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Holly hates when people yell. Mom and Dad yell at each other, Nancy and Mike used to. Dustin yells, and Lucas yells, and somehow as the years have gotten bigger and Holly’s house has gotten smaller, there have been more loud voices echoing upstairs and down.
When Nancy was at home more, occasionally, she’d let Holly come stay in her room. Occasionally means not always. Don’t count on it.
So. Occasionally, Holly would curl up on the end of Nancy’s bed, in the quietest, safest room in the house. She’d admire the ballerina in its music box, and study the pictures of Barb that Nancy keeps in a silver photo album, along with her real smile.
But Nancy’s not around so much anymore. Hawkins is all broken up, divided like badly sliced cake. Tank-like vehicles roar by at all hours, helicopters drone overhead. There’s nowhere safe, nowhere quiet. Holly doesn’t go into Nancy’s room alone, and so the house gets smaller and the yelling (and its many echoes) get louder.
Some nights, Holly curls up on her bed, hands over her ears, and thinks, I’m not here, like she can make it come true.
Holly knows what it is to be not here. It’s not the same as dying. It’s something kids dream about, something that monsters know.
Mr. Whatsit doesn’t mind the way that Hawkins has changed.
A little different than I remember, Holly, but that’s all right.
He always says her name. Holly learns to look forward to that soft smile, those bright eyes. She listens for his slow, steady steps, knowing that nobody else will hear them.
Did you used to live here, Mr. Whatsit?
I’ve always lived here, Holly.
She wonders if this is how Nancy feels, missing Jonathan. Or how Dustin and Lucas and Will felt, when Mike’s voice took on a strange, echoey power and painted promising pictures in the musty basement air. The opposite of yelling is listening.
You’re not here, but you are.
I can hear you.
One afternoon, she hears Mr. Whatsit in the Big Buy. She’s super-duper almost sure.
It’s kind of a treat, going to Big Buy after school. Holly’s only allowed to come in with Mom if she promises not to wander off. Today, though, Mom is haggling over the limited selection at the meat counter and Holly sees—or thinks she sees—a flash of brown. She hears—or thinks she hears—the click-click of his shiny shoes. It isn’t wandering to go an aisle away, is it?
Mom can always yell.
Holly tiptoes from meat to canned goods, holding her breath. The shelves aren’t as full as they used to be. Grocery shipment days are like an extra Sunday, in Hawkins. But even though the shelves gleam emptily, like jaws without teeth, Holly likes how the lights overhead are bright and clean. There’s no weird ashy snow in here, the kind that still falls during summer thunderstorms. High up above, in the rafters, fans whir, their long blades blurring together. Because of the fans, people don’t even have to wear masks in the store anymore.
Holly sees another glimpse of that familiar brown sleeve, and starts to run, whirling around the corner to see—
Steve Harrington.
Holly remembers Steve. He used to be Nancy’s.
Back then, he was tall, he smelled good and grownup, which Nancy said was Ralph Lauren and Mike said was showing off. He cleared his throat at family dinners and swung golf clubs with Dad. Nancy leaned her head on his shoulder and touched his hand with feather-light fingers.
Holly’s memories of that time (of her whole life) are a strange patchwork: full of both color and loneliness. She was always watching the autumn leaves and snowball volleys from little-kid distance. The summer after Will was lost is a cloud-drifted blank, but she remembers the cold that returned, like the dog that comes home again in one of her favorite books.
The cold: Nancy in her pale blue puffer coat, her newly short hair blowing around her rosy cheeks. Steve’s arm around Nancy’s shoulders, holding her like he could keep her there. And Holly, if she’d been braver—if she’d been brave at all—would have marched up to him and said,
She’s not here.
Steve is still tall, and wearing a suede jacket that is almost, but not quite, the color of Mr. Whatsit’s. Steve’s hair is still too big for his head, but Holly likes it better than she used to. She also likes that he doesn’t see her, because it’s embarrassing, the way she jumped out like she was Derek Turnbow trying to prank somebody.
Thankfully, Steve is busy comparing two cans of tomato soup, his eyebrows pulled together like he’s making a very important decision.
Holly backs slowly away. Why did she think Mr. Whatsit would show up at Big Buy? He’s too cool—too fancy for that.
“Holly?”
Oh, crap. Double-crap.
Steve advances, a can in each hand. It’s not his fault that he isn’t Mr. Whatsit, so Holly isn’t mad, exactly. She’s just…
Disappointed.
“Is your mom here? Or—” he clears his throat. “Nancy?”
She nods. Adds, “My mom. She’s buying hamburger.”
“Right on,” Steve says, smiling. Holly wonders why he doesn’t come over very much anymore; there was a time, the spring just before, when he started showing up again. Dad doesn’t notice some things, but he noticed Steve. He always commented on how much he liked that Harrington kid’s car.
Holly doesn’t see anything special about Steve’s car. Unlike the boys—Mike and Dustin and Lucas—she’s never gotten to ride in it. But there is something a little special about Steve, about the kind look in his dark eyes. Maybe that’s what Nancy liked, if she liked it at all.
(She’s not here.)
“I…” Holly drags the toe of her rainboot over the faded tile floor. She should say something. She should ask what Mom calls a polite question. Nothing comes to mind.
“I need advice,” says Steve, in a confiding tone. “Tomato rice—” he holds one can out ahead of the other, giving it a moment to shine—“or tomato basil?” He swaps hands.
Holly breathes a sigh of relief. It’s easier when someone else is asking the questions.
(Have you missed me, Holly? I don’t like talking to the other children as much as I like talking to you.)
“If it helps,” Steve adds, “I’m also making grilled cheese.”
“Oh,” says Holly. “Tomato basil, then.”
He grins. It’s not like Mr. Whatsit’s smile at all, but it’s still a nice one. “Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.”
Why don’t you come and visit anymore? Holly wants to ask, but that wouldn’t be polite. Instead she says,
“I should go, sorry. My mom will be worried.”
“Got it,” Steve says, nodding seriously. If he wants to ask anything else—if he wants to ask about Nancy, he doesn’t say. “You were never here.”
What about the grownups? Holly asks, and Mr. Whatsit tilts his head.
What about them? Are you worried about your mother and father?
Not—Holly stops. It’s the first time she’s ever run out of words, talking to Mr. Whatsit. She wanted to say, not them, I mean Nancy, and Steve, and Jonathan. They’re not kids anymore. What about them? Do they know about the monsters? She wanted to be sure that Mr. Whatsit thought of everything. But maybe those questions wouldn’t be fair. Maybe that’s how yelling starts—you don’t trust that anybody knows what to do, and you start asking too much, listening too little, and it all gets louder and louder—
(Don’t count on it. You aren’t here.)
Holly looks down at her boots.
It’s OK, she says.
Mr. Whatsit purrs.
No, no. You can ask me anything, Holly. But you don’t need to worry about the grownups. I have plans for them, too. I mean to take care of everyone.