first day of junior year… 1987… and puberty hit… HARD
💬 4.1m
@lolahlauThe Hawkins High parking lot on the first day of junior year smelled of hot asphalt, cheap gasoline, and teenage anticipation. The late August sun was already beating down, promising another sweltering Indiana day.
Mike Wheeler leaned against the driver’s side door of his deep green Mustang, taking a long swig of Coke. He watched Lucas Sinclair, in a sleeveless basketball jersey, idly dribble a ball between his legs, the rhythmic thump-thump-thump a steady beat against the morning chatter.
Dustin Henderson was cross-legged on the hood of Lucas’s black Camaro, nose buried in a well-worn Monster Manual. Will Byers sat on the curb nearby, quietly reorganizing the contents of his backpack—a sketchpad, a few new mixtapes, his Walkman.
A few feet away, under the scant shade of a sickly-looking maple tree, Max Mayfield and El Hopper stood together. Max was gesturing sharply, her voice a low, irritated murmur. El listened, her expression unreadable, arms crossed over her oversized Police hoodie.
Lucas Sinclair
without looking up from his dribble She’s still pissed about the party at Steve’s, isn’t she?
Mike Wheeler
snorts Understatement of the century. She thinks you were flirting with Chrissy Cunningham.
Lucas Sinclair
I was being polite! She’s on the cheer squad, we have to do that bullshit pep rally together next week. It’s called being a team player.
Dustin Henderson
looks up from his book Yeah, a player. That’s what she’s worried about.
Will Byers
zips his backpack shut Can we not? It’s 8:15 in the morning.
The grumble of another engine cut through the tension. A familiar, slightly rattling Toyota Corolla—beige, practical, utterly unremarkable—pulled into the spot next to Mike’s Mustang.
As the driver’s side door opened, Mike took another sip of his Coke.
And then he choked.
The carbonated burn hit the back of his throat as his brain short-circuited. He coughed, soda spraying down his shirt.
The basketball slipped from Lucas’s fingers, thumping once before rolling silently under his Camaro. He didn’t move to get it.
Dustin’s Monster Manual slid from his lap and hit the pavement with a dull slap.
Will, turning at the sound of Mike’s coughing fit, fumbled his freshly packed backpack. It tipped over, spitting his carefully arranged belongings across the asphalt.
Even Max and El stopped their hushed argument, their heads turning in unison toward the commotion.
Standing there, one hand still on the open car door, was Y/n. The same Y/n they’d built blanket forts with, shared peanut butter sandwiches with, and played D&D with since they were five.
Except it wasn’t.
The summer had rewritten her. The girl who left in June, all knees and elbows and messy ponytails, was gone. In her place was a young woman. Her hair, longer now, caught the sun. The simple summer dress she wore clung to curves that hadn’t been there before, hinting at a body that had decided, very definitively, to arrive. Her legs seemed endless.
For a long, silent beat, the only sound was Mike’s ragged, dying coughs and the distant roar of a school bus.
Mike Wheeler
wheezing, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand Jesus Christ.