The Hellfire Club
𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟐𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟔,
Michelle Wheeler, Hawkins, Indiana
“𝐈’𝐌 𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆 you off right here if you don’t shut up about being late,” Nancy snaps from the driver’s seat, her knuckles gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping her from completely losing it.
Shelley rolls her eyes, slow and exaggerated. “Then what? I’ll just walk two blocks over to school? Sounds like a blast.”
“They wanted you early anyway,” Nancy shoots back, her tone sharpening with every word. “There’s a pep rally today, if you didn’t know.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Shelley mutters, her eyes rolling again with even less subtlety. “I didn’t know.”
“Well, maybe you should try keeping up-to-date on this stuff,” Nancy counters, her voice softening just enough to let a glimmer of sisterly advice sneak in.
“Well, sore-ree I didn’t know what time Miss Click took a shit this morning,” Shelley quips under her breath, her tone laced with biting sarcasm.
Nancy’s head whips toward her, delivering a glare that could wither plants. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying,” Shelley replies with a shrug, feigning innocence. “Lucy’s with those basketball jocks? She’ll be pissed if I’m late for that. She wants me to keep up-to-date, too.”
Nancy lets out a sharp breath through her nose, her jaw tightening. “She’s always pissed, though,” Shelley adds defiantly, leaning back in the passenger seat like she’s just won the argument.
“Why are you so pissed this morning?” Nancy’s voice cuts through the quiet, her tone sharp with curiosity, almost prying.
“Oh, so I’m pissed now?” Shelley retorts, her laugh dry and bitter, like the scrape of sandpaper against wood.
“Yes, you are, dumbass,” Nancy fires back without missing a beat. When Shelley doesn’t respond, Nancy presses again, her voice softening just slightly. “Well? What’s up with you?”
Shelley exhales heavily, the weight of her thoughts pressing down on her chest. “Well, my boobs hurt from this stupid bra,” she starts, her hand instinctively cupping her breast as if to emphasize the point. “And... Willow left today.” Her voice drops, the words quieter, more fragile.
Nancy blinks, her expression caught somewhere between confusion and understanding. “That was three years ago.”
“Barb died two years ago,” Shelley counters, her voice trembling slightly. “You still miss her. Can I not miss—” She stops herself mid-sentence, the realization of what she’s said hitting her like a cold slap. “Nancy. I—sorry.”
Nancy shakes her head quickly, her expression surprisingly calm, almost gentle. “No. S’better to acknowledge it happened.”
“You blamed yourself... for a year straight,” Shelley says, her voice tentative, testing the waters. “You don’t... wince or something when she’s mentioned?”
“It was an accident,” Nancy replies simply, her tone steady, resolute. “Barb smoked too much. She got wrapped up with the wrong people.”
Shelley hesitates, her teeth worrying at her bottom lip. “Are you sure you don’t—” She stops herself again, the words catching in her throat. Don’t say anything more, she scolds herself silently. You’ve said enough.
“Yes, I miss her sometimes, if that’s what you were gonna ask,” Nancy admits, her tone soft but steady as the Ford idles at the red light, just two blocks shy of the school zone.
Her fingers tap idly on the steering wheel, the rhythm unhurried, like the beat of unspoken memories.
Shelley hesitates, her voice caught somewhere between her throat and the weight of her thoughts. “Uhm...” She shouldn’t say anything. She knows she shouldn’t. But the quiet sits heavy, and the space between her and Nancy feels too hollow not to fill.
“S’okay to talk about it,” Nancy reassures, her voice gentle but persistent, threading through the quiet like a lifeline. “Just as much as you like talking about Willow. So talk. Might as well, ’cause this red light’s taking too long.”
Shelley draws in a shaky breath, her arms folding tightly across her chest, like she’s bracing against the storm she knows is coming.
“I—I guess I just don’t know,” she offers in a small voice, her gaze fixed somewhere out the window. “I dunno if she... wound up like Barb... or if she just... ran away. One day she was here, but the next day she was... gone.”
Nancy’s grip tightens slightly on the wheel, her gaze flicking toward Shelley. Her voice shifts, quieter, firmer, like she’s about to say something she knows will sting. “Do you want me to tell you the answer that’ll make you feel better? Or the real one?”
“Tell me the real one,” Shelley mutters, her voice barely audible, her arms still locked across her chest.
Nancy hesitates. She wasn’t expecting that. Shelley’s insistence breaks through her momentary pause. “Tell me the real one,” she repeats, her voice more resolute this time.
Nancy exhales slowly, the air heavy with unspoken truths. “Listen, Shelley. Willow... she was... well, she was...”
“What, she was gay?” Shelley cuts in sharply, her eyes snapping to Nancy. “I knew that, Nancy. She was my best friend, for God’s sake!”
Nancy shakes her head slightly, dismissing Shelley’s interruption with a wave of her hand. “You didn’t let me finish,” she says, her voice steady, almost rehearsed. “She ought to have... been a bit... self-deprecating—”
Shelley doesn’t let her finish. “The light’s green,” she says abruptly, her voice clipped, almost harsh. She doesn’t want Nancy to say it, doesn’t want her to even suggest it. The weight of what Nancy’s implying presses heavy on her chest, too hard to bear, too cruel to voice.
Her thoughts spiral in protest. Don’t say it. Don’t think it. But she does. The truth slinks into her mind like an unwelcome guest, its claws digging deep.
Low could have gotten wrapped up in the wrong people. Like Barb.
She could have. And maybe she did.
Willow Byers, Vancouver, BC
Willow wakes with a start, the darkness heavy and unfamiliar.
The sharp pulse of a migraine blooms at her temples, a rhythmic throb that feels like a cruel metronome ticking in her skull. She lifts a paint-smudged hand, fingers brushing against her forehead with a roughness that matches her frustration.
She had fallen asleep hours ago, the kind of accidental after-school nap that leaves her legs striped with cushion creases and her skin slick with sweat. The clock blinks accusingly at her from the nightstand—an ungodly hour. 4:44.
Oh, my God, she thinks, rubbing her bleary eyes, why the hell did nobody wake me up?
With a low groan, she drags herself from bed, her socked feet shuffling against the cold floor.
The hallway stretches before her, dimly lit and eerily quiet, as she makes her way toward the art room. Her easel waits there, a silent sentinel guarding her work.
She’d loathed the painting before she fell asleep, its imperfections glaring under the harsh light. But now, in the soft shadow of night, she finds herself reconsidering. She quite likes it, actually.
It isn’t for school—not a chance.
It’d be deemed far too raw, too unpolished, too vulgar for their neatly boxed standards.
Low works beyond those confines; her creativity spills over the edges, her art a language she speaks fluently but rarely shares. Her mother had always admired her talent, praised her boldness. But that praise cuts deep, a bittersweet ache.
When Low left, she hadn’t told her mother where she was going. Joyce Byers had been kind, supportive even, in her uniquely relentless way. But Aunt Darlene... Aunt Darlene was a name she no longer spoke aloud. A memory too soaked in betrayal to salvage.
And yet, maybe that’s why Low keeps creating. Maybe it’s for the day her mother might find her again, wander into her makeshift studio, and see the evolution of her craft. Low imagines her mother’s familiar smile, the warmth in her voice as she says, You’ve come so far, Low. You’ve grown.
But that’s a vision tainted by its own impossibility. Joyce hadn’t been there that weekend. And the weight of that absence—it clings to every brushstroke, every choice Low makes, even now, three years later.
Even now, Low knows Joyce would worry if she ever saw this piece. The thought lingers, heavy and unspoken, as Low’s eyes trace the contours of her work.
The painting is bold, unapologetic—a woman standing in the sunlight, her pink bonnet perched delicately atop a cascade of black curls that spill across her forehead. Her sharp, angular features are hauntingly familiar, her lips naturally pink, her cheeks kissed by the glow of the lawn she stands on. The frilly blue dress clings to her figure, accentuating curves that seem almost too perfect, too deliberate.
But this isn’t just any woman. Low wishes it were. She wishes it could be anyone else.
She hasn’t moved on. She hasn’t let go.
Michelle Wheeler.
That’s who it is.
The realization hits Low like a wave, crashing over her with relentless force. Now she understands why she hated the painting earlier, why it felt like a betrayal of her own emotions.
It’s not just art—it’s a projection, a confession she didn’t mean to make. It’s everything she feels but can’t say aloud.
It’s how much she likes women. How much she dreams of kissing one, of being held in arms that feel safe and warm. How much she aches for someone to rub her temples when migraines steal her nights.
It’s how much she wants Michelle Wheeler to come back. To step into her life again, to fill the void that’s been gnawing at her for years.
Low stares at the painting, her chest tight with longing. She wonders if Joyce would understand, if she’d see the truth hidden in the brushstrokes. But maybe that’s why Low keeps painting—because someday, someone might.
“Willow.”
The name slices through the quiet, rasping and hoarse like gravel on pavement.
Low flinches, her pulse quickening as she jumps out of her skin, spinning around in an almost panicked flurry. Her body moves instinctively, shielding the painting from view as though it’s a secret caught in the glare of headlights.
There she stands, larger than life—or maybe larger than Low can bear—in all her overweight, smoker-stained glory:
Darlene Maldonado.
The nightgown hanging off her shoulders is worn and loose, swaying with her movements like a ghostly second skin. Her face is flushed, ruddy with the exertion of what must have been hours of hacking coughs. The air around her smells faintly of menthol, a cough drop probably fetched in desperation.
“Hey...” Low croaks, her voice catching in her throat as she swallows hard. “Darlene.”
Darlene lifts a brow, her expression sharp despite the exhaustion etched into her features. “What’re you up to?” she asks, her tone thick and gravelly.
Low’s mouth opens to answer, but Darlene beats her to it, her body jerking with a violent fit of coughing into the crook of her arm. The sound echoes harshly through the room, her breath wheezing as she finally recovers and fixes her gaze back on Low with expectant eyes. “Well?”
Low forces herself to speak, her voice clipped and uneasy. “Couldn’t sleep.”
The admission hangs awkwardly in the air, and Low wishes Darlene would take it at face value and leave. Instead, Darlene leans forward, her eyes narrowing as they land on the painting. “Hmmm... lemme see what you’re workin’ on.”
Without hesitation—and far too easily—she brushes Low’s small figure aside, stepping closer to examine the easel. Low feels herself shrinking, resisting the overwhelming urge to bite her nails down to the quick. Her heartbeat pounds loud enough to drown out Darlene’s breaths.
Darlene studies the canvas, nodding slowly as if something has clicked into place. “You takin’ a fancy to another girly? This the same girl?”
Low’s throat tightens. She doesn’t answer. She can’t.
“What’s her name? Micah... Mikayla...” Darlene’s voice trails off, her brow furrowed in thought.
“Shelley,” Low blurts out, her words spilling over in desperation. “Short for Michelle.”
“Last name Wheeler,” Darlene guesses, her lips curling into a knowing smirk. “Am I right? I gotta be, you’re blushin’.”
The accusation stings, even in its casualness. Low doesn’t need to look in the mirror to know it’s true—her cheeks are aflame, her secrets exposed under Darlene’s prying gaze.
“I—” Low stammers, words catching in her throat like fish in a net.
Darlene lets out a rough, gravelly chuckle that rattles through the quiet. “You weren’t hiding it very well, Willow. You know that, right?” She smirks knowingly, her gaze sharp and unyielding. “I’ve loved before, y’know.”
Low almost laughs at the idea. She doubts Darlene has ever loved anyone more than her ever-present cigarettes and her greasy hamburgers. But she bites her tongue, the thought curling up bitterly in the back of her mind, unspoken.
“S’not like anyone loved me back, though,” Darlene continues, her chuckle softening into something darker, more bitter. “Nobody wanted to date an overweight woman back then.”
Low hesitates, her brows furrowing as she processes the admission. “But... what about Jeremy?” she asks tentatively, her voice cautious, as though treading on thin ice.
Darlene’s expression doesn’t shift. Her tone, when she speaks, is flat, matter-of-fact. “Cheated on me five times,” she says simply, as though recounting the weather.
Her words hang in the air like smoke, heavy and acrid. Low doesn’t know how to respond, so she doesn’t. The silence stretches between them, filled only by the faint crackle of Darlene’s wheezing breaths.
Then she finally speaks. “Always came crawlin’ back. Not for love … more for sex. He loved my tits and nothin’ else, y'know?”
“Darlene, I—” Low’s voice falters, the weight of her own words catching in her throat. She swallows hard, forcing the apology out. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Darlene replies, her voice raspy but matter-of-fact. “I’m just saying, kid. You’ve got a lot of life left in you. Either you die lonely or be the town pariah, but at least you won’t be lonely.” She chuckles dryly, the sound as coarse as the air she breathes.
Low’s gaze drops to the painting, her fingers brushing over the canvas in a gesture both tender and wistful. “I think I’d rather die lonely,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “I haven’t even talked to her in three years.”
Darlene shrugs, her indifference practically palpable. “Your choice, Willow,” she says, her tone dismissive but not unkind. “M’just tellin’ you.”
Low doesn’t respond. Her eyes linger on Shelley’s painted face, the strokes of blue and pink that seem to whisper secrets she can’t quite hear. The silence stretches between them, heavy and unresolved, until Darlene’s cough pulls it apart like fraying threads.
“You hungry? You ate dinner ’bout six hours ago,” Darlene rasps, her voice cracking slightly at the edges, her gaze lingering on Low.
Low pauses, her stomach hollow and gnawing in agreement. Maybe food would help—help settle her nerves, help her finish the sky in the painting without the constant heat rising to her cheeks every time her eyes land on the girl in the lawn.
“Yeah, guess so,” she says with a small shrug, her tone casual, almost indifferent.
With that, she follows Darlene into the dining room, the quiet padding of her socked feet against the floor broken only by the soft, wheezing breaths of her aunt ahead of her.
Mid-step, she suddenly feels it—the realization creeping up on her like an itch she didn’t notice at first. Her flannel. It’s half-buttoned. Frowning slightly, Low quickly fixes it, fingers fumbling with the buttons.
Her gaze flickers instinctively toward the dining table, her mind tugged back to the folded-up paper that had been sitting there, untouched, two days ago.
That thought, though—it freezes her in place.
Because now, as her eyes settle on the placemat, her breath catches in her chest.
The paper’s gone.
The letter to Shelley is gone.
Michelle Wheeler, Hawkins, Indiana
Shelley practically leaps off the SS Nancy, her feet hitting the pavement with a sharp finality. She doesn’t bother with a thank you, her mind still reeling from the storm of thoughts her brain had conjured up during the ride.
For a moment, she just stands there, frozen in place, her body stiff as a board. Why does she care so much now?
Every anniversary of this day has been hard, but somehow this one feels like it’s cutting deeper, leaving her raw and exposed in a way she wasn’t prepared for.
Her spiraling thoughts are abruptly interrupted by a sharp, unexpected slap on her butt.
“Ow!” Shelley yelps, stumbling forward from the impact. “What the hell, Diane?”
She doesn’t even need to turn around to confirm it—it’s Diane Henderson. Of course it is. The fact that Shelley can identify her without a glance says everything about how often this kind of thing happens.
“Aw, come on, Shelley!” Diane grins, her expression as cheeky as her actions. “Couldn’t leave ya just standing there, could I?”
“I was... gonna get there,” Shelley retorts, her tone pointed, her glare sharp. “On my own.”
“You just needed help, man,” Diane replies breezily, her hand looping through Shelley’s elbow with practiced ease. Before Shelley can even think to protest, Diane is already tugging her along, her grip firm and unrelenting.
“Lemme go! Lemme go. Hey! I can walk, y’know!” Shelley protests, her voice rising in frustration as she stumbles along behind Diane’s determined pace.
Diane doesn’t let up, dragging Shelley across the courtyard with the kind of confidence that only Diane Henderson could muster. They reach the doors to the auxiliary gym, and Diane presses her weight against one of them. It gives with a soft click, swinging open to reveal the chaos inside.
The room is packed to the brim with loud, sweaty, smelly teenagers. The air is thick with the mingling scents of body spray and gym socks, the noise a cacophony of laughter, shouting, and sneakers squeaking against the polished floor.
Their favorite.
“Come on, Max is saving a spot for us,” Diane hums, her voice light and sing-song as she tugs Shelley along without so much as a backward glance.
Shelley follows, sticking close as they weave through the crowd and climb up onto the bleachers. The din of the gym grows louder with every step, a chaotic symphony of teenage energy.
As promised, Max is waiting, his arms stretched wide like a human barricade, obnoxiously claiming far more space than necessary.
The students on either side of him shoot him annoyed glances, but Max remains unfazed, his fiery-orange hair catching the light as he leans back with an air of exaggerated nonchalance.
“Hey!” Diane calls, shuffling over to him. Max scooches over just enough to make room for the two of them, his movements deliberate and begrudging.
“Thank God,” Max mutters, his tone dripping with mock exasperation. “Could you idiots have taken any longer?” He tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear, his scowl small but pointed.
“I wonder why,” Shelley muses dryly, shooting a quick glance at Diane, who responds with an exaggerated shrug, her grin unapologetic. “You were the one standing there like Under Tyr.”
“And you had to slap my ass?” Shelley asks, one brow arching in disbelief.
“What was I supposed to do? Tap your elbow? Remind you gently?” Diane retorts, her grin widening, clearly enjoying herself.
“Actually, yes,” Shelley replies matter-of-factly, her tone as sharp as her raised brow.
“Shut up,” Max groans, rubbing his temples with exaggerated frustration. “You’re giving me a headache.”
“You’re not getting a headache,” Diane counters sharply, her tone dripping with playful accusation. “You just want us to be quiet because your little girlfriend’s playing out there.”
Max rolls his eyes, but the flush creeping up his cheeks betrays him. Shelley notices immediately—he’s always been easy to read, his face turning cherry red at the slightest provocation.
“Lucy’s got the hots for you, too, you know,” Shelley comments casually, leaning back with a smirk. “She’s gawked at you before.”
“Yeah,” Max chuckles, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “When we were kids.”
“Young love lasts, man,” Diane chimes in, her grin widening.
“How would you know?” Max scoffs, his tone laced with mockery. “The only person you’ve kissed is Shelley.”
“On a dare,” Diane corrects him quickly, her voice firm but not defensive.
Shelley remembers it vividly—it had been her first kiss, too.
A little peck during a game of truth or dare when they were thirteen.
She’d chosen dare, of course; truths were too risky, too revealing. Lucy and Max had been sitting cross-legged beside her, their grins wide and mischievous as Diane leaned in with a smirk that practically dared her to back down.
“Kiss me, Wheeler,” Diane had challenged, her voice bold and teasing. “Right on the lips.”
“All right,” Shelley had replied, her tone steady despite the nervous flutter in her chest. She didn’t want to seem like a coward, so she leaned in and kissed Diane, just as she’d asked.
Diane had pulled back, her expression a mix of shock and embarrassment. She’d wiped her mouth hastily, muttering, “That was... my first.”
Shelley had grinned, the corners of her lips curling upward in amusement. “Was it good?” she’d teased.
“No,” Diane had replied, her face turning a deep shade of red. “You were as awkward as a goblin with zero intelligence.”
Shelley laughs at the memory now, the warmth of it lingering despite Diane’s blunt critique. She’d liked that kiss, even if it had been clumsy and fleeting. But she hadn’t wanted more—not from Diane Henderson, anyway.
Max grabs Shelley’s arm with a sudden burst of excitement, his grip almost bruising in its intensity. “It’s Lucy!” he exclaims, his voice cracking slightly as he shakes her arm like he’s trying to wake her from a dream.
Shelley is jolted back to the present, her mind reluctantly abandoning the hazy warmth of memory.
The gym erupts as the basketball team bursts onto the floor, their arrival perfectly timed with the band’s thunderous fanfare.
At the front of the pack, leading the charge, is Lucy, her radiant smile cutting through the chaos like a spotlight.
The bleachers tremble with the energy of the crowd, kids screaming and cheering at full volume.
Max can’t contain himself—he shakes Shelley’s arm again, his excitement spilling over like a fizzy drink that’s been shaken too much.
Shelley lets him, barely reacting as her gaze follows Lucy’s confident jog across the polished gym floor.
Lucy looks great, even Shelley can’t deny that—but it’s Max who seems to think so the most. His expression says it all.
Lucy’s springy curls, pulled into a messy ponytail, bounce with every step, catching the light like copper thread. Her eyes glint with determination, the overhead lights reflecting in their depths.
The jersey hugs her athletic frame just right, accentuating her poise and grace. And her smile—it’s the kind of smile that could stop a heart. It’s open, honest, and disarmingly beautiful.
Shelley glances sideways at Max, and the sight makes her grin. His blush is fierce, painting his cheeks a vivid scarlet. Despite his best efforts, the huge smile on his face betrays him.
He ducks his head slightly, pretending to adjust his hair, but Shelley knows the truth. Max is helpless in the face of Lucy’s brilliance, and it’s written all over him.
Willow Byers, Vancouver, BC
Today is just not Willow Byers’s day, and the universe seems determined to make sure she knows it.
She stares out the frosty bus window, her breath fogging up the glass as her lips twist into a grimace.
On the other side, delicate flurries swirl and dance in the cold wind, taunting her with their serene beauty.
Snow might excite some people—but for Low, it’s just another cruel reminder of how horrendously bad this day has become. A day that was supposed to be brimming with promise, utterly derailed.
Fucking Silas. The thought sears through her mind, hot and vindictive.
She’s cursed him at least a hundred times since six a.m., running through the inventive Rolodex of insults she’s mentally reserved for her best friend (or, in this particular instance, her worst enemy).
She finally pulls her hand out of her long duster coat pocket, the fabric slightly damp where her palm has been sweating nervously. Her fingers are trembling, though she’s not sure if it’s from anger, embarrassment, or sheer exhaustion.
It had all spiraled out of control earlier that morning.
After noticing the note was gone—gone—she’d gone straight to Darlene, practically interrogating her with the desperation of someone cornered. Eventually, after enough prodding, Darlene had cracked, waving her off with a casual, “Your uncle Jim mailed it! Alright, baby?”
Low had internally died.
Her first instinct had been to call Silas Bingham.
Reliable Silas, her nerdy, slightly annoying best friend—or her unofficial cigarette supplier, depending on the day.
She’d rambled to him, her words spilling out in a frantic rush about her unrequited love for Michelle Wheeler. How it was all going to come crashing down on her now, how there was no way that letter wouldn’t reach Michelle. Because it would.
Low had felt the walls closing in as she paced her room, phone pressed to her ear.
Silas, ever the pragmatist, had mostly just listened, offering the occasional snarky comment or half-hearted reassurance.
But none of it could dampen the hurricane swirling inside her chest. Not when her greatest secret was on a direct collision course with Michelle Wheeler, of all people.
“I’m just saying, Low... it might be better if you just say it,” Silas had suggested, his voice crackling faintly through the receiver, casual yet maddeningly insistent.
“Are you fuckin’ crazy?” Low had barked, gripping the phone tighter, her free hand absently coiling the cord around her fingers like a lifeline. The frustration in her voice was sharp enough to cut.
Silas had shuffled on the other end, the faint rustle of movement signaling his unease. “Sure, if this Michella girl—”
“Michelle,” Low corrected flatly, the name coming out almost like a reflex, her tone a mix of irritation and weariness.
“Right. Okay, if this Michelle girl really liked you, she’d let you know. She’d reply,” Silas had reasoned, his voice deliberate, as if trying to sound like the voice of wisdom.
“Have you forgotten that not everyone’s as accepting as our families?” Low shot back, her voice rising slightly.
“If Shelley’s family knew her best friend had an undying crush on her, she’d be kicked out, for sure!” The words tumbled out fast, her tone laced with anxiety as she twisted the phone cord tighter around her fingers, like she could bind her worries in its loops.
“Well... you’d want that, right?” Silas ventured hesitantly.
“What?! You’re crazy!” Low snapped, heat rising to her cheeks despite herself.
The blush burned, but she couldn’t let Silas hear that. She paced the small room, her stocking feet brushing against the rug as she tried to channel her nervous energy into motion.
“I’m sorry! I was just saying,” Silas added quickly, his voice tipping into sheepishness, clearly regretting his choice of words.
Low sighed heavily, letting the tension in her shoulders sag just slightly. “I think I need a cigarette. Got any?”
“If you come to school early enough,” Silas said, his tone lightening, as if to extend an olive branch.
Low rolled her eyes, her lips twitching toward an almost-smile despite the knot still twisting in her chest. Same old Silas.
But Low doesn’t think Silas understands the gravity of what’s happening—the precarious tightrope she feels like she’s walking.
But then again, how could he? He’s as straight as a right angle, his world revolving around the likes of Phoebe Cates in Fast Times at Ridgemont High.
Silas has been hopelessly girl-crazy ever since he first laid eyes on her, and his perspective on love is painted in shades Low can’t quite reach.
His family, at least, has been remarkably open-hearted, awfully accepting of anyone different.
Or, more precisely, his found family. His biological parents were little more than shadows in his life—crazy druggies who barely remembered they even had a son.
Silas had left that chaos behind, finding refuge with the Walkers: a makeshift home with a big brother named Nathan, a mother named Rachel, and a father handed Tyler. Together, they’d given him the sense of belonging he’d never had before.
Low’s childhood was a far cry from Silas’s found-family warmth.
Her own father had an uncanny knack for defining his daughters by their labels, reducing them to single traits that defined their worth in his eyes.
Johanna had been his “photographer-pervert daughter,” but Low— Low had been his “pinko-queer daughter.” That title clung to her like an unwanted brand, burning deeper every time he said it.
He hadn’t been religious at first, just a man with a mind full of rules and expectations.
But that changed the day he caught Low flipping through one of his magazines, glossy pages filled with photos of women lounging on sun-soaked beaches, bikinis barely clinging to their tanned skin, martinis in hand, and hair cascading like liquid gold.
That was the moment he’d decided to make an example of her. He’d dragged her to church, unceremoniously outing her to the congregation as though she were a pariah to be judged.
The word of a queer girl in Hawkins spread faster than wildfire, consuming everything in its path.
By the time of November 12th, 1983, Willow Byers knew she had no choice but to leave.
Staying was impossible—it was suffocating, unsafe. She’d stolen money from her father’s wallet, a silent declaration of rebellion, a final “fuck you” etched into every crumpled bill. The next day, she boarded the bus.
She kept bus-jumping, miles turning into hours, hours into days, until she finally reached the doorstep of her great-aunt in Vancouver.
For the first time in her life, Low had begun to feel the faintest spark of freedom. But even now, the embers of that fiery escape flicker in the corners of her mind, never quite extinguished.
For a fleeting moment, she wishes she were in Hawkins. With Michelle. The thought brushes against her mind like a ghost’s whisper, faint but persistent.
But she’s not in Hawkins.
She’s here—sitting on a city bus that reeks faintly of mothballs, the smell clinging to the cold, stale air.
The frosted windows blur the city beyond into a muted haze of gray, and Low shifts uncomfortably in her seat, her long duster coat brushing against her legs.
The bus jolts forward, reminding her of its monotony as it chugs along toward Vancouver High School. A school she has no business being at for another two hours.
She glances down at her watch—5:36 a.m. The same cheap, scratched-up model Shelley used to wear before she left.
Somehow, though, these early mornings offer their own strange solace.
Frosty days when she and Silas would huddle against the cold bricks of the portables, cigarettes in hand, letting the smoke curl their troubles away.
Silas would talk about his latest infatuation, some girl whose name always escaped Low’s memory, while she’d pick absently at the chipped paint on the wall.
Her own problems felt heavier, tangled in knots she still couldn’t unravel.
It was always the same—her complicated, troubled relationship with herself, her identity, her longing. Silas would joke, lighthearted as always, that he was desperate for some new drama to chew on. Some drama involving a fat-hipped woman with a snarky attitude that had cheated on Willow or something like that. Oddly specific, but Silas had said that.
But drama isn’t what weighs on Low now.
It’s the truth she’s tried to bury for three years.
She hasn’t fallen in love again.
Not since Michelle. The thought cuts deep, a quiet admission she only allows herself in moments like this. Sitting alone on a bus, surrounded by strangers, staring out at the frozen city she’s learned to call home.
She hasn’t moved on. Not even close.
Michelle Wheeler, Hawkins, Indiana
“Dude!” Diane shouts, her voice cutting through the chatter like a whip.
She takes a running start, her sneakers thumping against the hallway floor as she launches herself at Lucy.
Before Lucy can even step fully out the doors, Diane tackles her in a tight, exuberant hug, knocking her back a few steps with the force of her enthusiasm. “Goddamn, Sinclair! You sexy beast!” Diane exclaims, her grin wide and unapologetic.
Her fingers tap playfully along the small of Lucy’s back, earning a loud, cackling protest.
“Oh, my God, Diane. Hands off!” Lucy laughs, shoving Diane away with enough force to knock the hat clean off her head.
Diane retaliates immediately, pushing back with a mischievous grin, and within seconds, they’ve got each other in headlocks, tugging and wrestling like siblings in a backyard brawl.
“Leave her be, Henderson,” Max calls out, his tone laced with humor as he watches the chaos unfold.
“You’re lucky they’re not kissing,” Shelley teases, nudging Max with a playful elbow. The smirk on her face is impossible to miss.
“Not funny, Wheeler,” Max mutters, casting her a glare that teeters on the edge of amusement. But with Max, it’s always hard to tell—his expressions are a puzzle, his humor buried just beneath the surface.
*̷ ̷*̷ ̷*̷
Shelley walks alongside Lucy toward the locker rooms, their footsteps echoing faintly down the corridor. Lucy glances up at her, head tilting ever so slightly to the side, her expression soft but questioning. “You good, Shelley?” she asks, her voice quiet, careful.
Shelley shifts her gaze toward her, one brow furrowing faintly. “Hm?”
“I’m just... saying,” Lucy begins, her throat bobbing as she swallows, the words tangling awkwardly on their way out. “You know what happened today.”
“Three years ago?” Shelley prompts, her tone even, though the edge of her voice betrays the weight of the date. Lucy nods, her movements small and hesitant.
“Uh, yeah,” Lucy drawls, the syllables stretching as though they’re unsure where to land.
“M’okay,” Shelley answers, her tone measured.
But the way Lucy’s gaze lingers, scrutinizing, makes her shift under the weight of it.
“I mean, as okay as anyone would be on this stupid anniversary... just... kind of going with it,” she exhales softly, the words dissipating into the cool air. “How about you?”
Lucy adjusts the straps of her backpack, tugging them snug against her shoulders. “I’m done with dealing with November 12ths, honestly,” she says, her voice flat but firm.
“Me too,” Shelley agrees quietly.
But the subject dissipates quickly, as it always does. Mention it once, maybe twice if the weight of the anniversary becomes unbearable, then let it dissolve into silence. It’s easier that way.
“So, uh... what’s going on between you and Max?” Lucy ventures, her tone shifting to something lighter, almost teasing.
“What?” Shelley blurts, caught halfway between a word and a chuckle.
“I just... see how he looks at you,” Lucy says, the teasing note brightening her voice.
“Pure hatred, Sinclair,” Shelley shoots back, her lips curving into a crooked smirk. “No questions. That’s all it is.”
“You sure?” Lucy presses, a playful grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You look at him weird.”
“No—Lucy—he’s smitten with you,” Shelley counters with mock seriousness. “Seriously, he looks at you like you’re some kind of goddess.”
Lucy rolls her eyes, though a faint blush creeps into her cheeks. “I was just playing with you,” she mutters. She hesitates, her gaze flickering away before she asks, almost cautiously, “Any guys you’re liking so far?”
“No,” Shelley replies simply, her voice steady. “I’m a late bloomer when it comes to that stuff.”
“Not even Bowie?” Lucy probes, a hint of a smile playing on her lips.
“Not even Bowie,” Shelley answers with a small shake of her head, her voice resolute.
“You always said he was the prettiest man you’ve ever seen,” Lucy says with a playful smirk, her eyes glinting with amusement as she glances at Shelley.
“Yeah, I still think so,” Shelley shrugs, her tone casual, almost dismissive.
“And you’re telling me you never had a crush on him?” Lucy presses, leaning slightly closer as if trying to catch the truth hiding behind Shelley’s indifferent expression.
“Nope,” Shelley replies flatly, the word rolling off her tongue like it doesn’t carry much weight at all.
“Hmm, likely story, Wheeler,” Lucy teases, her grin widening. She tilts her head toward the locker room door to her right. “Well, I gotta run. See you later.”
“Yep, see you, Lucy,” Shelley says, her hand lifting in a half-hearted wave as Lucy disappears into the locker room.
For a moment, Shelley stands there, staring at the door as it swings shut behind Lucy.
The gym hums faintly in the background, but she’s caught in her own thoughts now.
Has she ever liked a guy before?
The question tumbles into her mind, sudden and unfamiliar, like an unexpected guest.
It hadn’t really crossed her mind until now.
But as she tries to grasp the answer, it slips through her fingers like smoke, leaving behind only the weight of a realization she’s not sure how to fully unpack.
*̷ ̷*̷ ̷*̷
Shelley steps through the front door, her Hellfire Club shirt clinging to her like a reminder of what she’s missing.
The club itself—Eddie Munson’s chaotic DM’ing, the constant drone of excited voices—it’s all too much for her today. Not on her wishlist, not even close.
“Look who decided to show up for Nana!” The raspy voice cuts through the quiet, and Shelley feels her shoulders tense.
Oh, yeah. She holds back the urge to let out a loud sigh. She loves Nana, truly, but right now all she wants is solitude. Just a moment to breathe, to let the weight of the day settle without interruption.
But her prayers go unanswered. Nana, in her slow, deliberate shuffle, waddles up to her with a sweet, “Michelle!” Her arms wrap around Shelley in a tight hug, her white hair glowing faintly under the kitchen light.
“Oh, my goodness, you’re so tall, dear!” Nana exclaims, her steel-rimmed spectacles magnifying the wide-eyed wonder in her gaze.
“Mhmm,” Karen chimes in from the corner, her voice tinged with pride. “She’s my tall baby, aren’t you, Michelle?”
“Mom, please,” Shelley mutters, her tone pleading as Nana’s grip tightens around her.
“Oh, and your little kiss-mark!” Nana squeals, her fingers pinching Shelley’s cheek with affectionate enthusiasm. The birthmark, a small but distinct feature, has always been a favorite topic of Nana’s.
“Yes, Nana, that’s my birthmark,” Shelley replies, her voice flat but polite, almost matter-of-fact. She doesn’t pull away, but her mind drifts elsewhere, wishing for the quiet she knows she won’t get.
“Oh, I’ll let you go now,” Nana says, her voice soft and raspy as she pulls away from the hug.
She waddles back toward the threadbare couch in the living room, her slow steps accompanied by the faint creak of the floorboards.
“Come sit, honey,” Karen calls out just as Shelley is about to make her escape up the stairs.
Shelley hesitates, her body screaming for relief as her sports bra clings uncomfortably to her chest, practically begging to be taken off.
But with a reluctant sigh, she turns and heads into the living room.
She moves toward the other couch, ready to collapse, but a faint squeal stops her in her tracks.
Looking down, she spots Holly sprawled out on her stomach, her small frame taking up the entire space. “Shelley!” Holly protests groggily, lifting her head just enough to glare at her older sister.
“Sorry, Jesus,” Shelley mutters, stepping back and plopping down beside Holly instead. Holly shifts faintly, her socked feet kicking out and sprawling unceremoniously across Shelley’s lap before she drifts back to sleep.
“So, what’s been going on with you lately, Shelley?” Nana asks, her voice warm and curious.
Oh, nothing, just that today’s the anniversary of my queer friend disappearing. The thought flashes through Shelley’s mind, sharp and unspoken. She swallows it down, forcing herself to respond with the standard, “Oh... not too much.”
“How’s high school?” Nana presses gently.
“S’okay,” Shelley replies, her voice clipped.
“Just okay?” Nana’s tone carries a hint of concern.
“I—I mean, it’s great, really great. I’ve got good friends, good grades—” Shelley starts, her words tumbling out in an attempt to sound convincing.
Karen cuts her off with a smile aimed at Nana. “Not the best grades,” she says lightly, her tone teasing but pointed. “But we’re fixing them. Isn’t that right, Michelle?”
Shelley nods tightly, her jaw clenching as she forces a small, strained smile. The weight of the day presses heavier on her chest, but she keeps it buried, hidden beneath the surface.
Holly stirs on the couch, her small voice breaking the quiet with a muffled, “I’m hungry.”
“Your big sister can get you a snack,” Karen says, her tone sugary sweet but pointed, paired with a look that practically orders Shelley to get your ass in the kitchen, you’re supposed to be a good example for my mom.
“Can’t you, Michelle?” she adds, the question sharp enough to leave no room for argument.
Shelley forces another tight smile. “Right,” she drawls, the word heavy with reluctance.
As she stands up, Holly springs into action, leaping off the couch and trailing behind her like a baby duck, her socked feet pattering softly against the floor. Shelley glances back briefly, stifling a yawn as they step into the kitchen.
“Whaddya want?” Shelley asks, her tone flat and tired.
“Cookies!” Holly begs, her eyes lighting up with excitement.
“I don’t know how to make that,” Shelley replies, already anticipating the protest she knows is coming.
“It’s really, really easy,” Holly insists, dragging out the word “please” into a sing-song plea. “Pleeease!”
Shelley sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes but without a trace of malice. “Oh, my God, fine!” she snips.
“Okay!” Holly chirps, her voice rising with barely contained excitement as she practically bounces beside Shelley.
“What do you do first?” Shelley asks, her brow raised skeptically as she scans the kitchen for supplies.
“Uhm... I think you crack eggs,” Holly suggests, her tone carrying the confidence of someone who doesn’t actually know what they’re talking about.
Shelley shrugs and obliges, pulling a few eggs from the fridge and grabbing a glass bowl.
She cracks them one by one, her fingers grumpily fishing out stray bits of shell with a soft huff.
Turning to toss the shells in the trash, something catches her eye—a glimpse of paper buried beneath the slimy remnants of scrambled eggs and coffee grounds.
She freezes. A piece of paper? More importantly, her name is scrawled across its surface.
What the hell?
Without thinking, Shelley reaches into the trash, her hand digging through the muck and grime as she retrieves the crumpled letter. She wipes away the damp residue with trembling fingers, her breath hitching as the words become clear.
To: Michelle Wheeler
From: Willow Byers
Her heart threatens to stop, each beat thudding louder in her ears. She stares at the letter, her grip tightening as a whirlwind of emotions sweeps over her. This wasn’t supposed to happen—not like this. And yet, here it is, undeniable and inescapable.
Holly’s voice cuts through her haze. “Do we stir it now?” she asks, oblivious to the storm raging behind her sister’s eyes.
I dunno … but my feelings are stirred … that’s for sure.