Michelle Wheeler
𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟎𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟔,
Willow Byers, Vancouver, BC
“𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐘, today is day 1095, at least, it will be in a few days. Feels more like ten years, honestly. Time is funny like that. Emotions can make it speed up or slow down. It’s not really as cool as Back to the Future, though. Because this week is going by fast. Probably because I’ve been so busy. I got my first job. Well, I guess it’s just a summer job. Does that really count? Doesn’t matter. You won’t read this anyway.
I’ll be serving elderly folks food at the retirement home. Across the street from school. Before you judge me, because I know you would, Darlene practically got me off my lazy ass to work. She says, “if I’m gonna live here as her deadbeat queer niece, I’m gonna have to work for it,”.
But anyways, I probably shouldn’t be joking about that. I’ve literally had to move to a bigger city so it can fit someone like me. But I just thought, making me work for something I’m not in control of? Come on, Darlene.
I mean, she’s well off, you know? She’s got a telemarketer job, so I get to deal with her screaming at people over the phone. I always leave the room, but Darlene tells me I’ve gotta see how to talk to people. She tells me I’m “too shy for my own good” which is like, okay, Darlene, I’d like to see you survive a day in high school as a pissed off lesbian. It’s better not to talk than say anything at all.
Anyways, my little sister, well … cousin, I guess, but she feels more like a sister, Jane. She’s been playing Nintendo, a lot. I mean, a lot. She used to roll around in mud puddles, and I used to take her to the nurse’s office because she’d get lice. She’s sort of like you. I think you and her would get along.
Anyways. My uncle, Jim Hopper’s, been staying with Darlene, she’s been pretty sick. Literally, you can hear her hacking from a mile away. It’s really annoying sometimes. Jim is actually so strict, it’s not even funny.
Like, he almost feels like a dad now. But no, I’ve stayed with Darlene for three years and she doesn’t feel like a mom. Not even close.
He's also a police chief, mind you. So if I get caught smoking a cigarette with my buddy, Silas, I think I’m done for.
Gosh, it is not my fucking day today, is it? And I’m not even allowed to smoke. But I think I can deal with it, just a bit.
Deal with it as in, adapt. Remember when we were taught that in biology? Natural selection, adaptation? Following right after sex ed. Of course, you remember. Unless you got some sorta head injury while I’ve been gone. It doesn’t really matter, though, again, you won’t read it. As in, I’m never sending this in.
Hops just came in, telling me to get ready for school … so I guess I’ll leave it at this. Your dear long lost friend,
Low.”
Willow Byers sits on the edge of her bed, her grip taut against the creased edges of the lined paper she’s holding as though it might suddenly take flight.
Her brown hair tumbles messily over her face, but with an almost habitual motion, she brushes it back and tucks it behind her ear—her breath escaping in a soft puff of frustration.
Her hands hover over the paper before finally, with the cautious reverence reserved usually for a newborn baby, she lays it down on the sheets. Stupid Jim Hopper. He’d interrupted her, snatched away the fleeting muse she so desperately wanted to hold onto.
The fiery yellow flannel calls to her from the bedside chair.
Sliding her arms into its soft fabric, she pulls it close, fastening each button with quiet deliberation.
Her free hand reaches instinctively for the paper—a tether she doesn’t fully understand yet. Her chest tightens, the sensation foreign but undeniable. Something’s missing.
It gnaws at her. Her eyes land on the bottom of the paper, the absence glaring in its simplicity.
Low shakes her head, pulling her pigment liner into her grip. The hearts she sketches are small and shy, but they don’t fill the void.
Her hand moves again, almost as if it’s detached from her control, the nib scratching Shelley’s full address onto the page in hurried strokes. Her heart eases; a puzzle piece slides into place. That was it.
She’s still clutching the paper when she swings her backpack onto one shoulder. Just as she’s about to set it down again, Jim Hopper bursts into the room, grumbling like a thundercloud, “Willow. What the hell’re you doing? It’s seven-twenty—”
“It’s Wednesday,” Low interrupts, her tone clipped and unyielding.
Hopper glares with mild annoyance but relents, grumbling, “Just get ready.” He slams the door with practiced indifference.
Low exhales, shaking off the lingering tension and following Hopper into the dining room.
Darlene is propped against the counter, her sharp voice puncturing the air while a corded phone balances precariously between her ear and shoulder. “You do realize I’m not a robot, right?” she snaps at whoever’s on the other end.
Hopper looms silently for a moment, coffee mug in hand, before his eyes narrow at the paper now clutched tightly in Low’s grasp. “What’s that?” His finger darts toward it.
Low freezes. Heat rushes to her face. “Oh, uh … just this painting I’ve been working on,” she lies swiftly, folding the paper like a secret and sliding it onto her spot at the table.
From the corner, Jane pipes up with a delighted squeal. “You look like you just lost on the Lost Levels!” Her voice lilts like a teasing melody.
“You’ve been playing too much Mario,” Low mutters in absent protest.
Jane snorts with a hint of triumphant correction, “It’s not called Mario. S’called Super Mario Bros.”
”Yeah, whatever helps you sleep, Jane.”
𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟐𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟔,
Michelle Wheeler, Hawkins, Indiana
November 12th. Shelley Wheeler stares up at the ceiling, the date pressing itself against her thoughts like a phantom’s whisper. Willow left on this day... three years ago. The memory settles over her like a heavy fog, damp and inescapable.
It had stolen its way into her mind while she was halfway through zipping up her jeans—a stray, unbidden thought that ambushed her like a thief in the dark.
Now, sprawled on her bed, her shirt … somewhere other than on her, she lies motionless. The sharp pinch of her sports bra against her ribs reminds her PE is today, an irritation she despises almost as much as the hollow ache gnawing at her heart.
She can’t stand how the world keeps spinning as if nothing has changed.
How can they all go on like this, pretending it’s just another day, when Low is... somewhere? Somewhere Shelley can’t reach, no matter how hard she tries to stretch her heart toward the void.
The claws of memory rake deep as the night her parents told her flashes vividly behind her eyes. The tremble in their voices, the vague explanations:
“Some people just can’t stay here. And you know how Willow is... different.”
Different.
The word had gutted her like a rusted blade. She had sobbed until her throat burned, her tears mingling with the humiliating sting of a snotty nose. And yet, she still didn’t know where Low had gone—or why.
The door bursts open, yanking her back to the present. “SHELLEY!” Nancy’s sharp voice cleaves through the haze like a crack of thunder. Shelley jerks upright, her heart thudding painfully as if it’s forgotten how to beat.
“What the hell are you doing? It’s ten after!” Nancy’s scowl is severe, her voice louder than necessary, ricocheting off the walls.
Right.
“Shit, shit!” Shelley scrambles off the bed, frantically scanning the disaster zone of her room. “Where’s my shirt?!”
“You’ve got thirty seconds, and I’m leaving without you,” Nancy warns, her arms crossing with the weight of finality. “Thirty. Seconds.”
“Okay, sheesh!” Shelley huffs, dashing toward her dresser. Her Hellfire Club shirt lays there in a defeated heap, and she seizes it like a life raft, yanking it over her head as she sprints down the stairs after Nancy.
The rush blinds her, and her foot catches something sharp and small in the hallway.
Shelley crashes down, the fall jolting the breath from her lungs as she hits the floor with a groan. Behind her, Holly’s laughter bubbles up, as bright and shrill as sunlight. “Shelley fell!” Her hands clap together in childlike glee.
Nancy peers over her shoulder with mild exasperation, her tone softened just enough to betray concern. “God, be careful, would you? You don’t want to break a rib.”
Shelley lifts her head, her pride dented but intact, and mutters under her breath, “Could’ve warned me first...”
Shelley springs to her feet, dashing into the kitchen like a whirlwind on autopilot.
Her hands find the box of Pop-Tarts, ripping them open in a frenzy.
One slips through her fingers, hitting the floor with an apologetic thunk. She scoops it up without missing a beat, shoving both pastries into the toaster with a kind of desperate efficiency that only late mornings can inspire.
Karen Wheeler doesn’t miss a thing. From her place near the counter, she casts Shelley a withering look, her eyebrows raised in sharp disapproval. “Slept in again?” The disdain in her voice is a familiar dagger.
“Yes, she did!” Nancy pipes up, arms crossed like the self-appointed herald of punctuality. “And I’m still waiting, by the way.”
Karen waves a hand absently at Nancy but keeps her sights on Shelley. “Don’t be home late again, honey,” she says, her voice dipping into a forced sweetness that only a mother can master.
Shelley stands by the toaster, waiting for the soft pop! that signals salvation.
Holly zips past her in a blur of uncontainable energy, the small child giggling as her presence nearly topples Shelley again. “Stop tryna make me fall!” Shelley snaps, her tone sharp but laced with affection.
She watches as Holly vanishes around the corner, her laughter echoing like a mischievous melody.
“Did you hear me?” Karen steps closer, the edge in her voice sharpening as she moves into Shelley’s space. “Michelle, I know your little D&D club is tonight—”
“Hellfire,” Shelley interrupts, her tone curt, her eyes glued to the toaster.
Ted, hunched over the fridge in his eternal quest for something cold and alcoholic, throws out a lazy jab. “Why don’t you call it the High School Dropout Club?” His tone is dripping with mockery, and Shelley can feel his smirk even without looking.
“Shut it, Ted,” Karen snaps, her voice like a whip. She redirects her focus to Shelley, pinning her with a pointed look. “I mean it. No later than six.”
“I’ll try,” Shelley mutters without turning her head, the words tumbling out in a distracted sigh. The toaster dings, and she snatches the Pop-Tarts as if they might disappear if she hesitates for even a second.
“No trying,” Karen snaps, her voice taking on that steely edge Shelley knows all too well. “I want you home before six.”
Shelley folds her arms, raising an eyebrow. “Why?”
Karen sighs, the kind of weary exhalation only a mother of teenagers can perfect. “Your Nana’s coming to visit. You know how much she likes seeing you girls.”
“That’s GREAT,” Shelley mutters under her breath, her tone dripping with enough sarcasm to drown a small village.
Before Karen can respond, Nancy’s voice rings out like a drill sergeant’s call, cutting through the tension. “SHELLEY!” She’s at the front door, one hand on her hip, the other jangling her keys with an impatient rhythm. “Let’s go!”
“Jesus. Would’ja spare me?” Shelley mumbles around a mouthful of Pop-Tart, tearing into it with the urgency of a starved predator sinking their teeth into fresh prey. The crumbs scatter across her fingertips as she devours it, her energy electric, chaotic, alive.
With barely a pause, she bolts after Nancy, the sound of her Converse slapping against the linoleum echoing like rapid-fire heartbeats.
Together, they spill out into the world, their movements sharp and purposeful, ready to navigate the sprawling chaos of whatever lies ahead.
“Remind me—when do they finally turn into reasonable human beings again?” Ted mutters, popping the top off a Lonestar with the ease of someone who’s long since stopped caring about subtlety.
Karen barely glances up from the sink, mumbling something unintelligible but vaguely disapproving under her breath. Her tone alone is sharp enough to make her meaning clear.
Ted shifts his focus, flipping absently through the stack of mail on the counter. Bills. Coupons. Flyers for places they’d never go. He releases a low, gravelly grunt, more weary than anything else.
“Anything good?” Karen asks, her interest teetering between genuine curiosity and routine politeness.
“Nah.” Ted’s response is casual, dismissive.
He pauses, pulling a single envelope from the pile, his brow furrowed faintly.
“Just one of Michelle’s friends.” With a careless flick of his wrist, he drops the envelope onto Shelley’s placemat, as though it’s any other mundane correspondence.
The envelope sits there, small and unassuming, its weight heavy with unspoken significance. On its face, the simple handwriting reads:
To: Michelle Wheeler
From: Willow Byers