Chapter Text
January 6th, 1984
Robin Buckley decides, very seriously, that Nancy Wheeler has the posture of someone who expects the world to make sense if she stares at it hard enough.
This is not something Robin should be thinking about at eight forty-seven in the morning, in the back half of Advanced English, with Mr. Adler clearing his throat like he’s about to announce the apocalypse via Shakespeare. She should be thinking about The Great Gatsby, or the pop quiz he’s absolutely lying about not giving, or the fact that her notebook is full of doodles of hands holding cassette tapes. Instead, she’s thinking about the way Nancy Wheeler sits.
Nancy sits straight. Shoulders back. Pencil aligned perfectly with the margin of her notebook. Hair tucked neatly behind one ear like it knows it has a job to do. She doesn’t fidget. She doesn’t chew her pen. She doesn’t stare out the window like she’s itching to escape Hawkins High and never look back.
She looks focused. Like if there’s a right answer to something, she intends to find it.
Robin knows of Nancy Wheeler. Everyone does. She’s smart. She’s pretty in a way that feels unintentional but still devastating. She used to date Steve Harrington, which felt like a civic event, and then she stopped, which felt like a scandal. She writes for the school paper. She gets called on in class and actually answers.
They have never spoken.
Until Mr. Adler clears his throat again and says, “All right. Since we’re starting our spring term today, I’m assigning partners for the comparative literature project.”
A collective groan ripples through the room.
“Five weeks,” he continues cheerfully. “Presentation and written component. You’ll be analyzing two American novels through a shared theme of your choosing.”
Robin slumps lower in her chair. Group projects are her personal hell. Not because she doesn’t do the work - she does all the work - but because people either think she’s too much or not enough. There’s rarely a middle ground.
Mr. Adler starts reading names.
Robin half-listens, already mourning her free time.
“Buckley.”
Her head snaps up.
“Wheeler.”
The room does that thing where it suddenly feels louder and quieter at the same time.
Nancy Wheeler turns around.
They make eye contact.
Objectively, it’s a normal human interaction. Two people acknowledging each other’s existence. But Robin’s brain short-circuits like she’s been struck by lightning. Nancy’s eyes are brown; steady, curious, not unkind.
Nancy gives her a small, polite smile.
Robin panics.
Instead of smiling back like a normal person, she nods once. Too sharp. Like she’s agreeing to a duel.
Great start, Buckley.
---
They don’t talk right away. Class ends in a rush of chairs scraping and backpacks zipping, and Nancy gets swept up by a group of girls who immediately start talking about..... whatever normal teenage girls talk about. Robin hovers by the door like she’s forgotten how hallways work.
She tells herself it’s fine. They’ll talk later. They have five weeks. Plenty of time.
Still, the idea of having to interact with Nancy Wheeler outside of the abstract concept of “school” makes Robin’s stomach do something unpleasant.
At lunch, she sits with a couple of band kids. She doesn’t mention the project. She pokes at her sandwich and listens to the people around her complain about their classes. Across the cafeteria, Nancy sits with Barb’s old crowd. Robin tries not to look. She fails.
---
They end up talking after school.
Robin is at her locker, fighting with a jammed combination, when she hears her name.
“Robin?”
She turns around too fast and nearly drops her books.
Nancy Wheeler stands there, holding her bag strap with both hands like she’s bracing herself.
“Hi,” Robin says, eloquent as ever.
Nancy smiles again, a little wider this time. “I thought we should probably… you know. Talk about the project.”
“Yes. Project. The thing we are doing together,” Robin says.
Nancy blinks. Then she chuckles.
It’s not loud. It’s not mean. It’s surprised, like she didn’t expect Robin to sound like an alien pretending to be human.
Something in Robin’s shoulders loosens.
“Do you want to meet at the library?” Nancy asks. “Maybe tomorrow? Maybe at 4? We could figure out a topic.”
“Tomorrow works,” Robin says quickly. “I mean- yes. Tomorrow is a day that exists.”
Nancy smiles, and this time it feels like it’s for her.
---
At home, Robin tells her mom she has a project with Nancy Wheeler.
Her mom looks up from the sink. “The Wheeler kid?”
“Yes, the Wheeler girl,” Robin says. “There are multiple Wheelers, but yes.”
“She seems nice,” her mom says. “Very driven.”
Robin shrugs, noncommittal, and retreats to her room.
She lies on her bed and stares at the ceiling, replaying the way Nancy chuckled. The way she said Robin’s name like it wasn’t strange in her mouth.
Robin doesn’t let herself think any further than that.
She knows better.
---
The Hawkins Public Library smells like dust and old paper and the faint, comforting promise of silence.
Nancy arrives right on time.
She’s changed out of her school sweater, wearing a brown jacket that looks well-loved. She has a notebook tucked under her arm, tabs sticking out the side.
Of course she has tabs.
They sit at a table near the windows.
“I was thinking,” Nancy says, flipping open her notebook, “we could figure out what theme we should do first.”
Robin leans forward despite herself. “Right. Do you have any ideas?"
Nancy’s eyes light up.
At some point, Nancy stops writing down ideas and just looks at her.
“What?” Robin asks, suddenly self-conscious.
“You’re really smart,” Nancy says simply.
Robin laughs it off. “Debatable.”
“No, I mean it,” Nancy insists. “You think about things differently.”
Something warm settles in Robin’s chest.
When the librarian clears her throat pointedly, they realize it’s nearly closing time.
They pack up reluctantly.
“Same time tomorrow? We'll pick the theme then.” Nancy asks.
Robin nods. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
And she does.
She really, really does.
---
The next afternoon, Robin realizes two important things.
The first is that Nancy Wheeler is terrifyingly competent.
The second is that the library is going to become a problem.
They sit in the same spot as before, sunlight slanting in through the tall windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the air. Nancy already has three books stacked neatly to her left and a legal pad filled with careful, slanted handwriting.
Robin drops into her chair and peers at the titles. “You work fast.”
Nancy shrugs, but she looks pleased. “I talked to Mr. Adler after class. I wanted to make sure our theme would be okay.”
Robin blinks. “You already picked one?”
“Well,” Nancy says slowly, “I thought we could do gender equality. Or feminism. How women are portrayed - or ignored - in American literature. Especially in the context of ambition.”
Something sharp and electric runs through Robin’s chest.
“That’s-” She stops herself, then starts again. “That’s really good. Like, really good.”
Nancy smiles, softer this time. “You don’t think it’s too political?”
Robin snorts. “Everything’s political. People just pretend it’s not.”
Nancy’s eyes flicker, impressed. “Exactly.”
They fall into easy discussion after that. The Great Gatsby becomes less about the tragedy of men and more about the absence of women’s voices. Daisy’s confinement. Myrtle’s death. The way the narrative watches them without ever fully listening.
Robin talks with her hands, excitement bleeding into her words. Nancy listens closely, asking questions, scribbling notes, nodding along like she’s piecing together something she’s been circling for a while.
At one point, Nancy pauses mid-sentence.
“Do you ever feel like…” She trails off, frowning slightly.
Robin waits.
“Like you have to be twice as good,” Nancy finishes quietly. “Just to be taken half as seriously.”
Robin studies her for a moment.
“Yeah,” she says. “All the time.”
Nancy exhales, something like relief crossing her face, as if she hadn’t been sure she was allowed to say it out loud.
They work until their wrists ache and the librarian gives them a warning look.
---
Over the next week, the project becomes routine.
Library sessions turn into a standing appointment. Tuesday , Wednesday and Thursday. Same table. Same window light. Nancy always arrives on time. Robin always arrives with a new thought she’s been turning over since last night.
They start bringing snacks. Nancy brings apples. Robin brings whatever she grabbed from her kitchen and forgot about until halfway through.
Sometimes they work. Sometimes they talk.
Nancy tells Robin about the school paper, about how hard it is to get certain stories approved. Robin tells Nancy about band practice and random topics she's interested in.
They don’t talk about boys.
Nancy notices that before she understands why it matters.
---
One evening, Robin gets home later than usual.
Her mom is on the couch, glasses perched on her nose, grading papers.
“Library again?” she asks without looking up.
“Yeah,” Robin says, kicking off her shoes.
“With Nancy Wheeler?”
Robin freezes for half a second. “Yes.”
Her mom hums thoughtfully. “You seem lighter lately.”
Robin pretends very hard to be interested in the carpet.
---
Back in her room, Robin sprawls across her bed, staring at the ceiling.
She thinks about the way Nancy gets quiet when the conversation turns personal. The way her jaw tightens when someone mentions expectations. The way she listens like she’s afraid to miss something important.
Robin presses her palm to her chest.
This is dangerous.
She knows that.
But it’s also the first time she’s felt understood without having to explain herself.
And that feels worse.
---
By the middle of January, Hawkins smells like damp leaves and cold metal.
Robin notices because Nancy does.
“Spring's coming early,” Nancy says one afternoon as they walk out of the library together, arms full of books. “You can feel it.”
Robin sniffs theatrically. “Ah yes. Eau de Midwest.”
Nancy laughs, brief and bright, then pulls her jacket tighter around herself. The sound sticks with Robin all the way to the parking lot.
They linger there, neither quite ready to leave.
“I can type up the section on Gatsby tonight,” Nancy says. “If you want to focus on The Feminine Mystique; I know it’s not fiction, but Adler said theory was okay as long as we contextualize it.”
Robin’s eyebrows lift. “You already checked.”
Nancy shrugs. “I like being prepared.”
“I like that you like being prepared,” Robin says before she can stop herself.
Nancy pauses.
“Oh,” she says, then smiles. “Thanks.”
The air between them feels different for a second - thicker, charged - before a car horn blares somewhere down the street and the moment dissolves.
---
At the end of the week, they present an outline to Mr. Adler.
He listens with his fingers steepled, nodding slowly as Nancy explains their thesis: how American literature often frames women as symbols rather than subjects, how feminism challenges that erasure, how gender equality isn’t just about opportunity but about voice.
Robin watches Nancy talk.
She’s confident here, steady and articulate, eyes sharp with purpose. She doesn’t hedge her words. She doesn’t apologize for taking up space.
When Robin jumps in - talking about subtext, about silences, about who gets punished and who gets forgiven - Nancy turns toward her, encouraging, like she trusts her completely.
Mr. Adler clears his throat. “This is ambitious.”
Nancy straightens. “We can handle it.”
Robin grins despite herself.
“Very well,” he says. “Proceed.”
Outside the classroom, Nancy lets out a breath.
“See?” Robin says. “Terrifyingly competent.”
Nancy bumps her shoulder lightly. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Robin files that away carefully.
---
They start spending time together that has nothing to do with the project.
It begins small. Walking part of the way home together. Sharing a candy bar during lunch. Passing notes in class that are only half about the lesson.
Robin learns that Nancy hates math but refuses to admit it. Nancy learns that Robin can recite entire movie scenes from memory. Robin learns that Nancy writes lists when she’s anxious. Nancy learns that Robin talks faster when she’s nervous.
Neither of them names what’s happening.
Robin is acutely aware of it anyway.
---
One night, Robin sits at her desk with a stack of index cards and a headache.
She’s supposed to be drafting her section on second-wave feminism, but her thoughts keep drifting. To Nancy’s hands, ink-smudged. To the way Nancy’s voice lowers when she’s serious. To the question she asked weeks ago; do you ever feel like you have to be twice as good?
Robin presses her pen down harder than necessary.
She knows this feeling.
She just wishes it had picked someone safer.
---
The first real crack comes on January 28th.
They’re in the library, rain tapping against the windows, when Nancy goes quiet mid-sentence.
“Hey,” Robin says softly. “You okay?”
Nancy hesitates.
“My dad thinks this project is… unnecessary,” she says finally. “He said I should focus on things that will look good for college. Not—”
“Not feminism,” Robin finishes.
Nancy’s mouth twists. “He didn’t say it like that. But he meant it.”
Robin leans back in her chair. “Yeah. That tracks.”
Nancy looks at her, surprised.
“People don’t like being told the system works better for them,” Robin says. “Especially when they’ve benefited from it.”
Nancy nods slowly. “I don’t want to be quiet,” she says. “I don’t want to pretend I don’t see it.”
Robin meets her gaze. “Then don’t.”
For a long moment, Nancy just looks at her.
“Thank you,” she says.
Robin swallows.
---
That night, Robin lies awake, staring at the dark.
She thinks about feminism and fear. About visibility. About how telling the truth can cost you things.
She thinks about Nancy Wheeler and the way being close to her feels like standing too near a flame.
Robin turns onto her side and buries her face in her pillow.
She is in trouble.
---