Chapter 4

The Wheeler house is deceptively quiet. From the outside, it looks like any normal suburban home, trimmed hedges, a basketball hoop, a faded doormat that says “Welcome” but really means “Wipe your feet or face Karen’s wrath.”

Maggie stands on the front step, balancing a two-liter bottle of orange soda under one arm and a pack of half-crushed Twinkies in the other. Her silver streak catches the sunlight as she squints at the doorbell like it might bite.

“Well,” she mutters, “I’ve survived institutional cafeteria food. I can survive a suburban mom.”

She rings the doorbell. It chimes politely, and within seconds, Mike Wheeler opens the door, eyes immediately widening.

“You didn’t come through the ceiling this time,” he says, impressed and mildly suspicious.

“I’m growing as a person,” Maggie replies, “Also, I checked, no attic access above your living room. Poor planning, really.”

Mike sighs and moves aside to let her in, “The guys are downstairs. Just… don’t break anything.”

“I make no promises,” she says, stepping in with a grin.

Lucas, Dustin, and Will are already gathered around the table, deep into a campaign. Dice scatter like confetti as Maggie bounds down the stairs, arms full of junk food and chaos.

“Trouble’s here!” she announces, dropping the snacks onto the table like a gremlin Santa Claus, “I brought sugar, jokes, and no respect for the rules of D&D.”

“Perfect,” Lucas mutters, “Exactly what we needed. Again.”

Dustin perks up, “Yes! The party’s got a rogue now!”

“I’m more of a chaotic-neutral disaster,” Maggie says, already sitting backwards in a chair.

Will offers her a cautious smile, “You can play my character for a round if you want. I need a snack break.”

Maggie claps, “Yes! Do I get a sword?”

“You’re a wizard,” Will says.

“Do I get fireballs?”

Will nods.

“Even better.”

Ten minutes later:

“Maggie, you can’t cast Fireball on the town inn!” Mike groans, holding his character sheet like it might protect him from her decisions.

“Too late,” she says, tossing the dice with chaotic glee, “It’s already crispy.”

Lucas slams his pencil down, “You set the mayor on fire!“

“He called my robe weird!”

“That’s because it’s made from actual curtains,” Mike snaps.

Dustin, doubled over laughing, raises a hand, “I, for one, support this arc. It’s giving villain origin story.”

“I’m not evil,” Maggie argues, stretching out like a cat. “I’m just misunderstood.”

She rolls to her feet with exaggerated effort, brushing Cheeto crumbs off her jeans and doing a theatrical stretch like she just ran a marathon.

“You’re not staying?” Will asks, sitting cross-legged on the floor, his eyes hopeful.

Maggie pauses, hand dramatically clutching her heart, “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Byers. You’re gonna make me feel feelings, and I just got rid of those.”

“You could ask to stay,” Mike mumbles, not meeting her eyes, “I mean… it’s just dinner.”

For a moment, the chaos pauses behind Maggie’s eyes, “You all really are emotionally dangerous.”

Dustin grins, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Maggie shakes her head, saying, “Nah, I should get back. You guys have fun, I’m gonna go have some me time at home.”

She gives the boys a group hug before ruffling Will’s hair and heading home on an old rickety bike.

The next morning, the hallways of Hawkins High buzz with their usual chaos, lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, the sharp trill of the late bell ricocheting down the corridor.

Maggie struts through the noise like it’s background music, backpack slung haphazardly over one shoulder, silver-streaked hair braided down the side, and a patchy denim jacket. She’s been at the school less than a week, but she walks like she owns it, or at least rented it for the weekend.

A group of freshmen part for her like she’s Moses.

“Do you think she’s older?” one whispers.

“She’s probably a narc,” another hisses.

Maggie winks at them, “Correct. I work for the secret division of Lunchroom Aesthetics.”

They scatter.

Heading into English for first period, Maggie spins down the hall like she’s on a stage no one else knows they’re standing on. She tosses a foil-wrapped pop tart into her mouth mid-stride, humming a tune that doesn’t exist, trailing just the faintest shimmer from the glitter on her boots that she had applied that morning because “Wednesday has chaotic vibes.”

Her schedule says Room 204. Her brain says don’t trip over your own shoelaces again, we’re trying to make a first-week impression.

The only open seat in the room is next to Barbara Holland: book-lover, rule-follower, keeper of pens, and, as Maggie would soon learn, secret badass in a cardigan.

Barb watches her approach with the kind of measured caution usually reserved for untrained dogs and malfunctioning microwaves. Like Maggie might do something explosive or weird.

“Mind if I sit here?” Maggie asks, raising one brow, her voice between charming and maybe-a-little-feral.

Barb hesitates slightly, “It’s a free country.”

Maggie grins, dropping into the seat and immediately knocking over her own pencil, “God, I love when people don’t automatically fear me or assume I belong in a padded room. Refreshing.”

“You’re very loud,” Barb says, “for someone in a room full of books.”

“I’m very loud in most rooms. It’s how I assert dominance. Or warn birds that I’m approaching.”

Barb gives a soft laugh, quick and surprised, like it slipped out before she could think better of it.

Maggie notices. That sound, soft but bright. She files it away in the back of her mind under Good Noises to Collect.

They get paired up for a worksheet on The Crucible. Maggie squints at the paper.

“So let me get this straight,” she says, flipping through the pages, “This girl kisses a boy, gets caught, and then decides to ruin literally everyone’s life?”

“Basically,” Barb says, her pen already flowing in neat, looped cursive, “Fear and repression. It’s a metaphor.”

Maggie leans back in her chair, hands clasped over her chest, “Remind me to never join a Puritan society. Too much drama. Not enough snacks. Zero glitter.”

Barb glances at her, smirking, “You’d last five minutes.”

“Five is generous. I’d call out the devil just to avoid sweeping the floor.”

Barb snorts under her breath. When the bell rings for lunch, they find each other again.

Barb stakes out a quiet corner of the cafeteria like usual, and Maggie plops down beside her with the energy of someone arriving at a royal banquet. She’s somehow acquired a Hello Kitty sticker on her cheek and is carrying a lunch tray that is 90% dessert and one sad apple.

“I have arrived,” she declares, dramatically stabbing a tater tot, “Do we discuss politics or poetry first?”

Barb looks at her, one brow arched, but clearly amused, “Do you do everything like you’re onstage?”

Maggie considers, “I don’t think I do, but I probably do do, you know? I mean, if I’m not interesting, I’ll get bored of myself. And then who would keep me company?”

Barb rests her chin on her hand, “I sort of envy that.”

“What, the performance anxiety?”

“No,” She shrugs, “The confidence.”

Maggie pops a tot into her mouth and gives Barb a sideways look, “You seem pretty sure of yourself.”

“Only when I’m right. Which is often,” Barb says dryly, “But being smart doesn’t make you cool.”

“Says who? You’re smart and cool. You make giant binders look like tactical gear. That’s a power move.”

Barb laughs, louder this time, and longer, and shakes her head, “You’re weird.”

“Thank you. I was raised by wolves and jazz musicians.”

Barb makes her usual retreat to the library after lunch. Maggie follows behind like a curious, bedazzled barnacle. She’s not subtle. She pokes at the card catalog drawers. She sniffs a book at one point.

“Is this… is this your natural habitat?” she whispers, eyes wide.

Barb sighs as she checks out Frankenstein, “I come here when I want silence. Usually I have my best friend, Nancy, with me, but she’s out for a doctor’s appointment today.”

“Well, at least you have me.”

“I didn’t invite you. You’re impossible to get rid of.”

Maggie beams, “You’re my emotional support honors student.”

“And you’re my… glitterbomb of chaos,” Barb mutters, sliding the book into her bag.

“Exactly,” Maggie says, plucking a book of gothic poetry from the shelf and reading a line aloud in an overly dramatic voice, “My heart is a haunted clock tower, and time is a jerk.“

“That’s not what it says.”

“I’m improving it.”

For their last period, biology, they’re paired again, because fate is a messy little matchmaker.

The frog on the dissection tray is already preserved, stiff, and pale under the harsh light.

“I’m naming him Harold,” Maggie says, setting her scalpel down and gently tapping the frog’s head.

Barb squints at her,  “That’s wildly inappropriate.”

“Look at him. Harold had dreams. Harold probably played the banjo.”

“He had organs,” Barb says, deadpan.

They both try to suppress their laughter. They fail. They almost get kicked out. Maggie drops a glove. Barb tears up from holding in a snort. Their teacher gives them a look of long-suffering pain.

The final bell rings, and the school spills into the parking lot.

Maggie meanders toward the sidewalk, spinning a keychain she found on the ground that looks like a flamingo in a karate pose. She’s halfway into deciding it’s a sign from the universe when Barb’s voice cuts through the noise.

“Need a ride?”

Maggie turns. Barb’s standing by a dusty little Toyota, arms crossed, chin tilted.

Maggie gapes slightly, “You offering to chauffeur me? Is this, like, a trap? Are you going to drop me in the woods?”

“Consider it payback,” Barb says, unlocking the doors, “For making me laugh so hard I snorted frog juice.”

Maggie solemnly places a hand over her heart, “Barb Holland, you may be the best thing about this terrible institution of lockers and lies.”

Barb rolls her eyes but smiles, “That’s sad. But sweet.”

They climb in. Maggie immediately goes for the radio.

“Oh my God. Is this a mixtape labeled ‘Barb’s Angry Feminist Phase Vol. 2’?”

Barb grabs it from her, “Shut up and put on your seatbelt.”

Maggie clicks it in, grinning the whole way home.

They pull up to the curb in front of the Byers’ house just as the sky starts to turn gold at the edges, the late afternoon light settling over the sagging porch.

Barb idles for a second behind the wheel, peering through the windshield, “This is your house?”

Maggie kicks the car door open with one boot and steps out like she’s making a red carpet entrance, “Technically not mine. I’m more of a house goblin. I just show up, eat cereal, and lurk in corners until people imprint on me.”

Barb raises her brows and gets out more slowly, glancing from the cracked mailbox to the screen door hanging a little crooked, “Wait… this is the Byers’ place, right?”

“Correct.”

“As in… Jonathan Byers?”

Maggie flashes her a grin over her shoulder, “You keep saying things I already know. Is this a Midwestern interrogation tactic?”

Barb ignores that, “You’re staying with the Byers?”

“Bingo.”

“You didn’t think to mention that when I was telling you today about my science project I had with Jonathan Byers like two days ago?”

“I didn’t want to be weird about it! And I love a dramatic reveal. This is so much better than a casual, boring ‘oh by the way’ in the hallway between bells.”

Barb narrows her eyes, “Why are you staying here?”

Maggie hops up the porch steps two at a time and turns, one hand on the railing, “A mystery! A scandal! A tale for another time,” She winks, “Let’s just say the foster system has the vibes of a depressing Hallmark movie, and the Byers had a spare couch.”

Barb pauses at the bottom of the steps, surprised by the answer, but she nods, “Okay. That’s… fair.”

“Don’t look at me like I’m a tragic Dickens character,” Maggie adds lightly, then drops her voice, “I do steal bread occasionally, but only if it looks heroic.”

The screen door creaks open from inside, and Joyce sticks her head out, her hair pinned up with a pencil and a grocery receipt, “Mags? That you?”

“Indeed, madam!” Maggie calls, “I bring with me a companion of great wisdom and superior penmanship.”

Joyce peers out and smiles warmly at Barb, “Oh, hi, sweetheart. You must be Maggie’s friend?”

Barb steps forward politely, “Barbara Holland. It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“Call me Joyce,” she says, wiping her hands on a dish towel, “Come on in. Dinner’s a bit of a mess tonight, but we’ve got enough spaghetti to feed a small army.”

“Oh good,” Maggie says as she ushers Barb inside, “I was just telling her about the part where you guys keep me alive with carbs and genuine affection.”

The living room is comfortably cluttered, well-loved furniture, mismatched throw pillows, a stack of old VHS tapes on the TV stand. Maggie immediately drops her bag onto the floor with a thunk and throws herself onto the couch like she owns the place.

Barb hesitates in the doorway, eyes flicking from the framed school photo of Jonathan to the mess of jackets near the door, “So… this is normal?”

“What, this?” Maggie says, gesturing around the room, “It’s basically paradise. There’s food, no one yells at me to stop singing in the bathroom, and Will taught me how to play Dragon Quest last night. I’m thriving.”

Will pops his head around the corner just then, waving, “Hey.”

“Hi,” Barb says, startled but smiling.

Maggie leans over the back of the couch and stage-whispers, “This one’s the best of them all. Don’t tell Joyce. Or Jonathan. Or the cat.”

“We don’t have a cat,” Will points out.

“Exactly,” Maggie says, “And I blame Jonathan.”

Joyce returns from the kitchen, holding a wooden spoon like a baton, “Dinner’s ready in ten. Mags, set the table. Barb, you’re welcome to stay, if you want.”

Barb glances at Maggie, who’s already grabbing forks, “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose.”

“Oh, you’d be doing me a favor,” Joyce says, half-joking, “Maggie’s been holding the title for ‘Least Normal Person at the Table’ all week. You might even out the odds.”

Maggie gasps, “Slander.”

“You’re wearing two different socks,” Joyce replies, deadpan.

Barb snorts and nods, “Alright. I’ll stay.”

As Joyce returns to the kitchen, Barb leans in and murmurs, “You never stop being a walking tornado, do you?”

“I took a personality quiz once,” Maggie replies, “It said I’m 60% chaos, 30% existential jokes, and 10% fondness for toast.”

“Sounds about right,” Barb says, shaking her head but smiling, “And for the record? You may be strange, but this? This isn’t the worst place you could’ve landed.”

Maggie looks around, “Yeah. I think so too.”

Dinner is a slightly organized disaster.

Joyce is still wearing her work apron from Melvald’s, smudged with something green and unidentifiable. Will tries to help by bringing the salad bowl to the table and nearly drops it twice. Jonathan lumbers in last, headphone cord still trailing from his flannel pocket, clearly dragged from his bedroom under protest.

Maggie, naturally, has made place cards out of Post-it notes. Each one is color-coded and glittered with what she insists is “tasteful restraint.”

“Welcome to the weekly gala,” she says, placing one in front of Barb, “Tonight’s theme is: domesticity and overcooked noodles.”

Barb gives her a look, but sits down without protest, “You’re lucky I like carbs.”

Jonathan settles into his usual spot and offers Barb a small nod, “Hey, you’re in my photography class and you’re friends with Nancy, right?”

Barb nods, “Yeah. Your work’s really good.”

Jonathan startles ever so slightly like he’s not used to compliments, then shrugs, “Thanks.”

Joyce sets down the pot of spaghetti with a flourish and sighs, “Okay, it’s not gourmet, but it’s hot and it’s edible. What more can we ask for?”

“Less noodles, more cake,” Maggie suggests.

“You’re free to cook anytime you want,” Joyce says without missing a beat, handing her the serving spoon.

“Touché,” Maggie mutters, and starts dishing out pasta.

Will watches the banter, quietly amused, then turns to Barb, “How do you know Maggie?”

Barb twists her fork through a pile of spaghetti, “English class. We were paired up for a worksheet, and she said something about Puritans needing more snacks. It kind of spiraled from there.”

Will grins, “Sounds right.”

“She also tried to name our dissection frog in Biology,” Barb adds.

Jonathan finally cracks a smile, “Let me guess. Something completely ridiculous?”

“Harold,” Barb and Maggie say in unison.

“I regret nothing,” Maggie adds, dramatically salting her spaghetti, “Harold had aspirations.“

Dinner hums with quiet chatter. Joyce tells a story about a woman trying to return an electric blanket with a hole burned through it (“She claimed her toaster did it”), and Will asks Barb about a new D&D module he’s trying to write. Jonathan mostly listens, contributing now and then with a dry observation or a muttered joke under his breath.

And Maggie… Maggie is in her element. She makes a toast halfway through the meal with a juice box, claiming it’s “in honor of functional found families.” She swaps jokes with Will and teases Jonathan just enough to get a smirk. When Barb speaks, she listens, filing away every dry aside or shy smile like it’s treasure.

Eventually, plates are cleared, and Joyce shoos everyone away from the sink.

“Go,” she says, flapping a dish towel at them, “Out of my kitchen. You’re all disasters.”

Barb grabs her backpack but pauses in the hallway while Maggie lingers, fiddling with a beaded bracelet she stole from the coffee table earlier.

“Hey,” Barb says softly, “This was nice.”

Maggie looks up, “You mean dinner, or my ongoing eccentric renaissance?”

“Both. Mostly dinner.”

“Joyce is kind of the goat,” Maggie agrees, “That’s Greatest of All Time, not… an actual goat.”

“I figured,” Barb says, smiling.

Jonathan passes behind them with a stack of dishes and murmurs, “Don’t let her fool you. She did try to adopt a goat.”

Maggie gasps, “You said you’d never speak of Gerald.”

Will yells from the other room, “The goat ate my math homework!“

Barb laughs, and it’s that same open, genuine sound that Maggie’s been chasing since first period. She tugs her coat around her and leans against the doorframe.

Barb hooks a thumb toward the door, “Want me to drive you to school tomorrow?”

Maggie grins, bright and fast, “Only if I can bring Harold’s ghost.”

Barb sighs, amused, “Fine. But he rides in the back.”