Chapter 6

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Hawkins High smells like floor wax, dry-erase markers, and teenage despair. Maggie’s halfway to her locker with a glittery backpack, combat boots, and what may or may not be a denim vest covered in safety pins spelling out BITE ME. The hall parts a little as she walks, not because she’s intimidating, though she is a little, but because she carries herself like someone who could throw a javelin or start a musical number at any moment.

Barb catches up with her near the vending machine.

“Did you really tell Mr. Gibson that Shakespeare was the original drama queen?” she asks, deadpan.

“He started it,” Maggie says, shaking a bag of M&Ms like a maraca, “He called me ‘unorthodox’ in front of the whole class. What does that even mean? I know how doors work, I just choose not to use them sometimes.”

Barb rolls her eyes, “You’re going to get detention.”

“I don’t believe in detention. It’s a social construct.”

Before Barb can argue, someone joins them. Maggie registers the sound of heels, low, deliberate. She turns just as Barb waves her over.

“Nancy!” Barb says, brightening, “This is Maggie. Maggie, Nancy.”

Nancy looks like she walked out of a catalog for responsible daughters. She’s got neat hair, neat shoes, and a neat way of frowning that somehow still looks graceful.

“Hey,” Nancy says, polite but wary. 

Her eyes do a quick scan: Maggie’s safety pins, Maggie’s purple eyeliner, Maggie’s visible disdain for hallway etiquette.

Maggie tilts her head and smiles, “Oh. You’re Nancy.”

Nancy quirks a brow, “I… am?”

Maggie leans forward slightly, “Barb’s other half. The famous one. You’re even prettier in person. Must be exhausting.”

Barb groans quietly behind her hand.

“Thanks?”

“You’re welcome,” Maggie says, straightening, “Love the sweater. You look like someone who could solve a murder and bake a perfect pie.”

“I… can?” Nancy says, glancing at Barb.

“She’s like this all the time,” Barb mutters.

“Worse, actually,” Maggie says, “You’re lucky you caught me post-snack.”

Nancy arches a brow, “So, you two are friends now?”

“She adopted me,” Maggie says cheerfully, throwing an arm around Barb’s shoulders, “I’m her emotional support feral.”

Barb elbows her, “We’re partners in English and Bio.”

“And in crime,” Maggie adds, winking.

Nancy can’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, “Well, anyone who can make Barb laugh during class is either brilliant or dangerous.”

“Why not both?” Maggie says, “Also, if you’re free third period, I’m starting a revolution in the library. Bring a pencil sharpener and a sense of righteous indignation.”

Barb sighs, “It’s just debate club, Maggie.”

“It could be a revolution,” Maggie argues, “We’re starting with the dress code. These shoulders contain power, Nancy.”

Nancy laughs, an actual, surprised laugh. It sounds like she didn’t mean to let it out.

The bell rings.

As students flood the hall, Nancy gives Barb a look, “Walk with me to class?”

Barb nods, “See you at lunch?”

Maggie salutes, “Absolutely. If I’m not assassinated by the Mathletes.”

As Barb and Nancy head off, Nancy leans in and whispers, “She’s… interesting.”

Barb huffs, “Understatement of the year.”

Nancy glances back at Maggie once, just once, and catches her watching them go, all sharp smile and glittering eyes.

She doesn’t say anything. But that smile stays with her the rest of the morning.

By the time lunch rolls around, Maggie’s already had a full day.

She’s told her geometry teacher that the Pythagorean Theorem sounds like a spell, got a minor paper cut trying to open her locker (“Battle scar,” she told a bewildered freshman), and “accidentally” glitter-bombed her own desk with a leaky pen.

When she struts into the cafeteria, tray in one hand and juice box in the other, she scans the room until she finds Barb, her now-solid lunch companion, sitting at their usual corner table. But today, there’s a third figure sitting beside her.

Nancy. Perfect hair, posture like she’s been trained to balance books on her head, and eyes that flick up as Maggie approaches.

“Well, well, well,” Maggie says, dropping into her seat and dramatically adjusting her plastic spork like it’s cutlery in a five-star restaurant, “Fancy seeing you again. Twice in one day? People will talk.”

Nancy rests her chin in her hand, “You’re a lot.”

“And you’re observant. I like that,” Maggie pops a tater tot into her mouth and winks, “Barb didn’t tell me you were so quick on the draw.”

Barb, already halfway into a granola bar, sighs, “You were bound to find each other eventually. Just try not to summon anything in the middle of lunch.”

“Summon?” Maggie gasps, “I barely brought my cauldron today.”

Nancy raises a brow, “Do you always talk like this?”

“Only on days ending in Y.”

The girls settle into an odd rhythm. Barb eating methodically, Nancy skeptical but intrigued, and Maggie doing… well, Maggie. She jabs her fork at her food and narrates cafeteria politics like it’s Game of Thrones.

Maggie gestures to the football players across the room, “See them? That’s the court of muscle. They rule with protein powder and the fear of wedgies. And over there,” she nods to a cluster of whispering cheerleaders, “that’s the lipstick mafia. I once asked one of them for a pencil and was excommunicated.”

Nancy bites back a smile, “You’re ridiculous.”

“Thank you,” Maggie says sweetly, “You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

Barb finishes her granola bar and leans back, “Maggie believes the world is more interesting if you narrate it like a fantasy novel.”

“It is!” Maggie insists, “School is just a less musical version of a dungeon crawl. You two are my party. Barb’s the wizard, you’re the bard, and I’m obviously the rogue-slash-wildcard.”

Nancy tilts her head, “Why bard?”

“You’ve got that look,” Maggie says, studying her, “Sharp eyes, quiet steps, high charisma score. You could steal a heart or a government document, and no one would notice.”

Barb blinks, “Did you just compliment and vaguely threaten her in the same sentence?”

Maggie grins, “Multitasking, baby.”

Nancy rolls her eyes, but it’s with a smile, “You’re weird.”

“I know, I get that a lot. I’m trying to get it trademarked.”

Lunch drifts by in a haze of offbeat conversation. Maggie ranks the most suspicious teachers (history wins by a landslide), Nancy shares exactly two facts about herself (one of which is that she once alphabetized her closet for fun), and Barb tries very hard not to look like she’s enjoying herself too much.

As the bell rings, Maggie rises with a groan and stretches like a cat, “Ugh. Off to biology, where we shall valiantly pretend to understand mitosis.”

“Don’t say it like it’s a noble quest,” Barb mutters.

“I’m all about noble quests,” Maggie replies, hoisting her glitter-stickered binder under one arm, “And dramatic exits.”

She spins once, points finger-gun style at Nancy, and says, “See you later, Bard.”

Nancy stares after her as Maggie saunters off, nearly colliding with a trash can but recovering smoothly.

Barb just shrugs, “You get used to her.”

Nancy watches Maggie disappear through the double doors, “I kind of hope I don’t.”

Barb smiles behind her textbook, “Too late.”

The sky over Hawkins the next morning is crisp and gray. Maggie practically waltzes up the front steps of the high school with her usual energy, scarf trailing behind, her silver streak of hair glinting in the weak sun.

Barb is already there, leaning against the bike rack, binder hugged to her chest like a shield. She spots Maggie immediately, and her shoulders sag just a little in relief. 

“You’re early.”

“I ran out of things to throw glitter on at home,” Maggie says brightly, “What’s a girl to do?”

Barb doesn’t answer. Her gaze has shifted toward the parking lot.

Maggie follows it, curious, and sees her. Nancy, standing by the passenger door of a sleek BMW, talking to a tall, smugly tousled boy in a worn denim jacket and perfect hair.

“Oho,” Maggie murmurs, stepping beside Barb, “Who’s the living hair commercial?”

Barb doesn’t look away, “Steve Harrington.”

“Harrington?” Maggie repeats, eyes narrowing with interest, “Tell me more. Is he tragic? Brooding? Secretly a vampire?”

“He’s… Steve,” Barb says flatly, “Popular. Plays basketball. Throws parties. Makes questionable choices in friends.”

“And our girl Nancy?”

Barb’s lips press into a line, “She likes him. They’ve been talking. A lot.”

Maggie arches a brow, “Well. Seems like the perfect time to insert myself into the narrative.”

Barb whips her head toward her, “No. I think you shouldn’t.”

“Too late,” Maggie sings, already sauntering across the pavement with the confidence of someone who thinks the world owes her a meet-cute.

“Maggie—!”

But she’s gone. Nancy notices her approach first, mid-sentence, and her brows lift slightly in both amusement and mild alarm.

Steve turns, eyes tracking the newcomer in the eclectic jacket and boots that scream ‘I may or may not hex you depending on your tone.’

“Good morning, starshine,” Maggie greets Nancy with a crooked grin, “Your local disaster has arrived.”

Nancy laughs softly, “It’s… eight a.m.”

“And yet you still look radiant. Honestly, unfair.”

Steve clears his throat, “Uh… hey?”

Maggie turns to him like she just noticed a tree started talking, “Oh! You must be Steve.”

He leans slightly on the car, giving his best charming smirk, “Yeah, and you are…?”

“Maggie,” she says, offering her hand dramatically, “Glitter enthusiast. Friend of Barb. Chaos in human form.”

Steve takes her hand, a little thrown, but grinning, “Nice to meet you, Maggie. You always introduce yourself like a Bond villain?”

“Only when I meet people with legendary hair,” She gives him a once-over, “Wow. That volume? You a Virgo?”

Nancy stifles a laugh. Steve is unsure if he’s being complimented or roasted. 

“I—uh—no, I’m a Leo.”

“Of course you are,” Maggie says, “That explains the swagger.”

Behind them, Barb is slowly walking up, looking like she’s bracing for impact.

“So,” Maggie continues breezily, glancing between the two, “you two were in the middle of a heartfelt, teen-romance-style moment before I barged in. Continue. Don’t let me stop true love.”

Nancy flushed, “We were just talking about—”

“Homework,” Steve adds, too quickly.

Maggie gasps, “Hot. Nothing like AP Euro to really set the heart racing.”

Barb finally reaches them, “Maggie, maybe we should head to class.”

“In a second, dearest Barbara. I’m learning about the sacred mating rituals of Hawkins High,” Maggie turns to Steve and mock-whispers, “Is she your type? Smart, organized, probably keeps a schedule of her dreams?”

Nancy groans, “Maggie.”

Steve laughs, “I mean… yeah, kind of.”

Maggie beams, “Adorable. I ship it. But—” she leans a little closer to Steve with a sly smile, “if you ever need backup vocals for your hair-care commercial, I’m your girl.”

Barb physically grabs Maggie by the elbow, “Time to go.”

Maggie lets herself be dragged, calling over her shoulder, “Good talking to you, Steve. Nancy, don’t do anything I would do. I’ll see you later, gorgeous.”

Once they’re a few steps away, Barb mutters, “That was horrifying.”

“Thank you,” Maggie says brightly, “I try.”

“You flirted with both of them.”

“I’m efficient.”

“You threatened to join their love story.”

“I improved the narrative arc.”

Barb shakes her head, though a reluctant smile tugs at her mouth, “You’re going to get punched someday.”

Maggie shrugs, “Worth it.”

As they disappear through the front doors, Maggie glances back once, just long enough to catch Nancy watching her from the parking lot, expression unreadable, curious.

Maggie grins to herself. Let the games begin.

Lunch rolls around again, and as usual, Barb is unfolding a napkin, lining up her yogurt and sandwich like she’s running a NASA simulation. Maggie flops down across from her with far less grace, narrowly avoiding knocking over a bottle of orange juice in the process. She drops her tray with a dramatic sigh and kicks her boots up onto the bench.

Nancy arrives a minute later, hesitating just a second before taking the open seat beside Barb.

“Ladies,” Maggie says, lifting her milk carton in a toast, “Welcome to the only table where you might leave with either unsolicited poetry or secondhand embarrassment. Possibly both.”

Barb doesn’t look up from peeling her string cheese, “You’re the embarrassment.”

Maggie beams, “A title I wear with pride.”

They eat in relative peace for a few moments. Maggie punctuates her chewing with humming. Nancy picks at her salad. Barb tries to read a paperback between bites.

Then Maggie nudges a beat-up copy of Wuthering Heights out of her bag, tosses it on the table like it owes her money, and pulls out a crumpled worksheet. 

“Okay, we’re supposed to mark important quotes for analysis, which is hard because all the quotes are toxic and/or dramatic.”

Barb gives her a sideways glance, “So, basically your brand.”

“Exactly,” Maggie says, pleased.

She flips open the book and leans toward Nancy, “Can I steal your notes?”

Nancy raises an eyebrow, “You mean copy them?”

“No,” Maggie says, mock-offended, “I mean, borrow them for… strategic consultation. Possibly with added doodles.”

Nancy sighs but pushes her notebook over, “Just don’t deface Heathcliff. He’s already a disaster.”

Maggie hums as she reads, pulling a pen from behind her ear. True to her word, she starts sketching tiny stick figures in the margins, one of which appears to be throwing a thunderstorm at another.

They pass the book back and forth. Nancy explains a metaphor. Maggie rewrites it in glitter pen. Barb groans audibly.

After a few minutes, Maggie tilts her head and says casually, “So… you and Steve.”

Nancy freezes with her fork halfway to her mouth, “What about it?”

“Just asking,” Maggie says, not looking up from her doodles, “Is he a phase? A slow burn? A cautionary tale in tight jeans?”

Barb facepalms, “Maggie.”

Nancy sets down her fork, “Why do you care?”

Maggie finally looks at her, smiling innocently, “Curiosity. Maybe jealousy. Maybe I want to know who I’m up against.”

Nancy’s face flushes a pink so vivid it could be Pantone-certified.

“That was a joke,” Maggie adds quickly, “Mostly.”

Barb coughs into her apple juice, “Maggie, stop harassing my friends.”

Maggie makes a wounded noise, “I’m not harassing. I’m bonding, Barbarella. This is what emotional intimacy looks like in my species.”

Nancy recovers enough to shoot her a crooked smile, “You’re exhausting.”

“I’ve been called worse. Often by teachers and mall cops.”

“You got banned from the mall?” Barb asks flatly.

“Temporarily. There were ferrets involved.”

Nancy chuckles, despite herself, “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” Maggie says sweetly, tapping her pen on the page, “you keep sitting near me. Fascinating.”

Nancy doesn’t reply, but her smile hangs around like it’s trying to make up its mind. Barb watches the exchange with the wary expression.

She finally sets her book down and says, “Do I need to separate you two like toddlers?”

Maggie leans across the table and stage-whispers, “Barb, I adore you. But if anyone’s getting me to behave, it’s not going to be the girl with a color-coded binder system.”

Nancy snorts, then quickly tries to hide it behind her hand.

The bell rings too soon.

Barb’s already gathering her stuff, grumbling about group projects. Nancy stands slowly, slinging her bag over her shoulder, glancing once at Maggie.

Maggie swings her bag on dramatically, snapping the strap against her hip, “See you later, my beautiful ladies. I’ll bring the angst, the existential dread, and a children’s book reading in a British accent.”

Barb rolls her eyes, “You always do.”

Nancy lingers just a second longer. 

“You know,” she says, “you don’t have to be weird all the time.”

Maggie cocks her head like a curious bird, “Oh, but then I’d be predictable. And we can’t have that.”

Nancy gives her one of those looks, half amused, half bewildered, and turns to go.

Maggie watches her walk away, tapping her fingers thoughtfully against the book she never quite read.

She’s not sure when Nancy Wheeler became her favorite kind of puzzle. But she’s pretty sure she wants to figure her out.