest the fireplace.
Phil, whose once-sandy hair was now more the color of cigarette ash, snored gently from his recliner–one of the few things he’d claimed from their house in Hawkins.
That chair was, apparently, the only thing Phil had liked enough to take with him during the divorce. That, and his kids.
(The rest of the furniture in the condo had all been picked from the department stores in town at Chrissy’s urging, so Phil and Jack weren’t eating off the floor or fishing clothes out of suitcases for months on end.)
Phil’s three-bedroom condo was masculine, functional, and pleasantly unkempt, so unlike the lavishly wallpapered crypt Chrissy had grown up in.
Both kids had their own bedrooms, which was insane because Chrissy spent the vast majority of her time at college in Chicago. She’d told her dad that he should get a two-bedroom place. She’d happily sleep on the couch when she visited. Phil wouldn’t hear of it. You need somewhere for yourself when you come home, and only the best is good enough for my little girl, he said.
He’d never said things like that when he was married to Laura, when Chrissy actually was a little girl, when she actually did need him.
But now that he was a free man, Phil Cunningham was incredibly generous. It wasn’t as though her parent’s split had suddenly emptied the Cunningham coffers, especially not after Phil’s promotion last year, and he liked to spend money. He delighted in taking his coworkers out for dinner and picking up the tab. He was the sort of customer Chrissy would love to have at the bar because he tipped with the smooth generosity of a sheik or a prince.
The past few Christmases put every prior Cunningham holiday to shame. Chrissy’s car frame was going to groan under the weight of the gifts she’d gotten–a dozen new books (about half of which looked like things she would want to read), a dozen more new tapes (from artists she’d liked when she was fourteen), an intimidating box of oil paintes (when Chrissy painted, she did watercolors), an actual full-sized wooden easel (okay, she could work with that). None of the gifts had made Chrissy bounce, but she dutifully smiled and thanked her father because that’s what he needed.
Jack loved being spoiled. He was always appropriately appreciative, somehow straddling the right line between fawning and genuine. It wasn’t an act. Jack had never been good enough at hiding his feelings.
(Crybaby. Weakling . Pansy.
Laura used to shoot those words at her son like bullets from a gun as she spanked him or turned the key to lock him in his room. It was one of the major points against her in the divorce proceedings, back when she’d tried to retain full custody of her youngest child.
Sometimes [usually after a glass or two of wine], Chrissy wondered if her dad would have stood up for his children earlier if his daughter had been a little less perfect. If she’d rebelled a little louder, a little more visibly. If, when Laura said jump, Chrissy hadn’t always asked how high? If she’d gained a little more weight. If she hadn’t tried so hard to become cheer captain and Homecoming Queen. If she’d cried harder when her mother called her a fat slut or a lazy pig or a stupid bitch.)
Since tearing open the package on Christmas morning, Jack had barely put his new Game Boy down. His room (which now only locked from the inside) was full of science fiction books, he had his own stereo set, and he was always playing new video games. His most recent obsession was something called Castlevania. Chattering madly, Jack held the blocky cartridge like a talisman over their Christmas morning pancakes while Phil beamed and Chrissy… tried.
(Chrissy tried a lot for Jack. She did her very best to enjoy his delight in his new life without jealousy. She should want this for him, want him to have a good adolescence. She did want that.
She just wished it could have been better for her, too.)
But for Chrissy, every gift from her father made her feel a little sick. It felt like the presents, the money, and the smiles were all bribes. Tips. As if her father thought that if he gave her enough, he could pay his way out of almost two decades of neglect.
So many parts of their lives were better since the divorce, but not everything. Some things were harder. More… complicated.
That was doubly true for Chrissy, who worked two jobs on top of her classes to try and make herself as financially independent from her father as possible. She’d survived this far (for the most part) without him, and his sudden need to ensure only the best for his little girl left a bitter taste in Chrissy’s mouth, like stomach acid, like bile.
Pathetically, being as independent as possible apparently meant relying on Phil for adult needs like tuition and rent.
Accepting his money for school had been a wrench, but leaving IU meant leaving her scholarship, and Chrissy’s dad didn’t want her taking out big student loans.
The rent was still a point of contention between father and daughter. Phil ignored Chrissy’s desire (because that was a want, not a need ) to pay half the rent on the small apartment she and her best friend Robin shared. Like clockwork, he sent the money directly to the landlord’s office, bypassing Chrissy entirely. Whenever she tried to bring it up, her father went conveniently deaf.
Their landlord, an impossibly old man with cotton fluff hair and a stooped back, was only too happy to cash each check, ignoring Chrissy’s polite pleas not to do that.
It was infuriating.
So as not to be an entirely worthless human being, Chrissy insisted on paying for half of the other half of the rent with money she earned at the jobs she wanted rather than with money Phil deposited into her bank account at random intervals. Yes, Phil’s money meant she and Robin technically spent only a quarter of what they would otherwise, and that meant both of them could actually work on saving, but…
Chrissy was working on it.
After graduation, she really was going to cut the cord. Or the purse strings. Or whatever it was that made her feel that sick churning in her gut that cropped back up whenever she was around her dad. She needed to.
She had no idea how she would do that, but she would.
Keith's whine was tinny and sharp through the receiver, pulling Chrissy back to the present.
“Come on, Chris. Harrington said yes, so you’ll have your little security blanket right there when you get antsy. All you’ll need to do is flip that ponytail, flash that pretty smile, keep the liquor flowing, and you’ll rake in the tips. And who knows? You might even find someone to kiss at midnight.”
Chrissy rolled her eyes up to the popcorn ceiling as she slammed the pen down against the notepad, drawing so hard she dented the page.
Yes, having Steve on shift with her would be nice. He’d been the reason Robin originally moved to Chicago, and was thus indirectly responsible for Chrissy’s relocation and directly responsible for her getting the job at Vito’s. The former basketball star was a great bartender, a good friend, and he was always more than happy to scare off any handsy barflies who got too interested in Chrissy or anyone else on staff.
But between juggling her two jobs and maintaining good enough grades to graduate on time, kissing was the last thing on Chrissy’s mind.
She’d dated after Jason, especially after moving to Chicago and entering what Robin called her New Chrissy Era. She met some of them through school, some of them through Steve, and some of them through her jobs. A few went from casual dates into maybe boyfriend territory, but they always stopped calling when Chrissy wasn’t perfect, when she got needy, when she wanted more than they wanted to give. And they always told her to calm down when she got too excited.
There had only ever been one man in Chrissy’s life who liked her exactly as she was, who didn’t mind when she shouted or bounced, and even he never liked her enough because Chrissy never was enough, and that’s just how things went.
So, no. She was not looking for a magical midnight kiss. What she needed was to save money, start work on her dreaded final projects, figure out what the hell she was going to do after graduation, and survive.
And what she wanted, suddenly, more than anything, was to get back to her life in Chicago, where she was able to make (some) choices and get (some of) what she needed.
“Fine,” she said, jabbing the pen into the notepad a few times. It made her feel a little bit better. “But you’ll pay me time and a half for the drive back, too.”