It Was a Seven.
𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟔𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟑
“𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 hear that? Listen …” Shelley whispers, her voice dripping with eerie suspense. Her moppy black hair falls into her face as her black-brown eyes seem to darken, turning inky black.
The pale freckles on her face, along with the striking red birthmark on her left cheek, glow faintly in the dim light behind the DM screen.
It’s well past nine p.m., and the girls should really be getting to bed. But this feels more important than sleep—more important than anything else.
“Something is coming … something hungry for blood …”
The group of twelve-year-old girls sits encased in their Dungeons and Dragons campaign, their knobby knees buried in the plush carpet.
A map sprawls between them, surrounded by an empty pizza box, scattered canned cokes, and the sacred Dungeons and Dragons Monster Manual.
Shelley Wheeler, the Dungeon Master, leans forward with an intensity that belies her age.
Her lanky stature and moppy hair give her a youthful charm, but the birthmark on her cheek adds a unique edge to her otherwise classic features.
“A shadow grows on the wall behind you … swallowing you in darkness … it is almost here …” Shelley narrates with the confidence of a seasoned storyteller, her years of DM’ing shining through.
The other girls lean in, captivated.
Lucy Sinclair, the ranger, is small and wiry, her springy dark brown curls framing a beautiful dark face. Her ebony eyes gleam with excitement, and her loud, commanding voice fills the room, making her presence impossible to ignore.
Diane Henderson, the bard, sits with her curly brown hair bouncing as she moves. Her pale, faintly freckled face is lit up by her bright blue eyes, which sparkle with curiosity.
Her sweet gummy smile, capable of illuminating even the darkest room, contrasts with her nerdy, unladylike demeanor. Despite her cleidocranial dysplasia, Diane carries herself with a quiet confidence that the Party members accept without question.
Low Byers, the cleric, is soft-spoken and gentle, her long, silky brown hair cascading down her shoulders. Her hazel eyes are warm and kind, and her slightly prominent front teeth give her a delicate, bunny-like charm that makes her endearing to everyone she meets.
“...What is it?” Low’s voice is soft, almost trembling, as she clings to a pillow pressed tight against her chest.
“The Demogorgon?” Diane’s question comes with a faint waver as she shifts on the carpet, her eyes scanning the map with a growing sense of dread.
“We’re screwed if it’s the Demogorgon—” Low begins, but Lucy cuts in with a sharp jab to her side. “It’s not the Demogorgon,” Lucy interjects, her voice sharp with determination.
Her dark curls bounce as she adjusts her posture, her ebony eyes gleaming with the thrill of the game.
The conversation quickly devolves into noisy, useless bickering, their voices overlapping in a chaotic din.
Behind the DM screen, Shelley stays silent, watching with an air of mischief.
Her eyes dart between her friends, dark and enigmatic, as if she knows something they don’t.
The freckled birthmark on her left cheek appears to glow in the dim light as she leans forward, her mop of black hair casting a shadow across her face. Slowly, deliberately, her hands reach down, and then—
With a sudden, thunderous motion, Shelley slams six miniature figurines onto the map.
The sharp sound cuts through the commotion like a blade. “An army of Troglodytes charges into the chamber!” she declares, her voice tinged with a crackling excitement that sends shivers through the group.
Normally, she’d be on edge about her mom hearing the commotion from downstairs, but the game has fully consumed her now.
“Boom! Boom! Boom!” Shelley pounds her fists against the carpet to mimic the rhythmic drumming of the Troglodytes’ tails against the ground. The noise reverberates through the room, pulling each of the girls deeper into the scene.
“TROGLODYTES?” Diane throws her hands up in exasperation, her face a kaleidoscope of emotions as she lets out a loud groan.
“Toldja!” Lucy says with a triumphant laugh, her voice cutting through Diane’s frustration.
Diane exhales sharply but can’t stop a reluctant smirk from forming. “Easy,” she says dismissively, though her tone carries more relief than confidence.
But just as the tension begins to ease, Shelley freezes mid-motion, her gaze snapping to a shadowy corner of the room.
Her black-brown eyes widen, and a hush falls over the group.
“Wait...” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. “D’you hear that? Boom...boom...BOOM!” The sound of her fists slamming against the carpet jolts the others, their heads whipping around in alarm.
“That sound...” Shelley continues, her voice tight with dread. “It didn’t come from the Troglodytes. No. It came from something behind them...”
With one dramatic movement, she picks up a large, two-headed miniature and slams it onto the map. “THE DEMOGORGON!” she shouts, her voice bursting out louder than she intended.
The room falls utterly silent. The girls stare at the map, their breaths caught, their hearts pounding in unison. The miniature casts long, flickering shadows, looming over the map like an omen of doom.
And in that frozen moment, one thought unites them: Shit.
“We’re all gonna die,” Lucy declares, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
Shelley’s gaze snaps toward Low, her eyes narrowing with intensity. “Low, your action,” she prompts, her voice steady but commanding.
Low swallows hard, clutching her pillow tighter against her chest. Her eyes dart nervously around the room, her long, soft brown hair falling into her face as she stammers, “I—I dunno—”
“Fireball him!” Lucy interrupts, her voice sharp and insistent.
“I’d have to roll a thirteen or higher,” Low begins to explain, but Diane cuts her off. “Too risky. Cast a protection spell!”
“Don’t be a pussy!” Lucy spits, her voice dripping with frustration. “Fireball him!”
“Protection spell!” Diane barks back.
Shelley leans forward. “The Demogorgon is tired of your silly human bickering!” she announces, her voice booming with authority. “It steps toward you! BOOM!”
“FIREBALL HIM, LOW!” Lucy demands, her voice rising above the chaos.
“Another step!” Shelley bellows, pounding her fists against the carpet. “BOOM!” The sound reverberates through the room, sending shivers down their spines.
“Cast protection!” Diane hisses, her voice sharp and urgent.
“It roars in anger!” Shelley continues, her voice crackling with excitement.
“Fireball!” Lucy shouts.
“Protection!” Diane counters.
“FIREBALL!” Low yells, her voice breaking through the cacophony. She grabs the dice and rolls it with too much force. It skitters across the room, bouncing off the carpet before landing in front of the bedroom door.
“What is it?!” Lucy demands.
“I don’t know!” Low replies, her voice quick and fraught.
“Is it a thirteen?” Diane asks hopefully, her eyes darting to the dice, her faintly freckled face tense with anticipation.
“I DON’T KNOW!” Low counters loudly, her words filled with exasperation but free of malice.
The girls scramble, their knees brushing against the carpet as they strain to see the dice. Just then, the bedroom door swings open with a soft creak, pulling their attention upward.
Standing in the doorway is Karen Wheeler, Shelley’s mom, in her late thirties. She’s dressed in a conservative blouse and high-waisted blue jeans that ride up just a little too far, her short blonde hair neatly styled. She surveys the scene with the practiced patience of a mother used to managing chaos.
“Mom! We’re in the middle of a campaign!” Shelley yells, her freckled face scrunching in frustration, her moppy black hair falling into her eyes as she glares at her mother, desperate for her to leave.
“You mean the end,” Karen retorts, tapping her watch knowingly. “Fifteen after.”
Shelley bolts from her spot, chasing after her mom as she starts down the stairs. “Just twenty more minutes—”
“It’s a school night, Michelle, and I just put Holly to bed. You can finish next weekend—”
“That’ll ruin the flow—” Shelley argues, her voice rising with urgency.
“Michelle,” Karen says firmly, her tone carrying that motherly finality.
“I’m serious, Mom!” Shelley pleads, her words tumbling out frantically.
“It took two weeks to design. How was I supposed to know it’d take seven hours—” Her sentence dies in her throat as the realization strikes: rookie mistake.
Karen stops halfway down the stairs, turning to face Shelley with wide eyes. “You’ve been playing seven hours?!”
They reach the living room, where Ted Wheeler, Shelley’s dad, sits slouched in an old armchair, staring at the static-filled screen of the TV. He’s watching “CHiPS”—or at least trying to—but the snowstorm of static has turned it into an abstract art piece.
Smack! He slaps the TV in frustration.
“Dad, don’t you think—” Shelley begins, her voice trailing off mid-sentence.
“I think you should listen to your mother,” Ted replies, cutting her off without looking away from the TV. Smack! He hits it again, his voice rising in irritation. “DAGGUM PIECE OF JUNK!”
The static flares violently, as if mocking his efforts, and Shelley stands there, defeated by both parents and circumstance.
Back upstairs in Shelley’s room, Lucy, Diane, and Low hurriedly stuff their belongings into their backpacks. The lamplight flickers slightly, casting golden hues over the scattered game pieces and open books on the floor.
“Does the seven count?” Low asks softly, her voice hesitant. She fidgets with the strap of her backpack, her hazel eyes flicking nervously between her friends.
“It was a seven?!” Lucy blurts out, spinning toward Low, her ebony eyes wide with surprise. Her springy curls bounce as she moves, her voice sharper than necessary. Low nods shyly, her long, soft brown hair slipping into her face.
“Did Shelley see it?” Lucy asks, her tone dipping into an unusual quietness.
Low shakes her head, biting her lip. For a moment, the room feels eerily still.
“Then it doesn’t count,” Lucy declares with a grin, mischief dancing in her voice.
Diane and Lucy share a look before erupting into giggles and bounding down the stairs, their movements carefree and loud. The thuds of their feet on the carpeted stairs echo through the house.
Low doesn’t follow.
She hesitates, glancing toward the slightly ajar door at the end of the hall. Nancy Wheeler’s room. Shelley’s older sister. Sixteen, effortlessly pretty in that girl-next-door way.
Through the gap, Low glimpses Nancy sprawled on her bed, her dark blue eyes sparkling as she laughs into the receiver of her phone. Her slender legs kick in the air lazily, the soft fabric of her pajamas wrinkling at the knees.
Nancy’s curls are loose and natural, framing her sharp jawline in a way that makes Low’s breath catch.
Low angles herself carefully, as though afraid to disturb the moment.
Her gaze flickers between Nancy and the reflection in the vanity mirror.
She notices everything—the slight curl of Nancy’s lips when she smiles, how her laugh has this sweet, melodic rhythm. For a brief, fleeting second, Low’s stomach twists, her feelings bubbling to the surface in ways she doesn’t quite understand and definitely doesn’t want to confront.
It’s the 80s.
That kind of feeling doesn’t even have a proper name, does it? Or at least, it shouldn’t. Her parents wouldn’t understand. Nobody would.
So Low pushes it down, pretending it isn’t there. It’s safer that way.
“I know, I know, but—” Nancy’s voice pulls Low out of her spiraling thoughts. Nancy twists the phone cord between her fingers, a smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah, he’s cute, but—Barb—Barb—listen to me—” She pauses mid-sentence, her eyes landing on Low in the vanity mirror.
Nancy’s smile falters, then drops altogether. She turns, her expression transforming into something sharper.
“THE HELL, WILLOW?! GET OUTTA MY ROOM!” she yells, vaulting off the bed.
“I’m not—I—” Low stammers, stepping back quickly, her hands raised defensively. Her cheeks flush a deep red. “I’m sorry!”
Nancy doesn’t seem to notice—or care. “Oh, yeah, it’s nothing,” she mutters, loud enough for Low to hear. “One of Shelley’s loser friends.”
“I’m so sorry,” Low whispers again, though Nancy has already turned away. The door slams shut in Low’s face, the sound reverberating through the hall.
Low stands frozen for a moment, staring at the now-closed door.
Her chest tightens, that tangled knot of feelings pressing harder against her ribs. She hugs her backpack a little closer, forcing her face to remain blank. Whatever just happened, it didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t mean anything.
With a shaky breath, Low turns back towards the stairs, her steps quiet against the carpet.
Low steps into the garage, hesitant, her movements shy and careful. The space buzzes with faint noise: the whir of a ceiling fan, the scuffing of sneakers against concrete. It feels both too quiet and too loud at the same time.
Shelley is the first to notice her. She glances up from where she’s tinkering with something—a backpack strap, maybe?—and fixes Low with a teasing smile. “Where’d you run off to?” she asks lightly, stepping closer as Diane rights her bike and Lucy buckles her helmet beneath her chin.
Low fiddles with the strap of her bag, her fingers trembling slightly. “Uhm...just...checking up on your sister, I guess,” she replies timidly, her hazel eyes flicking toward Shelley’s without holding them for too long.
Shelley snorts, a low, breathy chuckle that feels like a warm breeze cutting through the awkwardness. “Why?” she asks, tilting her head.
“Yeah, why?” Diane chimes in, her gummy smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she adjusts her bike handlebars. “Nancy’s got a stick up her butt, y’know.”
“That’s ’cause she’s got a boyfriend now,” Lucy says, her voice sharp with a playful edge. She snaps her helmet’s buckle and grins.
Low knows this. Of course she knows this. But hearing it spoken aloud hits differently, like the sting of a slap she wasn’t expecting. Something deep inside twists painfully. Her gaze falls to the ground for a moment, then lifts to Shelley.
And in that glance, it all clicks.
She knows why Nancy had pulled her thoughts in so strongly.
Why her heart had twisted at the sight of Nancy’s smile or the soft curve of her legs resting on the bed.
It wasn’t really about Nancy.
Not fully.
It was always Shelley.
Shelley with her moppy black hair that framed her pale, freckled face. Shelley with her brown eyes, warm and rich, like rivers of molten chocolate, yet unreadable and distant. Shelley, who somehow managed to be all limb but no bite—gentle, but consuming in her presence.
Maybe it had always been Shelley.
“Does not—” Diane argues, snapping Low out of her spiraling thoughts.
“Does too—” Lucy retorts sharply, smirking as she meets Diane’s gaze.
Shelley groans, her hands clapping over her ears dramatically, her curls brushing against the freckled birthmark on her cheek. “NOT listening!” she yells, half-laughing.
Low’s breath catches in her throat, her chest tightening at the sight of Shelley’s playful movement. Her limbs always seem just slightly uncoordinated, her edges softened by her own goofiness.
Low feels her cheeks heat—flushed with that familiar feeling she’s still too scared to name. The world feels dizzying, spinning around the sharp clarity of Shelley, and yet Low knows she can’t say a thing. Not here. Not now. Not ever.
Instead, she bites down on the feeling, shoving it deep into the pit of her stomach, where it can’t see the light of day.
“Diane’s right,” Low says, her voice wavering but determined enough to break through the lump tightening in her throat. “I’ve seen her hanging around that Steve guy—”
“NOT LISTENING!” Shelley yells again.
“Steve Harrington? He’s cool,” Lucy shrugs, buckling the helmet beneath her chin with a practiced flick. She straightens up, her tone carrying its usual casual authority.
“She’s cool. At least she was...when she had braces and no boobs,” Diane replies wistfully, a note of nostalgia in her voice as she secures her bike upright.
“She played an elf for our Elder Tree campaign once,” Lucy argues, her ebony eyes narrowing slightly as she wheels her bike out of the garage. “And now you think she was cool?”
“She was!” Diane insists, her voice rising defensively. The two girls burst into animated chatter, their bickering trailing behind them as they disappear down the driveway.
Low stays rooted in place, her hands tightening on the handlebars of her bike. She glances at Shelley, who finally pulls her hands away from her ears, her freckled face scrunching in exaggerated relief.
Low looks at her—and oh, God. The words are clawing at her throat. She can’t lie to Shelley. Not even about something small. “It was a seven,” she blurts, the confession tumbling out before she can stop herself.
Shelley turns toward her, her expression puzzled but soft. “Hm?” she hums, her brown eyes flicking toward Low’s, curious.
“The Demogorgon,” Low says simply, her voice tightening as she forces the words out. “It got me.”
“Oh...” Shelley hesitates, looking away as she kicks at the concrete floor with one shoe, nudging an invisible pebble. For a moment, the silence feels like it might stretch forever. Then, quietly, she says, “Okay, then. I’ll see you tomorrow, Low.”
Low nods, smiling faintly to cover the ache growing in her chest. “Yeah, see you tomorrow,” she echoes, her voice as steady as she can manage.
As Low bikes out of the garage, her breath catches in her throat, that familiar longing piercing straight through her.
She feels it every time she looks at Shelley—every time Shelley’s curls frame her freckled face, every time her soft, rich brown eyes meet hers. It’s the kind of feeling she doesn’t know what to do with, the kind she knows she shouldn’t have.
She pedals slower, her movements mechanical, following farther behind Lucy and Diane. They’re laughing and arguing ahead, their voices blending with the hum of their bike tires against the pavement.
Low keeps her smile fixed in place, burying the yearning deep within herself. If she’s learned anything, it’s how to keep feelings hidden. It’s safer that way.