Chapter 6: The Chrissy Connection
January cold bit through jacket fabric as I hurried toward Hawkins High.
Junior year, second semester. The social landscape had shifted around me—Tommy and Carol kept their distance now, our friendship reduced to polite nods in hallways. Fine. I didn't miss the cruelty they called camaraderie.
Chemistry class, first period. I slid into my assigned seat and noticed the girl beside me had hands that wouldn't stop shaking.
Chrissy Cunningham. Perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect cheerleader who probably hadn't slept in days judging by the shadows under her eyes. She gripped her pencil so hard her knuckles went white, staring at the test review sheet like it contained impossible secrets.
I knew that look. Recognized it from the show—Chrissy unraveling under pressure, hiding anxiety beneath pageant-ready smiles until Vecna exploited her trauma and killed her in an attic.
Not here. Not this timeline.
"Hey," I said quietly. "You good?"
Chrissy's head snapped up. "What?"
"Your hands." I gestured at her death grip on the pencil. "Chemistry test has you stressed?"
"I'm fine." The smile appeared instantly, automatic and empty. "Just want to do well."
"Yeah." I pulled out my notes from last week. "Here. My handwriting's garbage, but the formulas are solid."
She stared at the offered notebook like I'd handed her a live grenade. "Why would you help me?"
"Because you look like you need it?" I shrugged. "No ulterior motive. Just notes."
Chrissy took the notebook slowly, scanning pages covered in chemical equations and reaction calculations. Her shoulders relaxed fractionally.
"Thank you," she said, genuine surprise coloring the words. "That's... really nice."
"Don't spread it around. Ruins my reputation." I grinned to show I was joking.
She laughed—small and startled, but real. The perfect cheerleader mask slipped for just a moment, revealing someone exhausted and scared underneath.
There you are, I thought. The real Chrissy.
The library partnership happened two weeks later.
Mrs. Patterson assigned English projects in pairs, and either through mercy or cosmic coincidence, I ended up with Chrissy. She approached after class, anxiety written across every movement.
"We could work at your place?" she offered. "I know you have that big house..."
"Library's better." I cut her off gently. "More reference materials. Plus, my place is kind of empty and weird. Library's neutral ground."
Relief flashed across her face. "Okay. Tomorrow after cheer practice?"
"Works for me."
The library was nearly deserted when she arrived the next day, still in her cheerleading uniform, ponytail slightly askew. She dropped her bag with a thud that made Mrs. Crane glare.
"Sorry," Chrissy whispered, then louder: "Sorry!"
I bit back a smile. "Rough practice?"
"Coach is pushing hard for regionals." She collapsed into the chair across from me. "My routine's not clean enough. My jumps aren't high enough. I'm—" She stopped herself, visibly reining in the anxiety. "It's fine. I'm fine."
"You say that a lot."
"What?"
"'I'm fine.'" I met her eyes. "You say it constantly, even when you're clearly not."
Chrissy's mouth opened, closed. Her carefully constructed mask wavered.
"Let's just do the project," she said finally.
We worked on analyzing The Great Gatsby for forty minutes in relative silence, pulling quotes and debating themes. Chrissy was smart—genuinely intelligent in ways her cheerleader persona usually hid. She connected Daisy's conflict to broader themes of American identity without needing my prompting.
"You're really good at this," I said during a break.
"English is easy." She twisted her pencil. "Just analyzing what people say versus what they mean."
"Yeah." I leaned back. "Kind of like real life. Everyone performing roles, hiding what they actually feel."
Chrissy looked up sharply. "That's depressingly accurate."
"Tell me about it." I grabbed my water bottle. "Sometimes I feel like I'm waiting for something terrible to happen. Like all this—" I gestured at the library, at school beyond it, "—is just marking time before everything changes."
"That's..." She hesitated. "Really specific."
"Sorry. Ignore me. I get weird when I'm tired."
"No." Chrissy twisted the pencil harder. "I get it. The pressure to be perfect all the time. To smile and perform and never let anyone see that you're drowning underneath. Like one wrong move and everything collapses."
The honesty hung between us, raw and unexpected.
"Yeah," I said quietly. "Exactly like that."
We finished the project that night, but something had shifted. The conversation continued beyond Gatsby and American dreams—tentative admissions about pressure from parents, expectations from peers, the exhausting performance of being who everyone expected.
Chrissy talked about her mother's constant criticism. I mentioned my parents' absence. Neither of us revealed everything, but enough to recognize the isolation we both carried.
"This was..." Chrissy gathered her things slowly. "Nice. Talking to someone who actually listens."
"Anytime." I meant it. "Seriously. If you need someone to vent to about cheerleading tyranny or parental expectations, I'm around."
She smiled—smaller than her public smile, but infinitely more real. "Thanks, Steve."
Chrissy
Steve Harrington was unexpected.
Chrissy had noticed him freshman year when he'd defended kids from Tommy's bullying. Then he'd become this mystery—popular but not cruel, athletic but also friends with Eddie Munson and that weird band girl. He didn't fit any category cleanly.
And now he'd offered her notes without expecting anything. Suggested the library instead of his house, respecting boundaries she hadn't even articulated. Admitted to feeling like he was waiting for disaster.
That last part resonated painfully. Chrissy spent every day waiting for her mother to find another flaw, another reason she wasn't good enough. Waiting for her body to betray her with the curves her mother said would "ruin her figure." Waiting for the constant anxiety to finally consume her.
But Steve had looked at her like he saw that. Not the cheerleader. Not the perfect girl. The person underneath, exhausted and scared.
"Who is he?" she asked Laura the next day at practice.
"Steve Harrington?" Laura stretched her hamstrings. "Used to hang with Tommy H. Switched to the freak crowd. Why?"
"Just curious." Chrissy executed a jump, landed perfectly, felt her mother's criticism echo anyway. "He's in my English class."
"He's hot," Laura said bluntly. "But weird. Jason says he's lost his edge."
Jason Carver had been circling Chrissy for months, all confident swagger and assumptions about their future together. She'd deflected politely, but he persisted.
Unlike Steve, who offered help and walked away, she thought. Who listened instead of talking at me.
Something worth noticing.
Steve
The party happened in March, and I attended purely for reconnaissance.
Tommy's house, parents conveniently absent, alcohol flowing freely. I nursed a beer I had no intention of finishing and watched the social dynamics play out like scripted theater.
Nancy Wheeler arrived with Barb, both of them slightly uncomfortable in the jock-heavy environment. Nancy wore the same determined expression she'd have later when investigating conspiracies and fighting monsters. Barb looked miserable.
In the original timeline, this was when Steve and Nancy's relationship started. When he'd be drawn to her ambition and intelligence, when she'd see past his popular facade.
Not this time.
Nancy caught my eye across the room, smiled with clear invitation. I smiled back neutrally and turned toward Barb instead.
"You look thrilled to be here," I said, dropping onto the couch beside her.
Barb startled. "What?"
"This party. You're radiating enthusiasm."
She laughed despite herself. "Nancy wanted to come. I'm moral support."
"That's friendship." I gestured at the chaos around us. "Suffering through terrible parties for people you care about."
"You don't seem to be suffering."
"I'm good at pretending." I set down my beer. "What do you actually want to be doing right now?"
Barb considered. "Reading. Or watching something that doesn't make me feel stupider for experiencing it."
"Solid choices." I stood. "Tell Nancy I said hi."
I left before Nancy could intercept me, before the original timeline's romance could begin. Outside, I breathed cold air and felt the weight of deliberate choice.
Chrissy appeared beside me, wrapped in a jacket despite the mild spring evening.
"Escaping too?" she asked.
"Yeah." I gestured back at the house. "Not really my scene anymore."
"It never seemed like your scene." She hugged the jacket tighter. "You always looked like you were pretending."
"Perceptive."
"I've had practice. My whole life is pretending."
We stood in comfortable silence, watching moths circle the porch light. Somewhere inside, the party continued without us.
"I feel safe around you," Chrissy said suddenly. "Like I don't have to perform. You see the real me instead of the cheerleader everyone expects."
My chest tightened. "Yeah. I see you."
"That's rare." She turned to face me. "Most people just see what they want to see."
"Not me," I promised. "I see exactly who you are."
Chrissy smiled—the real one, the one she never showed anyone else. "Good."
She headed back inside, and I watched her go, understanding with perfect clarity that this was something worth protecting. Not the strategic alliance I'd originally planned. Not the romance designed to avoid Nancy.
Just Chrissy—brilliant and anxious and real beneath the performance—choosing to trust me with the person she hid from everyone else.
I could work with that.
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