Chapter 19: FIRST DAY
The parking lot was half-full when I pulled the Camaro into the first open spot.
Hawkins High rose ahead of me, brick and glass and the accumulated weight of small-town expectations. Students clustered on the front steps, comparing summer tans and trading gossip about who'd hooked up with whom while school was out. Normal teenage drama. Normal teenage lives.
I killed the engine and checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. Billy Hargrove stared back—mullet perfect, denim jacket draped just right, the kind of effortless cool that the original owner had weaponized against everyone who crossed his path.
Different now. Same face, different intent.
I got out of the car and walked toward the main entrance. Heads turned as I passed—the new kid, the California transfer, the one with the muscle car and the reputation that had somehow preceded him. I could feel the weight of their expectations like a physical thing.
They wanted a show. Original Billy would have given them one—predatory smirk, aggressive posture, dominance displays designed to establish him at the top of whatever hierarchy this school had. He'd have picked a target within the first five minutes, some kid who looked weak enough to make an example of.
I kept my expression neutral. Confident but not hostile. Present but not performing.
The whispers started before I made it to the door.
"That's him. The new guy."
"I heard he got expelled from his last school."
"Someone said he's dangerous."
"He's kind of hot though."
I didn't react. Let them talk. Gossip was currency in places like this, and I was deliberately short-changing them.
The hallways were standard institutional design—lockers lining both walls, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, that particular smell of floor wax and teenage anxiety that every American high school seemed to share. I found my locker without difficulty, spun the combination, and started organizing the textbooks I'd picked up during orientation.
"California, right?"
I turned. Tommy H stood three feet away, flanked by a brunette who had to be Carol. Both of them had that particular energy of people who'd been popular long enough to assume it was permanent. Lesser predators, used to feeding on scraps from the alpha's table.
"That's what my license says."
"Heard you're supposed to be some kind of badass." Tommy's tone was testing—probing for weakness, looking for the reaction that would tell him where I fit in the hierarchy. "Got kicked out of your old school. Did some crazy shit."
"Just here for school."
He blinked. That wasn't the response he'd expected. I could see him recalculating, trying to figure out what game I was playing.
"Whatever, dude." Carol tugged his arm, clearly bored. "Let's go."
They wandered off, leaving me with the small satisfaction of having disappointed them. The original Billy would have risen to the bait, said something cutting, started the dominance games that would eventually lead to a basketball court confrontation and a bloody face.
I had different plans.
The morning passed in a blur of syllabi and introductions. Each teacher had the same routine—welcome to class, here are the rules, any questions from the new student? I kept my answers short, my attention apparently on the lectures, my actual focus on mapping the social dynamics around me.
Steve Harrington was in three of my classes. He sat near the back, hair perfect, the ease of someone who'd never had to try for popularity because it came naturally. King Steve, holding court without effort.
We didn't speak. Just acknowledged each other with nods when our paths crossed—two kings recognizing the other's existence, neither willing to make the first move.
The watching students seemed confused by our restraint. I could feel their disappointment, their hunger for the confrontation they'd anticipated. New alpha versus established alpha. Fire and fury and blood on the basketball court.
They'd have to keep waiting.
Lunch was a strategic operation. I bought enough food to satisfy the caloric demands of a morning spent not using fire—two burgers, fries, a shake, an apple for appearances—and found a table with a clear sightline to both the popular section and the exit. Watching. Cataloguing.
Steve sat with Tommy and Carol and a few other members of what I assumed was the basketball crowd. Nancy Wheeler was nearby but not with them—interesting. The show had put them together at this point, but maybe that relationship was already fracturing. Or maybe I was remembering the timeline wrong.
No sign of the Party. They'd be at the middle school with Max, probably eating in their own little cluster, completely unaware that their lives were about to get very complicated.
The afternoon brought gym class. Coach introduced me to the rest of the students with minimal fanfare—"Hargrove, California transfer, basketball tryouts Thursday"—and set us loose on conditioning drills.
I held back. Not obviously, but enough that I wasn't showing the full capability of this body. The original Billy had been a gifted athlete, and the transmigration hadn't dulled those abilities. If anything, the fire seemed to enhance physical performance—faster reflexes, better endurance, something to do with the metabolic changes that let me burn calories for supernatural fuel.
But showing all of that would raise questions I couldn't answer. Better to be good, not exceptional. For now.
The bathroom after gym was empty. I stood at the sink, studying my reflection in the spotted mirror.
Still strange, after six weeks. Still that moment of disconnect when I expected to see my old face—thirty-four years old, soft from desk work, the beginnings of grey at the temples—and instead saw this. Seventeen. Blonde. Built like someone who'd never heard of office jobs or sedentary lifestyles.
I ran cold water over my hands. Grounding technique. The same one I'd used that first morning in California, when the wrong ceiling had sent me into a panic and fire had erupted without permission.
That felt like a lifetime ago. Maybe it was.
The final bell released us into the August afternoon. I walked to the Camaro without hurrying, passing Steve's BMW on the way. He was leaning against it, talking to someone—Tommy again, it looked like—and his eyes tracked me as I passed.
Neither of us spoke. Just that mutual acknowledgment, that recognition of equals who hadn't yet decided if they were rivals or allies.
Different paths. Eventually they'd converge. For now, parallel lines.
I started the engine and pulled out of the lot. First day complete. No fires, no fights, no disasters. Just a foundation being laid, brick by careful brick.
The watcher from the quarry was still out there. The Gate was still pulsing beneath Hawkins. Will Byers was still carrying something cold inside him.
But today had been a win. Small, but real.
I'd take it.
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