Chapter 13

“Harrington, my lovely comrade,” Maggie announces grandly, throwing her hands onto Steve’s shoulders like she’s about to knight him.

Steve barely flinches, he’s used to theatrics, just not ones quite so glitter-drenched. 

“There better be booze,” she says, mock-serious, brows raised and eyes sparkling like this is a sacred rite and not just another suburban house party.

He claps her on the shoulder with an easy grin, “Bottle of vodka for you in the kitchen. Compliments of King Steve.”

Maggie gasps, “Your kingdom shall thrive another day.”

She sweeps past him into the house without waiting for the other two, moving with the confidence of someone who’s either done this a hundred times or decided to fake it till it’s true. The hallway is dimly lit, music thumping low and bass-heavy, the thrum of teenage recklessness already in the air.

She walks in like she owns the place or at least like she’s decided she does tonight. The kitchen isn’t hard to find, open layout, spotless countertops, and a single bottle of Tito’s vodka sitting on the marble like a beacon of poor decisions.

Maggie snatches it up, flicks off the cap, and takes a long swig without a second thought. It burns, bright and sharp down her throat, but it brings warmth too. Not the comforting kind, no, this is the kind that sparks in your chest and makes everything feel a little louder.

“Ahhhh,” she exhales dramatically, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, “Pure fuel.“

A moment later, the door creaks and the others join her. Barb’s brows shoot up the second she spots the bottle.

“Already starting off strong?” she asks, arms folded and eyebrows working overtime.

Maggie grins, offering the bottle, “You can’t blame me. I’m about to be in the same house as Tommy H and Carol. I need internal insulation.”

Nancy shakes her head with a crooked smile, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear, “You’re insane.”

“Thank you,” Maggie replies sweetly, “I strive for consistency.”

Steve asks, “You guys want a drink or…?”

“I’m prepared,” Maggie announces, lifting the vodka like a trophy.

Nancy eyes the bottle, hesitating. Maggie catches it immediately.

“What’s the matter, Wheeler? Afraid you’ll actually have fun?”

Nancy narrows her eyes, “I’m being cautious.”

Maggie tilts her head, lips quirking, “Don’t worry. I’ll be your bad idea for the evening.”

Steve, now leaning on the fridge with a beer in hand, gives her a look, “Pretty sure you’re everyone’s bad idea.”

She flashes him a wink, “It’s one of my best qualities.”

Steve jerks his thumb toward the back door, his beer already half gone, “C’mon. Party’s out there.”

Barb sighs as if she’s already regretting every life choice that led her here. Nancy adjusts her sweater, expression unreadable, and trails after Steve. Their silhouettes blend together as they disappear toward the sliding glass doors.

Maggie stays behind for a beat. Alone in the kitchen, she watches her own reflection in the dark window, blurred, ghostly, faintly distorted by the streetlights beyond. There’s glitter on her cheeks and a flicker of something behind her eyes.

She takes another swig. The vodka burns a little less this time.

“Alright, universe,” she murmurs under her breath, “let’s dance.”

She steps outside into the back yard and is met by a burst of cool air. The pool glows a sickly blue beneath the light, rippling faintly from a half-empty float bumping against the edge.

Tommy H and Carol are already there, tangled together in a way that can only be described as too much for a backyard setting. Carol’s laugh is a high-pitched shriek that cuts through the music like a mosquito. Tommy’s shirt is already off, clinging to one of the patio chairs, and he’s gesturing wildly as he tries to impress her with some drunken story involving a mailbox, a bottle rocket, and “dude, I swear it wasn’t my fault.”

Maggie pauses on the threshold, takes another swig from her bottle, and mutters to herself, “Lovely.“

She steps down onto the patio like it’s a stage, arms loose at her sides, already calculating where she fits into this mess of beer-stained chaos. Her boots click softly on the cement. From the corner of her eye, she sees Nancy hesitating near the pool, looking stiff, uncertain. Steve’s nearby, holding a cup and trying too hard not to look like he’s watching her.

Barb hovers by the sliding door like a trapped housecat. Maggie makes her way toward them, pausing beside Barb and slipping the vodka bottle into her hands.

“Here,” she says, mock-sincere, “For courage.”

Carol lets out another shriek and splashes Tommy with pool water. It hits Maggie’s boots. She sighs and steps back, shaking one foot out.

“I swear to God,” she mutters, “I’d rather be eaten by a bear than listen to them flirt.”

Steve comes up beside them, eyes on Nancy, but addresses Maggie with a smirk, “Thought you were gonna bring more chaos to the party.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Harrington,” Maggie says, sweeping a hand across the scene, “I’m just getting started.”

The girls settle into the plastic lawn chairs scattered haphazardly around the Harrington pool, legs curled under them or dangling, the smell of chlorine thick in the air. Nancy smooths her skirt, looking vaguely unimpressed. Barb sits, not knowing how to even give herself a semblance of comfort.

Then Steve pops up, grabbing a beer from the nearby cooler and flipping open a small switchblade with flair. He slices a quick hole into the bottom of the can, pops the tab, and chugs the whole thing like it’s water and he’s been stranded in the desert.

Foam drips down his chin. He throws the empty can aside with a hollow metallic clatter and drops into a chair beside Nancy, sprawled out like a prince on a throne.

Nancy arches an eyebrow, “Is that supposed to impress me?”

Steve glances over, a cigarette already perched between his lips, “You’re not?”

She smirks, tilting her head, “You are a cliché, you realize that?”

He shrugs, lighting the cigarette and taking a slow drag, eyes squinting through the smoke, “You’re a cliché. Miss straight-A’s, debate team, home before curfew…”

“I’m not in debate,” Nancy says, laughing despite herself, “Or band.”

“Okay, party girl,” Steve says, gesturing loosely with the glowing tip of his cigarette, “Why don’t you just show us how it’s done, then?”

He flips the knife in his hand and holds it out to her like a challenge.

Nancy glances at Barb, then Maggie, who grins like the cheshire cat. Nancy snatches the knife, rolls her eyes, and snags a beer from the ice chest. With a quick, clean slice, she punctures the bottom, pops the tab, and shoots the entire can back with surprising finesse. Beer sloshes down her chin and onto her shirt, but she doesn’t flinch. She throws the empty into the bushes.

Tommy H lets out a whoop and Carol whistles. Barb stares, slack-jawed.

Maggie beams, “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

Nancy turns to her, holding out the blade with a teasing arch of her brow, “Maggie?”

Maggie’s eyes glint. She’s already more than halfway drunk, the world tilts a little when she stands, her boots unsteady on the grass, but there’s fire in her blood and glitter in her veins.

She accepts the knife, “Hold my existential dread.”

She grabs a fresh beer, flicks the knife, and slices it open. With one exaggerated bow, she lifts the can and chugs it clean. The foam coats her mouth. The crowd erupts with cheers, even Tommy yelling, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!“

Steve chuckles from his seat, still smoking, “Nice one, Twilight Sparkle.“

Maggie wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, grinning like a devil, “Keep talking, Dragon Ball Hair, and I’ll shotgun you next.”

More laughter. Even Carol chuckles. Nancy watches her with a bemused smile, biting her lip like she’s trying not to be impressed.

Maggie flops back into a lawn chair, victorious, holding the empty beer can above her head like a trophy. Her veins buzz faintly with warmth, not just from the alcohol. There’s something deeper, quieter, tugging under her skin. Something that makes her temples throb and the air around her feel slightly off, like reality’s warping at the corners.

“Barb, you wanna try?” Maggie asks.

The girl shakes her head, “No thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” she shrugs and no one pushes further.

The party pulses around them, music thumping low from a boombox on the patio table, pool water shimmering with pale blue reflections. Someone’s thrown an inflatable flamingo, probably Tommy, into the deep end. It floats there solemnly, bearing witness to the chaos.

Maggie’s lounging across two patio chairs now, legs flung dramatically over the side like a fainting Victorian heroine. Her head tips back as she lets out a theatrical sigh and then lolls to the side, locking eyes on Nancy, who’s perched on the arm of a lawn chair nearby, sipping a drink and pretending not to notice.

Maggie squints at her through the haze of vodka and mischief. 

“Nancy Wheeler,” she says.

Nancy turns, clearly amused, “What?”

“You are unfairly pretty,” Maggie declares, stabbing a finger in her direction, “It’s rude. It’s an attack.“

Nancy laughs, cheeks going slightly pink, “You’re drunk.”

“I am. But don’t change the subject.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Exactly! That’s part of the problem! You just sit there being all… ethereal and composed like a Jane Austen character and expect me to behave.”

Nancy raises an eyebrow, “I don’t recall expecting that.”

Maggie clutches her chest, “So you admit you knew I wouldn’t. My God, she plans for my downfall.”

Barb settles next to Nancy with a wary glance at Maggie, “How many drinks has she had?”

“Enough,” Nancy says, laughing into her cup, “She’s been trying to quote Pride and Prejudice, but drunk.”

“It is a truth universally acknowledged,” Maggie slurs, raising her cup like a toast, “that a single girl in possession of a decent buzz must be in want of a girlfriend.”

Barb groans, “Oh no. Her flirting is worse when she’s drunk.”

Nancy rolls her eyes, “You’re impossible.”

Maggie’s eyes flicker up to her, quieter for just a moment, “Yeah, but you keep sitting next to me.”

There’s a beat, just a breath of stillness in the middle of the noise. Nancy doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t move either. She holds Maggie’s gaze for a second longer than necessary, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Then she glances away, “You better drink some water before you end up passed out in the inflatable flamingo.”

Maggie groans, sliding further down the chair, “Let the flamingo take me. Let him carry me into the night.”

Barb snorts, “If you get in that pool fully clothed, I’m calling Hopper myself.”

“Officer Hopper,” Maggie corrects, wagging a finger, “He respects me.”

“You stole a donut out of his car.”

“And he still respects me.”

Nancy shakes her head, trying not to laugh. “Come on, Maggie. Let’s go find some water before you spontaneously combust.”

Maggie offers her hand like a princess awaiting rescue, “Only if you carry me.”

Nancy snorts and tugs her up instead, Maggie stumbling a little into her side with a grin that’s all teeth and trouble.

“Still so unfairly pretty,” Maggie mutters as they walk toward the kitchen together, “I should sue.”

Nancy doesn’t reply, but her hand lingers a little longer than necessary on Maggie’s arm, fingers brushing warm against the crook of her elbow, steadying her even though Maggie barely wobbles. It’s instinctive, casual, but Maggie feels the contact like a live wire.

They make their way into the kitchen, shoes tapping lightly across the tile, the party noise dimming to a dull throb behind the sliding glass door. Overhead, a single kitchen light flickers, yellow and a little too bright. The sink gurgles as Nancy fills a red plastic cup with water.

“Thank you, princess,” Maggie says dramatically as she accepts the drink with both hands, sipping from it like she’s been handed a goblet of elven wine. She looks up at Nancy over the rim, eyes glinting. “You’ve saved my life. I am forever in your debt.”

“You’re hopeless,” Nancy replies, though her smile is soft.

Maggie leans her hip against the counter, cradling the cup like it’s fragile. Her voice drops just slightly, losing some of the theatrics. 

“But I’m charming. So it evens out.”

Nancy gives her a look, half amused, half please stop flirting with me while you’re holding a hydration cup.

“Debatable.”

“Harsh,” Maggie says, clutching her chest again. “But fair.”

A silence settles for a moment, cozy and quiet. Maggie watches Nancy out of the corner of her eye as the other girl leans against the opposite counter, arms crossed loosely, studying the floor like it’s suddenly become fascinating.

Maggie drains the water and sets the cup down with a gentle thunk.

“Do you actually like him?” she asks, voice lighter than the weight of the question.

Nancy glances up, “Steve?”

Maggie shrugs one shoulder, “Yeah.”

There’s a pause and Nancy’s mouth twists with uncertainty, “I don’t know. He’s… I mean, he’s nice. He’s popular. He’s got a car.”

“That’s not a personality, Nance.”

Nancy narrows her eyes, “What, and quoting Austen drunk is?”

Maggie grins, “I’m a mystery wrapped in vodka. You’ll never fully understand me.”

Nancy snorts and pushes off the counter, “I think I’m starting to.”

A little too fast, Maggie says, “And what do you think so far?”

Nancy opens her mouth, maybe to deflect or to tease, but before she can respond, the sliding glass door creaks open again behind them and Barb’s voice calls out, slightly muffled.

“Are you two alive in there?”

“We’re hydrating!” Maggie shouts back.

Barb appears in the kitchen doorway, eyes scanning the two of them, “Yeah, well, Tommy just started talking about fireworks and Steve has a lighter. I’m calling it…five minutes to chaos.”

Maggie groans, “We were having a moment.“

Barb raises an eyebrow, “Was that what that was?”

Maggie flips her hair, “It could have been.”

Nancy just laughs, brushing past her and out of the kitchen. Maggie starts to follow, but Barb grabs her wrist gently.

“You good?” she asks under her breath.

Maggie gives her a crooked smile, “Always.”

Barb studies her, skeptical, but quietly says, “Don’t get your hopes up too high, alright?”

Maggie just nods, eyes distant for a second, before she breaks the tension with a wink, “I’ve got vodka in my veins. I’ll survive.”

The three girls step out into the backyard again, the chill of the night brushing against their skin like a warning. The music pulses deeper, low bass humming through the ground, muffled voices rising in bursts from the far side of the pool. The smell of alcohol, chlorine, and burning curls in the air.

Maggie stumbles slightly, giggling as her boot catches the edge of a chair, “I’m fine. Totally upright. No laws of physics were broken.”

Nancy and Barb exchange a look.

Maggie plops into a lounge chair with all the grace of a drunk raccoon landing in a recycling bin. 

“Victory,” she mutters, letting her head fall back. 

She pulls a small switchblade from her boot again with a flourish, lazily flipping it open.

Barb eyes her warily, “Maggie. You should not be playing with a knife while drunk.”

Maggie turns to her with a bright smile, “You can probably trust me more with a blade when I’m drunk than sober. Less impulsive. More… floaty.”

Barb sighs, crossing her arms, “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

Maggie squints at her, eyes sparkling, “You wanna try flipping it?”

Barb hesitates, “Seriously?”

Maggie shrugs, already handing it over, “I’m just saying, might as well learn. You never know when life will demand a dramatic knife flourish.”

Barb hesitates again, but reaches out, deciding she’d rather be holding the knife than watch Maggie twirl it like a baton next to the pool.

“Okay, so just flick it quick—kinda like—” Maggie starts to explain.

But Barb’s thumb slips along the edge mid-flip. A sharp little zip sound follows.

“Shit.”

She winces, clutching her hand as blood begins to well along the edge of her thumb. Maggie’s smile vanishes. The vodka haze dulls in an instant.

“Barb—shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t think—fuck,” Maggie jumps to her feet, instantly steady. 

She’s already gripping Barb’s uninjured hand, inspecting the wound.

Barb hisses through her teeth, “It’s fine. I’m fine. Just a cut.”

Maggie’s eyes are full of regret, “Let’s get it cleaned, okay? Come on.”

She tugs gently, leading Barb by the hand like she’s made of glass.

“Steve!” Maggie calls toward the pool, “Where’s your bathroom?”

He’s halfway to lighting another cigarette but pauses, “Uh, past the kitchen, first left. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just a cut,” Barb calls over her shoulder as Maggie pulls her inside.

They step into the house in a quiet rush, the party noise fading behind them like a curtain falling on a stage. Maggie leads Barb down the hallway, her hand warm around Barb’s wrist, her usual chaotic energy traded for focus.

In the bathroom, the light buzzes overhead. Maggie clicks it on, revealing the small tiled space and its faint smell of lemon cleaner and cologne. Maggie doesn’t let go of Barb’s hand as she flips on the tap, running cold water over a soft towel.

Barb leans on the edge of the sink, cradling her thumb, trying to act like it doesn’t sting more than it does. 

“It’s fine,” she says for the third time, even though it’s bleeding more than she expected.

Maggie shoots her a look as she presses the towel gently to the cut, “You’re bleeding. Let me be useful for once.”

Barb opens her mouth to argue, but Maggie’s hands are already working tenderly. She dabs at the blood, her brows pulled together in concentration. Her thumbs brush softly over Barb’s wrist to steady her, and the way she touches her isn’t casual. Not anymore.

“You’re really gentle,” Barb murmurs, almost without meaning to.

Maggie doesn’t look up, “Only with people I care about.”

The silence that follows is heavy. It feels like the whole room exhales and waits. Barb swallows and her breath slows.

Maggie finally looks up, her eyes meeting Barb’s, dark and a little glassy, but clear enough to know exactly what she’s doing. She doesn’t say anything. She just lets her gaze flick from Barb’s eyes to her mouth and back again.

“Maggie…” Barb starts, but her voice is too soft to finish.

And then Maggie leans in and kisses her.

Not on the cheek this time, not a hesitant brush or a testing nudge. She kisses her full on the lips, slow and sure. Her hand moves from Barb’s wrist to her jaw, cupping it gently, anchoring her there in the middle of a night that feels like it might collapse if they breathe too loud.

Barb freezes for a moment, eyes wide, shoulders rigid, and, quietly, she kisses her back.

It’s brief, breathless, and careful. And somehow still earth-shattering.

When Maggie pulls back, her smile falters at what she sees in Barb’s eyes.

Barb exhales, slow and conflicted, “Maggie…”

Maggie’s grin fades, “What’s wrong?”

Barb doesn’t answer right away. She looks down at her lap, then back up at her. 

“You’re really sweet when you’re like this.”

“Okay…” Maggie says cautiously.

“But you have a thing for Nancy.”

Maggie tries to laugh it off, “I flirt with everyone.”

“Yeah,” Barb says quietly, “That’s kind of the problem.”

Maggie sits back on her heels, the bloodied towel still in her hand. She’s suddenly sober in the worst way.

“I wasn’t trying to use you or anything,” she says, softer now, “I just… I like you.”

Barb offers a weak smile, “I know you do. I just don’t want to do this when you really like Nancy.”

Maggie nods, lips pressed tight, “Okay.”

An awkward silence stretches between them. Barb reaches for her hand and squeezes it. 

“I’m not mad. I just needed to say it.”

Maggie exhales and forces a smile, “Cool. Yeah. Thanks for, uh… being honest.”

Barb stands, thumb freshly bandaged, and helps Maggie to her feet.

“You wanna head back out?” Barb asks gently.

Maggie swallows whatever was sitting in her throat and nods, “Yeah. Let’s party.”

But her smile doesn’t reach her eyes this time.

And as they open the door and the pulse of the party filters back in, Maggie throws her arm around Barb’s shoulders, performing again, loud and glowing and impossible.