Chapter 27

I’m just on a roll guys

Steve Harrington’s BMW rumbles down the quiet street, headlights bouncing off trimmed hedges and picket fences. Maggie presses her face to the glass in the back seat, her breath fogging up the window as she squints at the numbers on the houses they pass.

“Okay,” she says suddenly, “do we think they’ll serve something fancy, or am I about to ruin my reputation by putting ketchup on something I shouldn’t?”

Nancy twists in her seat just enough to smirk at her, “Maggie, I don’t think the Hollands will judge you for using ketchup.”

“Wrong,” Steve says from behind the wheel, pointing dramatically with two fingers before keeping them back on the steering wheel, “That’s exactly the kind of thing people judge you for. You put ketchup on, like, steak? Done. Blacklisted.”

Maggie gasps in mock horror and clutches at her chest, “Oh no. Condiment shame in Hawkins, Indiana. Guess I’ll just shrivel up and perish.”

Nancy hides a laugh behind her hand. Steve grins like he’s proud of himself.

The house comes into view, warm light spilling from the windows, a car parked neatly in the drive. The sight makes Nancy’s posture stiffen. Maggie feels the sharp, invisible shift in the car’s air.

She leans forward, resting her chin on the back of Nancy’s seat, voice softening, “Hey. We’re just going in for dinner, okay? Nothing scary.”

Nancy nods, though her eyes stay fixed out the windshield. Steve’s jaw tightens a little, and Maggie can see the effort he’s putting into being casual.

They pile out, crunching across the driveway. Maggie links her arm through Nancy’s before she can retreat into herself completely.

“Okay, mission plan,” Maggie whispers, “Nancy does her polite A+ student thing, Steve tries not to sweat through his shirt, and I…” She flashes a grin, “I keep the conversation so dazzlingly chaotic that they don’t notice either of you are nervous.”

Steve mutters, “God help us all,” as Nancy hides another laugh.

Inside, the Hollands greet them warmly. Mrs. Holland ushers them in, her smile bright but tired. Mr. Holland hovers nearby, stiff but welcoming.

“Thank you for having us,” Nancy says, her voice perfectly polite.

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Holland replies, her eyes lingering on Nancy.

Mrs. Holland ushers them to the table, KFC sitting on the center.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to cook,” Mrs. Holland starts, “I was gonna make that baked ziti you guys like so much, but I just forgot about the time, and before you know it, oh my God it’s five o’clock.”

“It’s fine. It’s great,” Nancy says with a warm smile, her voice a practiced balm.

“Right. I love KFC,” Steve adds, sliding into the chair next to Nancy.

Maggie doesn’t sit right away, she circles the table first, inspecting the spread with exaggerated seriousness.

“Honestly,” she announces, plopping into her seat next to Nancy, “if you had made baked ziti, I would’ve eaten myself into an early grave. This? This is safe. Manageable. Responsible.”

Mr. Holland huffs a small laugh in spite of himself. Mrs. Holland smiles faintly, grateful.

As everyone starts to dig in, Nancy leans forward, always observant, “So, I noticed a for sale sign out in your yard. Is that the neighbors’ or…?”

Mrs. Holland glances at her husband, who gives a little nod, “You wanna tell them?”

Mr. Holland gestures for her to go on.

She folds her hands, smiling in a way that feels rehearsed, “We hired a man named Murray Bauman. Have any of you heard of him?”

Maggie has to stop herself from rolling her eyes so hard they’d disappear into her skull.

“Oh boy, have I,” she mutters under her breath, stabbing at her mashed potatoes with unnecessary force.

Steve and Nancy both shake their heads.

Mrs. Holland presses on, “He was an investigative journalist for the Chicago Sun-Times.”

“He’s pretty well known,” Mr. Holland adds, pulling a business card from his pocket and sliding it across the table to Steve.

Steve takes it, studying it briefly before handing it to Nancy.

“Anyway,” Mrs. Holland continues, “he’s freelance now, and he agreed to take our case.”

“Oh, that’s–that’s great,” Steve says quickly, voice a little too upbeat. He glances at Nancy before looking back at the Hollands, “No that’s really–that’s great, right?”

Nancy inhales slowly, grounding herself before asking, “Um, what exactly does that mean?”

Mr. Holland’s face hardens, “It means he’s gonna do what that lazy son of a bitch Jim Hop—”

Mrs. Holland lays a calming hand on his arm. He clears his throat, muttering an apology.

“What the Hawkins police haven’t been able to do,” he finishes instead, sharper than he means to, “It means we have a real detective on the case.”

Mrs. Holland’s expression softens with hope, “It means… we’re going to find our Barb.”

Maggie’s fork stills against her plate. She glances at Nancy, at the way her knuckles whiten around her napkin. The air at the table feels like glass stretched too thin, about to crack.

“If anyone can find her, it’s this man,” Mr. Holland insists, “He already has leads. By God, he’s worth every last penny.”

Nancy swallows and it clicks, “Is that why you’re selling the house?”

Mrs. Holland looks at her gently, “Oh, don’t worry about us, sweetie. We’re fine. More than fine. For the first time in a long time, we’re hopeful.”

The word hopeful twists something in Nancy’s chest. She presses her lips together, her face tightening with pain. Abruptly, she stands.

“Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”

Her chair scrapes the floor, her footsteps retreating quickly down the hall. The silence that follows is thick, awkward.

Steve clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. Maggie, meanwhile, has mashed potatoes smeared across one cheek, like a child who never quite learned table manners. She’s shoveling another bite into her mouth, oblivious.

She chews, swallows, then grins at the Hollands with a thumbs-up, “Well, this is the best meal I’ve had in a while.”

Mr. Holland blinks, startled by the bluntness.

Steve smirks, finding his opening, “It’s finger lickin’ good.”

Maggie points her fork at him, dead serious, “Say that again and I’m breaking up with you on Nancy’s behalf.”

Mrs. Holland snorts unexpectedly, covering her mouth with her napkin. For the briefest moment, the heaviness lifts.

Steve hides his own smile by sipping from his water glass, while Maggie just keeps eating like she’s in some kind of personal competition with Colonel Sanders himself.

After dinner, the plates are cleared, the KFC bucket half-empty in the center of the table. Mrs. Holland insists on packing leftovers into a plastic container for them, her hands busy as though staying in motion will keep the ache away.

When the door closes behind them, the three teens step into the cool evening air. It smells faintly of damp leaves, the streetlights buzzing faintly overhead. Nancy exhales a shaky breath, hugging her arms around herself.

Steve glances at her, his voice careful, “You okay?”

Nancy nods too quickly, “Yeah. Yeah, I just—” Her voice catches, and she presses her lips together, staring down at the sidewalk.

Maggie kicks a pebble down the drive, letting the silence stretch before cutting it gently, “They’re just… trying to hold onto something. Even if it’s not… real. Doesn’t make it any less heavy.”

Nancy looks at her then, searching her face, and for a second Maggie wonders if she’s said too much. But Nancy only gives the smallest nod, her eyes wet.

Steve shifts awkwardly, clearly wanting to say more but not sure how. Maggie, never one to let a moment rot in tension, claps her hands together.

“Well,” she says, forcing brightness into her tone, “that was the most emotionally draining fried chicken of my life.”

Steve snorts, “Yeah, no kidding.”

Nancy lets out a small, surprised laugh despite herself, and Maggie smiles like it’s a personal victory.

They walk toward Steve’s car, gravel crunching underfoot. Maggie suddenly stops, swinging her bag over her shoulder.

“Alright, kids, this is where I part ways.”

Steve frowns. “What? You’re not coming with us?”

“Nope,” Maggie says cheerfully, “I’ve got a hot date with the Byers boys. Mama Byers is making popcorn, Will’s on movie-picking duty. Last time he picked, it scarred me for life, so fingers crossed he goes easy on me tonight.”

Maggie steps backward down the sidewalk, wiggling her fingers in a wave, “Try not to mope without me, lovebirds.”

Nancy shakes her head, muttering, “She’s impossible,” but there’s warmth in her voice.

Steve watches Maggie disappear around the corner, then looks back at Nancy.

“She’s good for you,” he says softly.

Nancy doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t have to. The smile that flickers across her face says enough.

The Byers’ house sits at the end of the street, porch light glowing weakly against the October dark. Maggie crunches through the fallen leaves in the yard and pushes the front door open without knocking.

“I’m hoooome!” she announces, throwing her arms out like she expects applause.

From the kitchen comes Joyce’s voice, “Hi, honey! There’s soda in the fridge if you want some.”

“Joyce, you’re a saint,” Maggie calls back.

She toes off her shoes by the door and makes a beeline for the kitchen, where Bob is perched on a stool, fiddling with a half-assembled VHS player on the counter.

“Hey, kiddo,” Bob greets her cheerfully, glancing up, “Big night?”

“You could say that,” Maggie replies, snagging a can of Coke from the fridge, “I dined on the Colonel’s finest and survived an emotional gauntlet, so yeah. I earned this.”

She raises the can in a mock toast before cracking it open.

Joyce chuckles softly, though her eyes flick toward Bob with that ever-present worry written into the lines of her face. Maggie notices, but doesn’t comment. She’s learned that sometimes the kindest thing she can do for Joyce is just… be loud enough to distract her.

“Jonathan!” she calls down the hall, “Your sister is here, ready to heckle your movie choices!”

Jonathan’s voice floats back, “It’s Will’s pick tonight!”

“Well then,” Maggie says, heading that way, “I reserve the right to heckle him too.”

Her and Jonathan meet in the middle, both on their way to Will’s room. Maggie is sipping on her Coke with one hand and carrying a half-empty bag of pretzels in the other. Jonathan has a small stack of VHS tapes balanced against his chest.

“Sup, Tornado,” Jonathan says, smirking as she bumps her fist against his.

“Sup, Sad Eyes,” she shoots back with her usual grin, “You come bearing cinematic treasures?”

Jonathan rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue the nickname. He lifts the tapes slightly. “

Got a few options. We’ll see what Will’s in the mood for.”

When they reach Will’s door, Jonathan knocks gently with his free hand.

Maggie sings through the wood in a falsetto, “It’s us, your two favorite people in the universe!”

“Third favorite in my case,” Jonathan mutters, but there’s no heat in it.

Jonathan pushes the door open, poking his head in, “Hey, bud. I didn’t know what you’d like, so I got a variety. Take your pick.”

He steps in and sets the tapes on Will’s shelf. Maggie immediately flops onto Will’s bed, bouncing just enough to make Will grunt.

“Careful,” he complains, pushing her with his foot.

“Love you too,” she says, stealing one of his comics without permission.

Will shrugs at the tapes, “Whatever you want.”

“Alright,” Jonathan says, settling onto the bed beside his brother. He nods toward the sketchpad open on Will’s lap, “What are you working on?”

Maggie leans over, squinting, “Zombie Boy? Who’s Zombie Boy?”

Will doesn’t look up, “Me.”

Maggie blinks, the playfulness dropping from her face, “Did someone call you that?”

When Will doesn’t answer, Jonathan leans forward, his tone softening, “Hey, you can talk to me. You know that, right? Whatever happened. Will, come on, talk to me.”

The quiet explodes all at once.

“Stop treating me like that!” Will yells.

Jonathan jerks back, “Like what?”

“Like everyone else does. Like there’s something wrong with me.”

“What are you talking about?” Jonathan asks, his voice stumbling.

“Mom. Dustin. Lucas. Everyone,” Will’s words tumble out fast, hot, “They all treat me like I’m gonna break. Like I’m a baby. Like I can’t handle things on my own. It doesn’t help. It just makes me feel like more of a freak.”

The word freak hangs in the room. Maggie sits up straighter, her chest tight.

“You’re not a freak,” Jonathan says firmly.

“Yeah I am.”

Jonathan exhales, then shakes his head, “You know what? You’re right. You are a freak.”

Will’s eyes widen, “What?”

“I’m serious,” Jonathan presses, “You’re a freak. But what, do you wanna be normal? Do you wanna be just like everyone else? Being a freak is the best, alright? I’m a freak. Maggie’s a freak.”

“Hey, hey, hey, don’t loop me into this,” Maggie scolds, pointing a pretzel stick at him, “I’m a very dignified member of society.”

Will glares weakly.

“Is that why you don’t have any friends?” he shoots back at Jonathan.

Jonathan laughs under his breath, shaking his head, “I have friends, Will.”

“Then why are you always hanging out with me and Maggie?”

“Because you guys are my best friends,” Jonathan says simply, “And I would rather be best friends with Zombie Boy and Walking Tornado than with a boring nobody. You know what I mean? Look, who would you rather be friends with: Bowie or Kenny Rogers?”

Will shakes his head immediately, his face scrunching at the mention of Kenny Rogers.

“Exactly,” Jonathan says, a small smile tugging at his mouth, “It’s no contest. The thing is, nobody normal ever accomplished anything meaningful in this world. You got it?”

Will hesitates, then mutters, “Well… some people like Kenny Rogers.”

At that exact moment, Bob passes by in the hallway and pokes his head in, “Kenny Rogers? I love Kenny Rogers.”

The three of them burst out laughing, the tension breaking.

Bob picks up one of the VHS tapes Jonathan had set aside. He whoops.

“Mr. Mom! Perfect.”

“Classic Bob,” Maggie says with a grin, saluting him with her Coke.

He beams and disappears back down the hall, humming a tune that might actually be Kenny Rogers.

Will chuckles, shaking his head, “He’s so weird.”

“See?” Jonathan nudges him gently, “The good kind of weird. Our kind.”

Maggie flops backward across Will’s bed, her hair spilling everywhere like a curtain. “Okay, life lesson learned: freaks unite. Now, let’s get to the living room before I start doing a dramatic reading of Will’s comics.”

Will yanks the comic out of her hands before she can prove her point. Jonathan smirks as he stands to his feet, and the trio makes their way to the Byers’ living room.

The living room glows with the flicker of the TV screen, the only other light coming from the lamp Joyce insists on keeping lit in the corner. The tape of Mr. Mom whirs inside the VCR, its opening credits rolling as Bob fusses with the tracking on the remote.

“Crystal clear,” Bob says proudly once the picture evens out.

He settles into the couch beside Joyce, throwing an arm around her shoulder like he’s been waiting all day for this exact moment.

Maggie sprawls out on the carpet, propping her chin up in her hands, legs bent and crossed at the ankles.

“Front row seats,” she declares, patting the rug, “Best view in the house. You peasants on the couch don’t even know.”

Will giggles softly and slides down from the couch to sit cross-legged next to her. He bumps her shoulder lightly, and Maggie elbows him back before stealing one of the blankets Joyce brought in from the linen closet.

Jonathan sits on the floor too, leaning against the side of the couch with a lazy slump. He’s got a bowl of popcorn in his lap, which Maggie immediately pilfers from without asking.

“Hey,” Jonathan mutters.

“Finders keepers,” she says through a mouthful, grinning when Will starts laughing again.

Joyce watches the three of them with a quiet smile. For the first time in a while, her boys are relaxed. Will is laughing, Jonathan isn’t buried behind a camera. And Maggie seems to light the whole room up without trying.

On screen, Michael Keaton fumbles with a vacuum cleaner. Bob laughs before anyone else does, a booming laugh that fills the room.

“Classic,” he says, pointing at the screen like he’s letting them in on a secret joke.

Maggie twists around on the carpet and points back at him, “You laugh like a sitcom dad, Bob.”

He grins, unbothered, “That’s the dream.”

Jonathan chuckles, while Joyce swats at Bob’s arm, but she’s laughing too.

By the time the credits roll, Bob is half-dozing against Joyce’s shoulder, Joyce herself chuckling softly as the movie winds down. Will stretches out under the blanket Maggie stole, looking a little more at ease than he did earlier.

Maggie yawns, throwing her arms over her head dramatically.

“Well, folks, that was cinema. Pure art. Changed my life. Ten out of ten,” She flops back onto the rug with a groan, “Someone carry me down the hall.”

“No way,” Jonathan says, standing and collecting the empty bowls.

“Coward,” Maggie calls after him, making Will laugh again.

Joyce tucks the blanket around Will a little tighter, and Maggie sits up long enough to see Bob kiss Joyce’s temple before retreating to the kitchen with Jonathan. Maggie curls back into the rug with a soft smile.