Chapter 3

Maggie wakes late the next morning, blinking up at the popcorn ceiling of the Byers’ living room. The faint smell of coffee drifts in from the kitchen. Her arm is flung over her face, the crocheted blanket tangled around her legs.

She sits up slowly, brushing hair from her eyes and glancing around. The boys are gone. So is the chaos of last night’s sleepover. The pillows are stacked, the snack bowls are rinsed in the sink, and someone even folded the spare blanket.

She yawns and staggers toward the kitchen.

Joyce is there, standing at the stove, her hair pinned up messily and an old Eagles T-shirt hanging off her shoulder. She’s holding a mug in one hand, a spatula in the other. Scrambled eggs sizzle in the pan.

Maggie stops in the doorway.

Joyce glances over, startled at first, then softens, “Morning.”

Maggie rubs one eye, “You cook eggs like it’s a battle.”

Joyce huffs a small laugh, “It kind of is.”

“Are… the boys at school?” Maggie asks.

Joyce nods, “I told them to go. They didn’t want to leave you, but I figured you might want a quiet morning.”

Maggie slides into a kitchen chair, wincing as it scrapes the floor, “Thanks.”

Joyce spoons eggs onto a plate and sets it in front of her, along with toast and an open jar of jam.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” Joyce says, pouring herself more coffee, “But you looked like someone who could use a hot breakfast. And not some disaster that you cooked up.”

Maggie stares down at the plate like it’s made of gold and laughs a little, “I really, really could.”

They eat mostly in silence. Maggie chews thoughtfully, looking out the window at the yard, which is a mess of bare branches and damp leaves. 

After a moment, Joyce leans her elbows on the table and watches the girl with a mixture of maternal concern and curiosity, “You remember anything new?”

Maggie shakes her head.

“Not really. A few flashes. Nothing helpful,” She looks up, “But I don’t feel scared.”

Joyce smiles gently, “That’s good.”

“I’m, uh,” Joyce starts, tapping her mug, “off work today. I thought maybe we could run a few errands. Just the two of us.”

Maggie arches a brow, “Errands?”

Joyce lifts an eyebrow back, “You’re wearing Will’s pajama pants and a sweatshirt that’s about three sizes too big.”

Maggie glances down, “It’s got character.”

“It’s got holes.”

Maggie shrugs, “So do I.”

Joyce levels her with a look, “Come on. You need clothes that actually fit.”

Maggie hesitates, but grins, “Fine. But I’m choosing the music.”

The drive to downtown Hawkins is quiet at first. Maggie rides with her knees tucked up in the passenger seat, staring out the window. She fiddles with the dial until she finds a station playing Fleetwood Mac and hums along under her breath.

Joyce glances at her occasionally. She still doesn’t know what to make of this girl. She’s funny, unpredictable, clearly smart, and completely adrift.

They stop at Melvald’s first. Joyce leads the way inside, greeting a few familiar faces with a smile and a wave. Maggie trails behind, overwhelmed by the rows of neatly folded jeans and racks of T-shirts.

“I don’t know where to start,” she mutters.

Joyce pats her shoulder, “Start with what makes you feel like yourself.”

Maggie walks slowly through the aisles, trailing her fingers over denim jackets and flannel shirts. She picks up a pair of dark jeans, holds them against her hip, then tosses them over her arm. Next, a faded graphic tee with a retro UFO on it. Then another and another.

Joyce watches from a distance, arms crossed but smiling softly.

By the time Maggie makes it to the dressing room, she’s carrying a precarious stack of clothes and talking to herself under her breath.

Fifteen minutes later, she emerges wearing a navy windbreaker over a striped shirt and jeans that actually fit her. She does a slow spin.

Joyce nods, “Much better.”

Maggie looks in the mirror, tilting her head, “I still feel like I borrowed these from someone cooler than me.”

“They’re yours now,” Joyce says, “Own it.”

They make it to the checkout with a modest pile. As Joyce pulls out her wallet, Maggie opens her mouth to argue.

“Don’t,” Joyce says gently, “It’s not a handout. It’s what you do when someone shows up in your life with no shoes and no memory.”

Maggie swallows hard, “Thanks.”

They walk out with paper bags rustling in their hands and stop for lunch at the diner on Main Street. It’s small and cozy, with cracked vinyl booths and a jukebox in the corner that only plays half the songs correctly.

Maggie orders a milkshake and a grilled cheese and eats like someone who hasn’t had a meal out in months, which might be true. Joyce sips her coffee and listens.

Eventually, Maggie sets her milkshake down and says, “You don’t have to keep being this nice to me, you know.”

Joyce quirks an eyebrow, “Why not?”

“Because I might still be crazy,” Maggie says, only half-joking, “Or dangerous. Or a magnet for trouble.”

Joyce leans forward, “Maggie. Look at me.”

She does.

“You’re a girl who fell into my life through something I don’t understand yet. You’re kind. You make Will laugh. You make pancakes like a menace, and you’ve been here for only 48 hours, but you’ve already made an impact.”

Maggie blinks quickly, “I don’t remember ever having this. Any of it. A place. A person like you.”

Joyce reaches across the table and covers her hand, “Well, you do now.”

For a moment, neither of them says anything.

The jukebox stutters to life behind them, playing Dreams by Fleetwood Mac in slow, static-laced notes. Maggie leans back in the booth, a little dazed.

“This town’s weird,” she says eventually.

Joyce smiles, “You have no idea.”

They arrive home in the early evening with shopping bags and the kind of tired that feels good. Maggie kicks off her shoes and flops dramatically onto the couch.

Joyce starts putting groceries away in the kitchen, humming under her breath.

Maggie watches her from the living room.

“You’re kind of a badass,” she calls out.

Joyce pauses, peeks around the corner, “Don’t you forget it.”

Maggie grins, eyes fluttering shut as she sinks deeper into the couch.

Maggie enjoys her time at the Byers’ house for a couple days. Lounging in pajamas, making friends with the appliances, and rotting her brain with the TV. But Joyce has that look on her face again, the one that means Maggie’s days of loitering barefoot in pajama pants are numbered.

It starts at breakfast. Maggie’s curled up on the Byers’ couch, chewing dry cereal from the box, when Joyce clears her throat and says casually, “I called the school this morning.”

Maggie freezes, fingers still in the cereal bag, “Why would you do something so aggressive?”

Joyce crosses her arms, “Because you can’t just sit around here forever.”

“Wanna bet?”

Joyce gives her a pointed look, “You need structure. Socialization. Something to do besides draw passive-aggressive animals and dodge real questions.”

Maggie considers this, “They’re not passive-aggressive. They’re emotionally complex.”

Joyce doesn’t flinch, “I pulled some strings with the counselor at Hawkins High. They’ll list you as a temporary transfer. Just until we figure things out.”

Maggie questions, “Define ‘we.'”

Joyce’s voice softens, “I’m trying, Maggie. You’re here now for some unknown reason and I know it’s a lot. But you’ve got to meet me halfway.”

Maggie sighs and flops backward, cereal box crinkling under her arm, “You do realize I’m probably going to set something on fire, right?”

Joyce just smiles, “That’s what public education is for.”

The boys take it worse than she does.

“She doesn’t even have records,” Dustin says, pacing the Byers’ kitchen like he’s planning a prison break, “No transcripts. No immunizations. What if they think she’s, like, a Russian spy?”

Lucas leans against the fridge, arms crossed, “This is a terrible idea.”

Maggie is perched on the counter, legs swinging, “Wow. Thanks for the overwhelming support, squad.”

“It’s not you,” Lucas says, “It’s Hawkins High. It’s a war zone.”

“Oh, comforting.”

Mike pinches the bridge of his nose, “Okay. Okay, look. If you’re gonna survive high school, you need a game plan.”

Dustin points a spoon at her, “Number one: don’t make eye contact with the basketball team.”

“Why not?”

“Because they can smell fear.”

“Good to know.”

Lucas continues, “Number two: avoid Tammy Thompson’s locker area. That zone belongs to cheerleaders now.”

“Again, good to know.”

Will’s voice is soft, “People stare at new kids. A lot.”

Maggie shrugs, “I’m used to that.”

Will tells her, “You can stick by Jonathan if you need. He’s more of a loner, but he’ll be there.”

That reminds Mike, “Oh! Yeah, stay away from my sister, she’s turned into an absolute witch.”

Maggie smiles, “Is your sister hot?” And Mike’s face crumples in disgust.

Lucas tells her, turning the conversation away from herself, “Just don’t act too cool, or too weird. Blend.”

Maggie gives them a slow salute, “Got it. Don’t breathe, blink, or show signs of life.”

Dustin folds his arms, “You’ll be fine.”

The next morning, the house is too quiet.

Downstairs, Joyce is already up, bustling around the kitchen in her cardigan with a sense of nervous purpose. She hands Maggie a brown paper bag like it’s a peace offering.

“I packed you a sandwich,” she says with a hopeful smile, “And carrots. And a granola bar in case you’re nervous and can’t eat real food.”

Maggie stares at it like it might explode, “You really think I’m going to eat carrots on purpose?”

Joyce just arches an eyebrow, “Stranger things have happened.”

Maggie stands at the front door in clean jeans, a flannel that smells faintly of cigarettes and darkroom chemicals, borrowed from Jonathan, and a pair of Converse that feel too stiff to be hers. Her hair’s yanked back in a messy half-knot, and her backpack has one busted strap and a Sharpie drawing of a cactus flipping someone off.

Jonathan appears behind her, keys jangling in one hand, a thermos in the other, “You ready?”

“Absolutely not.”

He shrugs, “Cool. Me neither.”

Joyce lingers in the doorway as they head out, arms folded like she wants to say something motherly but can’t quite find the words.

“You okay?” she calls softly.

Maggie glances back over her shoulder, “Do I look like someone who belongs in high school?”

Joyce pauses, eyes soft, “Honestly? You look like someone who’s been through more than most people here. But you also look brave.”

Maggie stares, “That’s terrifying.”

Joyce laughs, “Go easy on them, alright?”

Maggie opens the front door, “No promises.”

The ride to Hawkins High is quiet, save for the low rumble of Jonathan’s rusted car and the hum of The Clash from the radio. The sky outside is heavy with clouds, and the road ahead looks like something out of a dream she can’t quite remember.

Maggie picks at the seam of her sleeve, watching the trees blur past, “So… what’s the over-under on me getting shoved into a locker?”

Jonathan flicks his turn signal, “Depends. You planning on mouthing off to the basketball team?”

“Unclear. Do they have punchable faces?”

He gives a dry laugh, “Some of them, yeah.”

Maggie smirks and goes quiet again.

Jonathan glances sideways at her, “Look, if anyone gives you shit, about being new, or weird, or whatever, just ignore them. Most of them are assholes anyway. You just have to get through it.”

Maggie raises an eyebrow, “Wow. I feel so supported.”

Jonathan half-smiles, “You want me to lie and tell you high school’s great?”

“No. I want a fake mustache and a getaway car.”

Jonathan points to the backpack at her feet, “I gave you a pencil. That’s about all I’ve got.”

Hawkins High looms ahead, crouched at the edge of town like it’s waiting to swallow her whole, brick and shadow and morning fog curling off the pavement.

Jonathan pulls into the lot and kills the engine. Kids are already milling around, swarming the front steps, denim jackets, oversized headphones, smudged eyeliner, steel-toed boots.

Maggie doesn’t move.

Jonathan taps the steering wheel absently, “You don’t have to pretend you’re not scared.”

“I’m not pretending,” Maggie mutters, “I’m actively terrified.”

“Yeah. That tracks.”

“Hey.” He turns to her, voice lower, “Just… be yourself. Or, like, half of yourself. Maybe the less-biting half.”

She snorts, “You’re really bad at pep talks.”

“I never said this came with a guidebook.”

She takes a breath and opens the door. Her legs feel like they’re made of rubber. Her backpack thumps against her hip as she steps out, her heart beating loud enough to drown out the distant bell.

“Thanks for the ride,” she says over her shoulder.

Jonathan leans out the window, “You want me to walk you to homeroom?”

She looks horrified, “Absolutely not.”

He holds his hands up in surrender, “Alright. Your funeral.”

Maggie turns toward the building, steeling herself, “If I die in there, tell Joyce I want to be cremated with my cactus drawing.”

Jonathan laughs, “Noted.”

Inside, the halls are alive with noise and elbows and perfume that smells like cotton candy and regret.

No one lowers their voice when she walks in. A couple of heads turn. One guy with a varsity jacket whistles under his breath. Someone else mutters something about “the new chick.” Another girl glances up from her locker and immediately narrows her eyes.

Maggie walks like she’s not noticing, even though her entire body is on fire. She checks her crumpled schedule. Homeroom with Mr. Howard. Room 107.

She navigates like she’s underwater, dodging backpacks, shoulder bumps, and hallway politics she doesn’t understand. A boy nearly barrels into her by the science wing. By the time she finds the right room, her palms are damp and her left eye is twitching slightly.

Homeroom is spent pretending to understand a reading quiz and ignoring the two girls in the back, whispering. Maggie doesn’t write her name on the attendance sheet. She doodles a raccoon holding a coffee cup in the corner of a desk and stares out the window.

It’s raining lightly. It feels like a good omen.

Second period is worse, geometry. The teacher mispronounces her name (“Margie?”), and she doesn’t correct him. A boy in the next row keeps kicking her chair. She thinks about setting something on fire just to get out of class.

By lunch, Maggie feels like she’s been hit by a truck made of awkward stares and whispered judgments.

Her morning has been a blur of buzzing fluorescent lights, slamming lockers, teachers mispronouncing her name, and classmates looking at her like she grew out of the tile floor. No one talks to her except when forced. And when they do, it’s usually preceded by a glance like they’re not sure if she’s contagious.

The cafeteria is a swirling mess of noise and movement. Every table is a little country of its own, jocks at one, theater kids at another, a group of girls with too much eyeliner and matching sneers holding court near the soda machine.

She clutches her brown paper bag, eyes sweeping the room for somewhere to sit. There’s an empty spot near a couple of quiet-looking kids with Walkmans and notebooks covered in band logos, but before she can make her move, a girl with bubblegum-pink nails flops into the chair and stakes her claim.

“Cool,” Maggie mutters, “Survival of the rudest.”

She ends up at the far edge of the room, sitting alone at a table near the trash cans. It’s sticky, and someone’s carved FART LORD 1983 into the wood. She sets her lunch down anyway and pulls her flannel tighter around herself.

A few tables over, a group bursts into laughter. She flinches instinctively, then realizes they’re not laughing at her,  probably. A girl with an oversized sweater walks by, gives Maggie a once-over, then keeps going without a word.

It’s not hostility, exactly. Just apathy, sharpened by high school indifference. Like, no one here has the bandwidth to care unless you threaten their popularity hierarchy.

She sighs and rests her forehead briefly on the table.

“Still alive,” she mutters to no one in particular, “Barely.”

She takes a slow sip from the juice box Joyce packed, trying to ignore everyone around her. One of the basketball players throws a tater tot at a friend. It lands with a wet plop just a few feet from her Converse.

Maggie doesn’t flinch. She just picks up a carrot and crunches into it like she’s got something to prove.

By the end of lunch, she’s memorized every stain on the wall behind the vending machines, constructed five alternate escape routes if the building suddenly catches fire, and decided she officially hates the sound of cafeteria trays being stacked.

She tosses the rest of her sandwich, untouched, into the trash and shoulders her backpack again. Her boots squeak slightly on the linoleum as she walks.

A boy at a nearby table watches her go. His expression is hard to read, somewhere between curiosity and disinterest, but he doesn’t say anything.

She pushes open the cafeteria doors and steps back into the hallway like she’s crossing enemy lines. There’s still half a school day left. She exhales slowly through her nose.

“…No one died,” she mutters, “That’s something.”

Then she adjusts the strap on her busted backpack, tightens the knot in her hair, and disappears into the crowd.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of overhead lights, gum under desks, and group projects she doesn’t remember volunteering for. At one point, someone hands her a locker number, but she forgets it by the fifth period. Her algebra teacher gives her a pitying look when she can’t remember what PEMDAS means. She tells him it sounds like a medical condition.

But no one throws anything. No one yells. And she doesn’t run out of the building.

After the final bell, she meets the boys at the flagpole, her walking from the high school and them from the middle school.

Mike gives her a slow clap, “You survived your first day at Hawkins High.”

“Barely,” she says, pulling her hood up against the drizzle.

Will walks beside her, “Tomorrow will be easier.”

“That’s a bold assumption.”

Lucas shrugs, “It’s either easier or you get detention. Either way, it’ll be memorable.”

Maggie rolls her eyes, “You’re all incredibly reassuring.”

Back at the Byers’ house, Joyce has two mugs of cocoa waiting on the table. Maggie drops her bag, peels off her jacket, and sinks into the chair with a long groan.

Maggie finally says, “Nothing exploded. Not physically, anyway.”

Joyce slides her the mug, “That’s a good start.”

“I think someone tried to sell me weed during third period.”

Joyce sighs, “Also very high school.”

Maggie drinks deeply, “Still don’t know who I am.”

Joyce smiles gently, “Then you’re right on track.”

Maggie lifts her mug in a toast, “To faking it until further notice.”

Joyce clinks hers against it, “To figuring it out.”