Through the open bedroom window, the smell of cut grass and Dustin's half-eaten bologna sandwich drifted in. You'd told him to take that outside twice already.

Inside, the room was a shrine to pink and white. Lace doilies on the dresser, a frilly canopy drooping over the bed, polka dots scattered across the pillows. The record player crackled, a soft, dreamy tune filling the air.

The window frame creaked as a head of perfectly tousled brown hair appeared in the gap. Steve Harrington, eyes wide, frozen halfway through the window, a can of beer in one hand and a look of pure terror on his face.