Chapter 30

HELLO MY LITTLE BAGUETTES (thats what im calling yall now). I have been writing for the past 7 hours 😭 and have THREE new chapters for youuuuuu. hope you’re excitedddddddd

Maggie wakes to the smell of coffee and the creak of floorboards.
For a second, she has no idea where she is. The air smells like pine, the blanket’s rough wool, and there’s a faint humming from the generator outside. Then memory drifts back: Hopper’s late, El’s waffles, a makeshift sleepover on the couch.

She groans, flopping over. Her neck feels like it lost a fight with a wooden beam.

“Ugh. Never again am I sleeping on a couch that was built before electricity.”

There’s movement in the kitchen. Hopper is muttering something at the coffeemaker and El’s perched at the table in her pajamas, chin in her hand, watching him like he’s a science experiment.

Maggie pushes herself upright, blinking blearily, “Morning, sunshine and grumpzilla.”

Hopper glances up from the mug in his hand, “Didn’t know you were still here.”

“Yeah, figured if I left before dawn, Bigfoot would eat me,” she yawns, rubbing her face, “You’re welcome for keeping your secret government kid from going full Carrie last night.”

El giggles softly, and Hopper shoots her a look that says, Don’t encourage her.

Maggie stands, stretches and immediately notices how gross she feels. Her hair’s wild, her shirt smells vaguely like stale beer from last night’s party, and her jeans have enough mud to qualify as soil samples.

“Okay,” she says, “I cannot go out to school smelling like a corpse that lost a bar fight. You got, like, a spare T-shirt? Maybe socks?”

Hopper raises a brow, “You’re asking me for fashion help?”

“I’m asking not to be mistaken for the smelly kid, Chief,” she shoots back, “Desperate times.”

He grumbles something unintelligible but jerks his thumb toward the back room, “Closet’s got some old stuff. Don’t steal anything nice.”

“Oh, please,” she says, already walking away, “Nothing in your wardrobe qualifies as ‘nice.'”

A few minutes later, she emerges wearing one of Hopper’s flannel shirts, sleeves rolled up three times, half-tucked into her jeans. She’s managed to tame her hair into a messy ponytail, but the look is still pure “lumberjack chic.”

El looks up from her plate of Eggos and grins, “You look funny.”

Maggie strikes a pose, “Funny? No, no, this is high fashion. The rustic hermit aesthetic. Very exclusive.”

“Very smelly,” Hopper mutters, sipping his coffee.

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” she says sweetly, pouring herself a mug, “Besides, it’s either this or I walk through town in last night’s clothes smelling like a distillery.”

El giggles again, and Maggie smiles, handing her the syrup bottle, “He’s just mad because I pull off his look better than he does.”

“Hey,” Hopper warns, but there’s amusement in his voice now, “Don’t get too comfortable. You’re not moving in.”

Maggie mock-gasps, “You mean I don’t get to be your live-in babysitter-slash-style icon?”

“No,” he says flatly. Then, after a beat, “Thanks, though. For coming over last night.”

She shrugs, trying to play off the warmth that spreads in her chest, “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta keep this family from self-destructing.”

El beams at her, syrup on her chin, and Maggie can’t help but grin back.

“Okay, fine,” she sighs dramatically, “I guess I’ll stick around for breakfast.”

Hopper groans, “Great. Two kids to feed.”

Maggie raises her mug, “Correction: two kids and your new life coach.”

He glares, but there’s the hint of a smirk, “Out by eight.”

“Sure thing, Chief,” she says, grinning as she steals a strip of bacon from his plate, “But I’m keeping the shirt.”

The morning air in Hawkins still smells like rain when Maggie pedals down the long dirt road away from Hopper’s cabin. Her breath fogs in front of her, and the hem of the borrowed flannel shirt flaps around her thighs as she rides.

Now she’s coasting into the Hawkins High parking lot, the lunch bell still twenty minutes away from ringing. The early crowd is already there, but Maggie doesn’t stop until she spots Jonathan’s beat-up car parked beneath the lamppost near the back row.

Nancy’s already there, sitting cross-legged on the hood. Jonathan leans beside her, fiddling with his camera strap, a thermos of coffee balanced on the roof. Maggie drops her bike against the next car and hops up beside them, boots scraping against metal.

“You two look disgustingly put together for people who were emotionally eviscerated at a party less than forty-eight hours ago.”

Jonathan smirks, handing her the thermos, “We’re coping.”

Nancy closes her notebook with a small smile, “You’re one to talk. You look like you spent the night in the woods.”

Maggie raises her brows, “Wow. Insult me, then hand me your flannel so I can be cozy while I cry.”

Jonathan glances at the oversized plaid hanging off her shoulders, “That’s not mine.”

“Good eye, Byers. It’s Hopper’s,” Maggie says, taking a sip from the thermos, “Spent the night up there helping him with a… situation.”

Nancy tilts her head, “Situation?”

Maggie waves it off, “Nothing big. Just, uh, cabin stuff. He owes me, though. Big time.”

Nancy narrows her eyes but doesn’t press. Jonathan looks amused, leaning back on his elbows.

“You’re really not gonna tell us, huh?”

“Nope,” She grins, “It’s classified. Top-secret forest business.”

Jonathan chuckles, shaking his head, “You’re weird.”

“I prefer ‘mysterious,'” Maggie says, nudging him with her knee, “And anyway, I’m not the weird one. You two have been out here for, what? Fifteen minutes? Sitting on a car like you’re filming a music video about feelings.”

Nancy laughs softly at that, brushing hair from her face. The sound makes something tight in Maggie’s chest ease. She’s glad to see Nancy smiling again after everything.

Maggie stretches her legs out in front of her, boots clinking against the bumper, “So. How’s everyone doing on the emotional devastation scale today? One being ‘fine,’ ten being ‘I listened to The Cure on repeat all night.'”

“Three,” Jonathan says.

“Five,” Nancy admits.

Maggie grins, “I’m a solid seven, but I think it’s mostly the caffeine.”

Jonathan chuckles, “You’re ridiculous.”

“Thank you,” she says, mock-bowing from her seat.

Nancy pulls her jacket tighter around her and glances sideways at Maggie, “That shirt actually suits you, you know.”

Maggie looks down at Hopper’s flannel, then back at her, smirking, “You think so? Should I keep it? Make it my new look?”

“Maybe,” Nancy says, a little smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, “You wear it better than he does.”

Maggie’s grin grows wickedly, “Careful, Wheeler. Sounds like you’re flirting with me.”

Nancy laughs, startled and blushing, “You wish.”

“Every day,” Maggie says easily.

Jonathan groans beside them, “Can you two not flirt before I’ve had lunch?”

“No promises,” Maggie says, bumping his shoulder with hers, “You’re the one who sits next to us like a chaperone.”

“Someone has to,” he mutters, but he’s smiling too.

The warning bell rings, sharp and echoing across the lot. None of them move right away. For a few seconds, it’s just the sound of birds and wind in the trees.

“Maggie, how do you feel about skipping fourth period?” Nancy asks.

Maggie raises an eyebrow, “I don’t know what you’re planning, but it can’t be good. I’m totally in.”

The bell above the Radio Shack door jingles as they step inside, the sound crisp against the hum of fluorescent lights. Shelves are stacked high with cassette tapes, boxed cables, and weird little gadgets that look like they belong in a spaceship instead of Indiana.

Bob Newby looks up from behind the counter, wearing his red Radio Shack polo and that same eternally cheerful grin.

“Well, hey there, if it isn’t my favorite trio of delinquents,” he greets warmly, “What brings you here this fine morning? Please tell me it’s not another science fair disaster.”

Maggie grins wide and props her elbows on the counter, “Hey, Bob-o! Actually, this one’s for school. Journalism club edition. We need a tape recorder. Preferably one that doesn’t sound like a dying robot.”

Bob chuckles, already moving toward a display shelf, “A recorder, huh? You kids working on another spooky exposé? ‘Secrets of Hawkins High: The Untold Story’?”

“Something like that,” Jonathan mutters, hovering behind Nancy with his camera bag slung across his shoulder.

“Any chance you’ve got mini-mics, too?” Maggie adds quickly, drumming her fingers on the glass counter, “Something that plugs in easy. Our journalism club is going stealth mode. Very Watergate.”

Bob gives her a look, half amusement and half suspicion, “Stealth journalism, huh? I don’t know if I like the sound of that.”

Maggie leans forward, flashing her best grin, “You love the sound of that. Besides, we’re supervised by a very responsible adult.”

“Who?”

“Technically you,” she shoots back.

That earns her a laugh, “Alright, you win. Follow me.”

He leads them to a glass display case, unlocking it and pulling out a small black Panasonic recorder with a red record button, “This one’s simple, sturdy, good sound quality. You’ll need fresh batteries and a cassette. I’ll throw in a lapel mic since you’re so official now.”

“Bob Newby, guardian angel of electronics,” Maggie says dramatically, taking the recorder from him like it’s a holy relic.

Bob smirks, “You’re lucky I like your mom. Otherwise, I’d charge extra for the attitude.”

“Oh, please,” Maggie teases, “you love me. I’m like the daughter you never asked for but can’t return.”

“Pretty sure that’s exactly what you are,” Bob fires back, laughing.

Nancy, who’s been quiet until now, checks the price tag, “We’ll pay for everything, Bob. Don’t—”

“Relax,” he interrupts, waving a hand, “Employee discount. But you do owe me a full report for your little journalism project, deal?”

Maggie salutes, “You’ll get the exclusive scoop, promise. Page one: Hawkins teens learn to press record.”

Bob hands Jonathan the extra cassette and batteries, lowering his voice just slightly, “You guys be careful with this stuff, alright? You start recording people without permission, that’s a whole legal headache I don’t wanna explain to your mom.”

“Totally noted,” Maggie says smoothly, “No laws broken, no adults freaked out. You have my word.”

He narrows his eyes at her, knowing full well her promises usually meant the opposite, but relents with a smile, “Alright, alright. Go save the world, Miss Drama Club.”

Jonathan tucks the gear neatly into his camera bag, “Thanks, Bob. Really.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just bring it back in one piece. And tell your mom I’ll pick up dinner tonight if she doesn’t beat me to it.”

“You got it, Romeo,” Maggie says as she backs toward the door, grinning, “Try not to serenade her with that Radio Shack jingle again. She’s still recovering from last time.”

Bob chuckles, pointing a finger at her, “Out. All of you. And no weird experiments.”

They spill back out into the parking lot, the chill November air biting at their jackets. Maggie’s still laughing as she hops onto the hood of Jonathan’s car, swinging her legs.

“Well, that went flawlessly. He didn’t even ask why we needed a mic.“

Nancy crosses her arms, the wind tugging at her hair, “That’s because you flirted him into submission.”

“It’s a skill,” Maggie says proudly, “I plan to use it only for good.”

Jonathan groans, shaking his head, “You’re lucky Bob didn’t ask questions.”

“Please,” Maggie says, sliding into the front seat, “if he’d asked, I’d have just told him we were recording my future hit single. Working title: ‘Hawkins Sucks (But You Don’t, Bob)’.“

Nancy snorts as Jonathan starts the car. They pull out of the lot, the recorder tucked safely in the back. A short car ride later, they pull into the Wheelers’ neat little driveway, where the grass is just a little too perfect and the pumpkins on the porch look like they’ve been measured with a ruler.

Maggie whistles low, “Every time I see this place, I feel like I should’ve worn pearls.”

Jonathan cuts the engine, “Please don’t say anything weird to her mom this time.”

“No promises, Byers,” Maggie says, grinning as she swings open the car door, “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

The three of them step inside, doing their best to look casual, which lasts approximately five seconds before Karen Wheeler appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a floral apron.

“Jonathan?” she says, brows lifting in pleasant surprise, “What a nice surprise! I didn’t know you three had plans today.”

Jonathan freezes like a deer in headlights, “Uh—yeah. We have a test tomorrow.”

Karen nods slowly, clearly unconvinced but too polite to press. Her eyes move to Nancy, then to the paper bag in her daughter’s hand, “Oh, did you go shopping?”

Nancy forces a smile, clutching the bag tighter, “Oh—uh, yeah. My Walkman broke. Needed a new one.”

Maggie, standing slightly behind her, mouths smooth at Jonathan, who immediately glares at her.

Karen tilts her head, glancing between the three of them with mild amusement, “Well, you all look very serious about your studying.”

“Oh yeah,” Maggie cuts in cheerfully, stepping forward, “Big test. Very academic. I might not survive it, Mrs. Wheeler,” She presses a hand to her chest, “If I don’t make it, tell the world I went down swinging.”

Jonathan groans audibly.

Karen laughs softly, her expression warm, “Well, I’m sure you’ll be fine, dear.”

Maggie flashes her most disarming grin, “You always know just what to say. Has anyone ever told you you’re dangerously good at pep talks?”

Karen chuckles, flustered but clearly entertained, “Thank you, Maggie. That’s very kind.”

Nancy rolls her eyes, “Oh my god.”

“Hey, I’m just appreciating great parenting,” Maggie says innocently, “It’s called respect, Wheeler.”

Karen’s smile grows, “Well, it’s nice to see you all getting along. Would you like some lemonade before you go?”

“That sounds great—” Maggie starts.

“We actually have to go!” Nancy blurts, shooting her a glare, “It’s a really big test.”

“Yeah,” Jonathan adds, backing toward the door, “Huge. Very stressful.”

“Monumental,” Maggie says solemnly.

Karen raises a brow but waves them off, still smiling, “Alright, alright. Don’t let me keep you. Good luck on your test.”

“Bye, Mrs. Wheeler!” Jonathan calls as he bolts toward stairs.

“Bye! It was nice to see you!” Karen calls back, laughter in her voice.

Maggie lingers for half a second longer, turning to give her a little two-fingered salute, “Always a pleasure, Karen.”

“Go on, you,” Karen says, amused, shaking her head.

Outside, as soon as the door shuts, Nancy spins around, “You cannot flirt with my mom.“

Maggie gasps, clutching her chest again, “Flirt? I was being polite! Respectful! Neighborly!”

Jonathan snorts, “You literally called her ‘dangerously good at pep talks.'”

“Yeah, because she is,” Maggie insists, “You felt that energy, right? She radiates kindness.”

Nancy glares, but there’s the faintest pink dusting her cheeks, and Maggie, noticing it, can’t resist pushing just a little further.

“What?” Maggie teases, leaning closer, “You jealous, Wheeler?”

Nancy’s lips part, her face going redder, “Of my mom? No! That’s—god, you’re ridiculous.”

Maggie grins, “Maybe. But you like me better when I am.”

Jonathan sighs, rubbing a hand down his face, “Alright. Let’s get to it before I explode.”

Nancy sits on the edge of her bed, staring at the wall like she’s calculating a dozen outcomes at once. The ticking clock on her nightstand fills the silence.

“So…” Maggie leans against the dresser, arms crossed, “what exactly are we doing here, besides breaking several federal laws and making me look like the bad influence?”

Nancy shoots her a sideways look, “You didn’t think to ask that before you agreed to come?”

Maggie shrugs, smirking, “Didn’t care what it was, as long as I’m involved. You say ‘mystery,’ I say ‘ride or die.'”

Jonathan exhales through his nose, pacing a little.

“We’re setting a trap,” Nancy says finally, voice flat but sure, “A trap that the government won’t think to fall in.”

Maggie’s eyes light up, “Trapping the feds. Bold move, Wheeler. I like it.”

Jonathan doesn’t look so convinced, “Are you sure about this?”

“No,” Nancy admits, already reaching for the beige phone on her nightstand.

Maggie sits down cross-legged on the carpet, chin in her hand, watching Nancy with quiet fascination.

“You know,” she says, “I think this might be the coolest and most terrifying thing you’ve ever done. Congrats.”

Nancy gives her a look that’s part nerves, part determination. Then she dials.

The phone rings once three times before a voice answers.

Nancy inhales sharply and speaks, “Mrs. Holland, hi—it’s, um… it’s Nancy. I, uh, I need to tell you something about Barb. About that night. I haven’t been honest with you.”

Her voice trembles a little, and Maggie’s expression softens.

“But I can’t tell you here on the phone,” Nancy continues, “Meet me tomorrow, Forest Hills Park, nine a.m. Don’t tell anyone. And don’t call me back here. It’s dangerous. I just need you to trust me. Please.”

The receiver hits the cradle with a sharp, echoing clack.

The room is dead silent. Jonathan and Maggie both stare at her.

Nancy’s hand lingers on the phone. Her breathing is uneven, but her face is steel.

Maggie breaks the silence first, “Well…we may have just put ourselves on every government watchlist in Indiana.”

Jonathan gives her a look, “Mags.”

She grins, “What? I’m kidding. Kind of.”

Nancy doesn’t laugh. She just whispers, “Now we wait. Til tomorrow.”

By the time Maggie pedals home, the sun’s still high behind the trees. It’s only about 2 o’clock.

She drops her bike by the porch, steps inside the Byers’ cluttered living room, and flops onto the couch with a sigh.

She’s just about to close her eyes for a nap when her walkie-talkie, sitting on the coffee table, crackles to life.

“—Maggie? Maggie, come in!”

It’s Dustin. His voice is high-pitched and urgent.

Maggie snatches it up, pressing the button, “Dustybun, this better be good. I was about to take a nap and dream about not dying.”

“It’s Will!” Dustin blurts, “Something’s wrong with Will—like, really wrong! You need to come, now!”

Maggie bolts upright, “What do you mean ‘wrong’? Where are you?”

“At the school!” Dustin sounds panicked, “Just—just hurry, okay?”

“On my way,” she says, already grabbing her jacket.

She’s out the door before the walkie finishes hissing static, heart pounding, bike tires screeching against the gravel. Something inside her knows whatever’s happening, it’s the start of something bad.