I don’t want anyone to notice me at all, until I’m gone.
Mr. Hauser sits down slowly and frowns at me. He’s probably about thirty, but he frowns like an eighty-year-old. It’s a masterpiece of concerned wrinkles. His eyes pinch up behind dark, nearly square glasses. He looks old and wise and not happy about either of those things. It doesn’t help that he’s wearing a brown tweed jacket and shiny brown shoes, both of which add at least ten years. Maybe he does it on purpose, since he has a little bit of a baby face.
Wow, the second bell just rang, and he’s still frowning.
It’s starting to feel like time is stuck. Or Mr. Hauser and I have fallen into some kind of weird temporary paralysis. I wave my hand in the air, just to make sure that we’re not actually frozen.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Checking for a glitch in the space-time continuum.”
Mr. Hauser shakes his head. “You’re very strange, Robin.”
I don’t know if teachers are allowed to say this to us, but the way Mr. Hauser does, it doesn’t sound like a bad thing, like he’s ridiculing me because he knows he can get away with it. (Some people never grow out of that behavior, and I’m starting to wonder how many of those people become high school teachers. It must become some kind of horrible comfort zone.) When Mr. Hauser tells me I’m strange, though, it sounds almost like a compliment. “In fact, you might be the Weirdest Girl in Hawkins, Indiana.”
The way he says it, I can tell it’s capitalized.
But I can’t tell if it’s a good thing. Mr. Hauser clearly thinks it is, but he also must know that it’s not easy to be that weird. A tiny pinch of weird is like spice on the top of someone’s personality. When you’re seriously weird, monumentally weird, Sheena Rollins weird, you only have two choices: tone it down for everybody else every single day or live with the consequences.
Mr. Hauser pulls out a sheet from his desk. It’s mostly blank, with a few names written on lines. And the words Our Town at the top. “Robin, have you thought about signing up for the play?”
“You wanted me to stay after class because I was talking too much to say that I should talk onstage?”
“Maybe it’s a better outlet,” he says.
“I’m already in band,” I say. “I play the French horn, well actually it’s a mellophone for marching band, which is basically the same thing, but I’m the only one, which means I really can’t skip out. Plus my squad would…well, I don’t know if they would miss me, but there would only be three of them and they would definitely have to fix all the formations and I’d never hear the end of that, so whatever glorious future I had as a thespian looks like it’s over before it started. Sorry.”
What I don’t add is this: I don’t have time to add another activity if I’m going to get a job and make enough money for a round-trip plane ticket and European hostels and train rides and a bike rental. Oh, and croissants.
Every single day, I’m going to eat one for breakfast. That adds up to a lot of croissant money.
I’m going to need time to build up to that kind of small fortune. Some kids in Hawkins (like Dash) get allowance just for existing and maybe picking up a piece of trash or two around the house. Kate gets money every birthday and Easter and Christmas, as a payout for good behavior. Her parents never call it that, but last year she skipped a youth group meeting to get her ears pierced, and even though she got little crosses for her studs, there were no fat envelopes in her Christmas stocking. Some teenagers in this town would be halfway to buying their plane tickets without even lifting a finger. But my parents told me that they’re not going to commodify my childhood.
Even if they did, I probably would have spent it all on records and books by now.
Mr. Hauser pushes the audition sign-up sheet across the desk. “I can make sure none of your rehearsals conflict with band. I just think that you should give it a chance before you rush off to Europe.”
“You heard that part?” I ask with a cringe.
Mr. Hauser’s face goes stony. It doesn’t look parental, though. The old-man act falls away, and suddenly he seems like he’s only a few years older than me. Like thirty is a stretch. Like he’s barely on the other side of his own shitty adolescence. “Robin, if you ever feel like you are about to run away, I need you to find me.”
And do what?
How could Mr. Hauser help me not run away?
Besides.
“I’m not running.” Why doesn’t anyone seem to understand this? “I’m traveling.”
“Right,” he says, the old curmudgeon shtick falling back into place. He takes off his glasses. Wipes them on his shirtfront. “Well, if you’re ever going to spontaneously travel because you can’t stand being here anymore, let me know. Okay?”
“Okay, okay,” I promise.
“And, Robin? You should bring someone with you.”
“Who?” I ask, reflexively.
Kate would theoretically be an amazing person to travel with, in terms of her interest in art, history, architecture, and food. But would she really be able to focus on those things with all of the international hotness surrounding her? What if she spent the whole trip pushing me to grab the nearest French guy and practice?
No. Just. No.
Dash has already proven that he’s not the right choice for this particular venture.
Milton and I aren’t very close—and besides, his anxiety level would be a little bit difficult to navigate while also trying to find my way around the (infamously confusing) streets of Venice.
Outside of Odd Squad, nobody else comes to mind.
“Seriously, I’m drawing a big old blank here,” I say.
“I can’t tell you who to bring on your trip of a lifetime,” Mr. Hauser says. “That falls into the category of trying to control your life, instead of just annoyingly nudging you in the right direction.”
I laugh, right out loud. Which is weird, indeed. Teachers aren’t supposed to be funny.
“I just know that if you have someone to share your history with, it stays alive.”
I lean in and pretend-whisper, “I hate to tell you this, but you’re not a history teacher.”
“No, I’m an English teacher. Which means I know that plenty of better books than Lord of the Flies have died in obscurity because nobody remembered them. While this,” he says, slapping a paperback onto his desk, “seems to live forever because the school board just won’t let it go.”
“Hmm,” I say. “Maybe you have a point.”
My parents definitely keep each other’s memories alive. Sometimes their entire dinner conversations are just long, two-person reminiscence-fests. And if that wasn’t enough, they get together with their old friends every December (they call it Hippie Christmas) to relive their best stories and let their hair down. (Though they can only do that part metaphorically at this point. I feel bad for the balding hippies who spend their time talking about the lost glory of their long, glowing manes. Is that how Steve Harrington is going to feel when he’s forty?)
My mind goes back to those pictures on the floor. How my parents never seemed to be alone, no matter where they went. Being on an adventure with other people—the right people—might have made them feel a little braver, push a little further, show the world even more of themselves. (And I’m not talking about the photos of my mom at a nude beach.) Besides, when I think about going to Europe, it’s not as much fun to imagine sitting at coffee shops and riding bikes and being moody on trains without someone else right there. To share it all with.
(Not the croissants—those are mine.)
So, I don’t just need money to get to Europe. I need money and someone to go with me.
My workload just doubled, which means I need to get busy.
I push the audition sign-up back toward Mr. Hauser.
“Sorry,” I say. “I j
ust don’t have the time.”
Mr. Hauser sighs. “Well, this will be up in the main hallway of the school next week if you change your mind. Auditions are next Friday.”
“Got it,” I say.
“Here,” he says. “Let me give you a late pass.”
He fills it in with a quick scribble and then I finally leave. The hallways are shiny and silent and empty except for the hall monitor, Barb Holland. She’s wearing jeans that are nearly as out of fashion as mine, though hers are a faded country-western blue, while mine are indigo. Her shirt is both plaid and ruffled. Her hair is both short and feathered. She exists on the edge of the nerd kingdom; she’s definitely as nervous as Milton and as into school as Kate, but she’s also best friends with Nancy Wheeler. Who must be edging toward popular if Steve Harrington really wants to go out with her.
Barb looks bored, standing with her back against a locker. She’s got a glazed look on her face. But maybe she’s in the middle of some great daydream, because she’s got a hint of a secret smile.
It reminds me of when we were friends, a million years ago. We weren’t inseparable, like she and Nancy are now, but we were definitely drawn to each other. Always on the same playground equipment. Laughing at the same jokes. Splitting our grape juice boxes because we agreed it’s the superior flavor. We drifted apart as we got older, which is normal, I guess. Plus, at some point she and Nancy became an official duo. But I remember that look, like she was smirking at all of reality, creating an alternate version of life in her head, and if you were lucky, she’d tell you about it.
She’s managed to get out of an entire class period by volunteering as hall monitor. It’s really a very sneaky way to ditch, if you think about it.
Way to go, Barb.
“Hey, can I see your pass?” she asks, about two seconds after I walk by her in the hall.
“Sure,” I say.
She looks at it and snorts.
“All right, you can go.”
I wonder what that snort meant. I look down at the hall pass Mr. Hauser wrote for me. He filled it out dutifully with his name, my name, the date, and the class period. Under Reason for Tardiness, he wrote, Fixing a glitch in the space-time continuum.
Wow. Well done, Mr. Hauser.
SEPTEMBER 13, 1983
It’s one thing to decide that Mr. Hauser is right, and my plan will fare much better if I have someone to skip town with next summer. It’s another thing completely to look around and try to figure out who that person should be.
So far, I’ve ruled out half of the marching band.
Practice is in full swing, by which I mean that everyone is standing around either lofting or hugging their instruments, depending on how heavy they are, waiting for Miss Genovese to tell us what formation to make next. The fact that we don’t actually play our instruments while we practice drills for our ill-fated sports interludes makes the whole thing much more awkward.
Band practice: this time, without the pesky music!
The only person who does play is one of the drumline, who has to keep us all on beat. Today the honor has fallen on junior Craig Whitestone, who is exactly as white and stoned as his last name implies. Despite the haze in his eyes and the leafy smell about his person, he hits the snare with stunning regularity, and now we’re all supposed to move around in arbitrary shapes that make people looking at us from a distance happy for some reason I will never fully understand.
“Let’s run the Juggling Balls again!” Miss Genovese yells from the bleachers, her feet clanging on metal as she runs up and down to check how we look from every possible place in the imaginary crowd. She’s switched out her kitten heels for sneakers, but other than that, she wears her usual outfit—pencil skirt, high-necked blouse, blazer with shoulder pads that would make a linebacker proud. Some poor gym teacher has been harassed into letting her borrow a whistle.
Milton, Kate, Dash, and I are grouped together on one side of the field in an O shape. Except Kate and Dash are so intent on flirting with each other that they kept making our O lopsided because they can’t stay four steps apart.
“You two! Stop canoodling!” Miss Genovese shouts. And then adds a blast from the whistle, just for good measure.
Kate and Dash drift apart, but they’re laughing so hard I know it’s only a matter of time before our O collapses all over again. Making the shape is only the beginning of our collective torment. Now we’re supposed to be exchanging spots with various other Os all over the field.
The clarinets—a polished, perfect squad led by Wendy DeWan—are poised to switch with us. Only as we make it partway across the field, Craig drops a beat, and nobody can figure out when they’re supposed to be stepping. The whole thing dissolves, and Kate and Dash take this opportunity to pretend-run-into each other.
I roll my eyes. Milton rolls his eyes.
We catch each other mid-eye-roll. And laugh.
“Mr. Whitestone! Get it together!” Miss Genovese shouts with a double whistle blast.
“Ugh,” Nicole Morrison, one of Wendy’s sub-clarinets, says as she brushes imaginary grass stains off her skirt. “What is the team going to think of this disaster?”
“The team?” Wendy asks suspiciously.
“You know she just means Steve Harrington,” Jen Vaughn says, waving her clarinet around wildly. “She’s been trying to get his attention since the school year started. She wants him to see how good she is at the Juggling Balls so he’ll ask her to juggle his—”
“Earth, Woodwind, and Fire Squad!” Wendy shouts, to get them back in line. The clarinets have the longest squad name, by far, but it’s also one of the best. “That’s enough, okay?” Wendy purses her lips and tightens her ponytail in a simultaneous power move. She’s wearing a sparkly white miniskirt that makes her dark brown legs look about ten miles long. She’s got braces, and she makes stellar grades, but otherwise you could easily mistake her for a popular kid. “You should have become a cheerleader instead of a clarinet player if all you wanted to do was impress some second-rate jock with a styling gel addiction.”
Wendy’s thorough dismissal of Steve Harrington is a wonder to see. Maybe someday I could say something that honest right to his face, instead of just thinking about how ridiculous he is all the time.
“Let’s get our O in order,” Wendy says.
Part of me wonders if I could befriend Wendy and ask her to come to Europe with me, but the practical part of me knows that (a) she already has plenty of friends, and (b) she’s a senior. She’s not going to be wanting to traipse around with some sophomore next summer. She’s going to be planning for college in the fall or finding a genuine adult job. Moving on with her life. Instead of stuck here, on this horrible, horrible island we call high school.
Maybe it’s all that Lord of the Flies, but I can’t help thinking about what would happen if our entire marching band was stranded together. How long would it take before we turned on each other? Who would start the signal fire to get us back to civilization? (Wendy and Kate, definitely.) Who would devolve and start attacking each other? (All of the trombones, aka Bone Squad, a name they just barely get away with every year.) Who would go rogue and disappear into the forest, never to be heard from again? (Sheena Rollins.)
I give her a quick look. She has to wear her marching band uniform like the rest of us for field practice and games, the only exception I’ve ever seen to her all-white wardrobe. Somehow it makes her look even more pale. Sheena is definitely enough of an outsider that I can imagine her wanting to escape Hawkins for a summer, but I also can’t imagine spending that much time with someone who doesn’t want to talk to me.
And I don’t mean the kind of small talk that all of the adults in this town inevitably seem to give in to. I want to make actual, life-size conversation with someone. I want to talk about all the big things, the ones that matter. The truth is that I’ve always
loved to talk. It’s one of the reasons that I hoard words in so many languages.
Now I just need someone worth talking to.
“All right, keep marching,” Miss Genovese says, and everyone converges into straight lines. Now we’re supposed to march down the field in perfect lockstep. One of the other drummers elbows Craig sharply. Nobody wants to practice this more than once.
Craig more or less gets it together.
Everyone’s instruments shift into position. We’re ready to pretend to play. We’re eager to march. There’s only ten minutes left in practice. I need to figure out if anyone here is a good candidate for Operation Croissant, and I can’t keep crossing people off the list one at a time.
Miss Genovese blows her whistle and we all start moving to the strict rhythm of the quads. Except, this time, when we get about halfway, I sit right down in the middle of the field. The grass is slightly wet, and the ground is strangely cold for September. I can feel dampness seeping into the butt of my jeans.
“What are you doing?” someone shouts.
Everyone just keeps flowing around me. Dash has to step over my head. Milton swerves, but he hits someone in the line next to him, and I can hear the cussing that happens as a result. Then Kate, who’s not tall enough to step over me and is far too stubborn to go around, trips right on top of me.
“What the hell?” Kate shrieks.
The entire marching band devolves into chaos. Nobody seems to get what I’m doing. Well, crap. I was really hoping that one of them would be willing to break the pattern with me.
I’m ruining the practice all on my own.
Miss Genovese’s whistle is blowing over and over. She can’t seem to stop. I think I broke her.
“Get up, Buckley,” Dash says.
“Seriously, Robin, what are you doing?” Kate hisses.
“Anyone else suddenly feel like this is a ridiculous way to spend their free time?” I ask. “No? Just me?”
Stranger Things Page 5