Chapter Text
Roslindale, Boston, MA. April. 2014.
NANCY
With graduation fast approaching, Nancy Wheeler is running out of time to pursue her musical talents. Her dream had always been to play the drums professionally, but she never really knew where to start. It isn’t like she knows any other girls (or people even, really) who play rock band instruments. And the select few she does know all play the drums.
She clutches her phone in her hand, open to the address of where the try outs for this band is. It’s a local sort of band, in the sweet city of Boston. She doesn’t have a lot of friends here but the one she does have, Barb (who she brought from Hawkins with her so they can study together and continue being best friends forever), sent her the link to this.
The drums have been the most consistent thing in her life, aside from Barb. The steady beat and the way the sticks feel in her hand have always calmed her down, given her something to do with her hands, and provided an outlet that helped her make things make sense. Everyone in her life, besides Barb and Eddie, have been pressuring her to give it up in preparation for something more sensible and professional.
She just isn’t ready to give it up yet. Not when it’s something that has probably saved her life. The drums have never given up on her, so she’s not ready to give up on them. Ever since she could remember, music and the tempo of each drum set beneath her fingertips has offered her some sort of regulation. It’s what has kept her going.
That’s why this last ditch effort is so important to her.
Her parents never really liked her playing the drums, mostly because they found all of the noise disruptive to their home life. Even when she set the kit her uncle got her up in the basement behind a wall of curtains they were still annoyed. They tolerated it in the daylight, taking into consideration that she seemed to be more at peace amongst her peers. She was no longer considered difficult and standoffish in a way deemed immature by her superiors. When her mom really listened, she could hear that Nancy was picking it up quickly, so any time her dad tried to grumble about it, Karen had laughed him off.
She spent half an hour every day after getting home from school practicing until her fingers would bleed. After awhile, they built up calluses just thick enough that she could push that time a little bit longer. It helped the itching in them fade, helped her mind stay clear.
Although, the sounds did bother her slightly. That really ramped up when she started practicing with Eddie playing his guitar. Those sounds were much more difficult to compute. Her friend had suggested that she put in her earbuds to muddle the sounds and that’s how she found comfort in playing music with others.
There’s an open garage at her destination, one littered with different instruments. She had originally expected there to be people in there, absently making sounds from their chosen instruments. Instead, she finds one person tuning a guitar. They have blonde hair and they’re tall. So tall that it’s almost daunting.
She approaches carefully, like she doesn’t want to startle the garage inhabitant. The last thing she wants is to hear anyone scream bloody murder, least of all is she interested in the aftermath. She crosses her arms over her chest as she moves closer, clearing her throat quietly. So quietly that, at first, she thinks she might. It even be heard.
The response is delayed. The tall blonde lifts their eyes from the guitar in their hand. Although the garage is dimly lit, she can see blue eyes if she just focuses on them. But maintaining eye contact with this stranger is difficult despite the warmth in her eyes.
She looks away, eyes scanning the garage and settling on a drum kit. She hasn’t seen an actually drum kit since she went home for Christmas. It’s been all about her electronic drum set. She feels like she’s been reunited with a long lost love.
“Is that the drum kit?” She asks, knowing damn well what she’s looking at.
“You a drummer?” The other person says, eyes lighting up.
The guitar is set aside to give her full attention from the audience of one. If there’s one thing she’s confident about, it’s her capabilities to play this instrument. She quirks an eyebrow and says, “The drummer, yeah.”
“Ok,” the blonde smiles, “Can I hear it?”
They stand and their long legs stretch and stretch, almost like they’re never ending. It distracts from the task at hand for a moment. She forgets beats and tempo and everything else that sounds in her brain at any given moment. The truth is that she is no stranger to beauty. She is, however, a stranger to being open.
She makes her way to the drums, sitting on the stool. Before she starts, she pushes her sticks together in her lap to push her earbuds into her ears. She gets situated, testing the weight of her sticks in her hands. When the looks up, her eyes meet the other persons and stay there for so long that she has to suck in a deep breath to quell the buzz in her body.
She counts to 4, closes her eyes, and lets her hands take in a life of their own. Her favorite part is usually the crash cymbal but she uses it wisely. Every hi-hat and snare drum is well timed, the bass drum driving the movement foreword. She picks a song and lets it take control, everything is perfect for the next 6 minutes. She feels like she can breathe again.
When she plays the last night, she finds that tall blonde standing in the middle of the garage with wide eyes and a dorky grin on on that beautiful mouth. It takes a moment for the person swallow, throat bobbing with the movement. But then, the blonde asks, “Can you read music?”
“Yes,” she answers.
“Ok, alright, well,” the blonde smiles, fingers tapping absently at their hip, “What’s your name?”
“Nancy,” she says.
“Nancy,” the person repeats, “Well, Nance, welcome to Okay Inside.”
A laugh rips out of her, making her throat stretch with the sound. It feels so genuine in a way that things rarely are and, despite the person across the garage from her not knowing her at all, they seem infectiously happy for her. The energy of the space engulfs her and she doesn’t know what else to do with the buzz other than beat the tip of the drumsticks against the kit in a rhythm that takes her over.
The other person watches in awe, seemingly taken by her ability to create music. It’s nice having someone look at her the same way that Eddie does. She misses him after leaving him back in Hawkins. She can’t wait to call him on the way home to tell him the news.
After a moment, the blonde says, “Can you come back at four? For band practice?”
“I’ll be here,” she says, wringing her hands around the sticks.
When she leaves, sticks tucked into the back pocket of her jeans and sheet music under her arm, she calls Eddie about the good news. He yells a high pitched thing that hurts her ears from the other end, but it’s in celebration. He reminds her that her parents are going to kill her than tells her he’ll come out to Boston if she wants.
She agrees, thinking of Barb already tied up in a life beyond college. She has a boyfriend and a job and she’s moving on with her life. Meanwhile, she’s never really been able to think of anything other than drums and music.
ROBIN
After Heather quit the band, she thought everything they had spent years working toward had been flushed down the proverbial drain. They were on the verge of an East coast tour according to the local music scene with the rising popularity of alternative style music, and their drummer had just up and quit 2 months ago. It had been confusing and sudden. Not to mention heartbreaking.
Since then, their heart has been on the mend. It’s felt like a breakup. Lots of music has some to light, her pulse practically vibrating with lyrics and music like never before. Not even after that relationship with Sydney had come to an obvious close.
Of course, the new music has been missing crucial input from other musical instruments as the rest of Okay Inside has felt anything but. Chrissy and Vickie have been fighting endlessly, possibly even broken up more than once. And Max has been, well, Max. Needless to say, the lack of a drummer has not been conducive to making music or to making love.
She hasn’t had a date in 6 weeks, hasn’t even bothered to try. Between Her and Tinder, it isn’t even all that hard anymore. But notification after notification had piled in until they turned the damn things off just to keep the phone from dying.
Their sleep schedule has been wrecked, totally abandoned if she’s being honest. She’s seen too many sunrises to count and not as many sunsets. The change in routine has fucked with their psyche and has proved to be disastrously lonely.
After 3 weeks of posting a Craigslist ad for a drummer, she’s thinking of giving up. Without a drummer, there’s no band. A drummer is dire. And she’s sort of lacking on the going solo capabilities.
When Nancy had walked into the garage playing drums like that, they knew that Okay Inside needed the brunette if they were ever going to make it outside of Boston’s bars.
Now to just break the news to the rest of the band. Being the only one home, she’s had an annoying amount of time to pace. The thought of delivering the news to a small group of people totally prepared to move on with their lives is driving them completely up the wall. The last thing she knows how to do is report good news like this.
Instead of pacing a hole in the floor, she picks up her guitar and starts strumming the chords. She only picked up a guitar after high school and started teaching herself how to use it. The internet, and YouTube, were a tremendous help.
They’re busy scribbling notes on a sheet of paper when Chrissy’s car pulls up. She’s only alerted to it by the squeak of the old beat up thing’s brakes. Every time they take the car the brakes sound like they’re grinding and the car definitely needs to be taken in. She’ll stick to her old beat up, blue Ford f-150. There’s a few dents on the body, but the parts beneath that are solid thanks to they’re dad teaching them how to fix a vehicle. It’s good to have a side hustle.
“Hey, guys,” she greets, resting her elbow in the instrument.
“Hi,” Vickie says in that sweet voice, smile big. Chrissy grumbles in response. It’s clear they’re in another argument. “Did you get any sleep?”
Shaking their head, they say, “After band practice at four.”
“Why the hell are we having band practice?” Chrissy asks with an eye roll, “Wasting our time without a drummer.”
“Surprise!” She says, waving her hands in the air.
“What?” Vickie says, eyes widening.
“Got us a drummer,” she replies.
“Shouldn’t we have a say in this?” Chrissy says, “You just decided who was going to be our drummer?”
“Not a lot of options, Chris,” she says, “Besides. Nancy is the best drummer I’ve ever heard. The timing is perfect. The tempo is superb. I’m telling you. She’s the real deal.”
“She better be,” Chrissy snaps before charging inside and slamming the garage door behind her.
They jump where they sit and Vickie sighs at the same time. She looks up at the redhead, remembering when they first became friends. It was high school when she was trying new things, coming out to band mates. Vickie and Chrissy were already secretly dating by then, proving that she had missed her shot with all of the potential women in her school.
“Sorry,” Vickie says, “She’s having a hard time not making music.”
“I get it. Me too,” she says. She takes a moment to strum the chords and listens to it hum between the walls of the structure. It flutters out of the garage and into the afternoon air. It would probably annoy their neighbors if it weren’t for gentrification throughout. Smiling, she looks at her old friend and says, “It all gets better tonight.”
“Can’t wait, Robbie,” Vickie replies. The petite woman reaches out to squeeze their shoulder, grasp not very tight. It makes a shiver course through her spine, the contact making her realize that she’s practically been in a cocoon for the last few weeks. “Just let Max know, ok?”
“Sure thing, boss,” they say with a two finger salute.
Vickie goes inside, skirt flowing freely around her ankles. It reminds Robin of her mom, of the things she used to wear before she stopped bothering to get dressed at all. Now it’s dark rooms and dirty sheets in desperate need of being changed. At least that’s what it was like the last time they saw their mom. Melissa Buckley won’t even come to the phone anymore.
She sets her guitar back down and shoots Max a text, letting the kid know to be home by 4 for band practice. She gets a thumbs up emoji in return immediately. Max grew up in her neighborhood in less than favorable conditions. Her stepbrother died in a car accident and her stepfather became abusive from drugs and alcohol used to numb the pain. Max ran away to Boston soon after she moved here. The kid’s mom never even bothered to care. Robin did her best to take care of Max. They all did.
She heads inside too, closing the garage as she goes. It sounds out like it has something wrong with it and, maybe, with a little bit of the mechanic background her dad gave her she can put it on her list of things to fix. Inside, she makes a sandwich to ease her grumbling stomach. She can’t even finish the peanut butter and jelly filled sandwich and dumps it into the trash, quickly washing her dishes to let them dry.
Her room’s a mess when she gets there, but she can’t be bothered to clean it up. She lays back on her bed to work on some music. She’s been writing down lyrics, even if they don’t fit anywhere right now just in case. There are pages and pages of ink scribbled on the paper throughout the notebook. So many that they almost need a new one.
Still, the fire burning inside of them feels like gasoline has been tossed onto it and is suddenly so powerful that the words flow like lava onto the page.
CHRISSY
“She’s delusional,” Chrissy huffs as she throws herself back on the bed, “And she doesn’t know when to give up.”
“They’re determined,” Vickie says sweetly, that thing that always gets under her skin when Robin is the subject, “And I think it’s nice.”
“You’ve always thought they were nice,” Chrissy says, throwing an arm over her eyes, “You’ve never said a bad word about them. Ever. You’re too nice.”
“You’ve been so lost without music,” Vickie says, a weight against her hips prompting her to uncover her eyes, “We all have. Don’t you want to just try?”
“I’m tired of getting my hopes up,” she says.
She sighs as the redhead drags cold hands through her hair, that soft smile trying to ease her worries away. She envies how optimist Vickie is, how quickly she finds the good in everything. Sometimes she’s a little jealous of Robin and Vickie because they never get caught in the whirlwind and negativity.
Often times, she feels like a third wheel to their friendship. It makes her wish that she was more go with the flow, like Max. Truthfully, she wishes she were as good of a person as Robin. They had gotten a job and done everything they could to take care of Max when she needed it. Sure, she and Vickie had helped too, but never quite like Robin.
“I know, Noodle,” Vickie says, thumb sweeping over her jaw, “And I’m scared too. Is there anything keeping us together without music?”
“I don’t know,” she admits, realizing that if she doesn’t want to lose Vickie then she has to try and keep trying until they’re making beautiful music together until her dying breath. Otherwise, they’re just Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks. “But I don’t want to find out.”
ROBIN
Max still isn’t home. Since the girl (woman now, technically) came to live with her at 16, she’s done her best to let Max have all of the freedom in the world. She’s just asked for the bare minimum. Check in. Come home. Be honest.
Although Max has always had an aversion to authority, she’s always respected Robin. Their thing has been all about loyalty, trust and understanding. That has never ever wavered. Until recently. Max has insisted that, even at 18 years old, she can make her own decisions and Robin doesn’t need to worry about it.
It’s all she does, really. Like a clueless single dad without a paternal bone in their body. Their worry surpasses all rhyme and reason, solidifying that they are really not cut out for this parenting gig after all.
She’s typing out a message to the other woman when it vibrates in her hand. Max’s face takes over her screen, her nickname flashing on the old iPhone SE screen - Smooth Criminal. Their heart beats wildly in their throat, a painful sort of thing like she can’t fucking breathe. She hits the button to answer the call, managing to keep her breath even.
Through the speaker, there’s music that’s far too loud and, for a brief moment, she thinks Max accidentally called her. There’s a thick feeling in their stomach. It doesn’t seem right. Something is off. Her hands start to shake so she clutches pack of cigarettes that she’s trying to quit smoking before their voice is ruined forever.
“Max?” She says, too loudly for someone in the quiet end of things.
“Can you come get me?” Max asks.
She sounds like she’s 15 again, with Neil screaming in the background. The shakiness in her voice has Robin on her feet, looking for her truck keys in the mess of her room. A hurricane hit it in their depression, the kind that lingers and lingers until one day she wakes up and realizes she can’t live like this. At least her mom gave her something.
“Where are you?” They say, “I’m in my truck.”
She’s not. She’s lying but for Max’s own good. With the hope that she’s on her way spreading across the phone line, they hear Max suck in a deep breath like she’s trying to gather her bearings. She erratically pushes everything off of her desk and hears her keys clink to the floor, immediately bending over to pick them up.
“Newton,” Max says, “Off of Commonwealth.”
“Dude,” she says, immediately shutting themself down before they say the wrong thing, “I’ll be there soon.”
“My phone’s almost dead,” Max says.
“I’ll find you,” she reassures, “Just don’t go anywhere else, ok?”
The line cuts off before Max can reply with 3 loud beeps in their ear. It makes her wonder if Max even heard her at all. In the truck, she searches for Wellsmere Terrace on the map application on her phone with one hand as she starts her truck with the other.
When she’s told her parents she was going to Boston for college they had insisted she have a car. Her dad sent her with his truck because it was reliable and ensured it was the least he could do. They made it a grand total of 1 semester at college before deciding it wasn’t for them. Too slow. Too time consuming. Too boring. She still hasn’t told them that she dropped out and it’s been 3 years.
It takes about 20 minutes to get to the street, her brain going to the worst possible places the entire time. They’re beating themselves up about all of the ways she went wrong. If she had guided Max with a firmer hand, set more boundaries or made more rules then she wouldn’t have let the girl get in harm’s way.
Tears prick their eyes and she slams her hands on the steering wheel as a scream rips out of her throat. With Max almost 19, there’s not anything they can do to keep her safe anymore. After graduation in a few weeks, Max has ownership of herself and no obligations to them at all.
She was already set back a year because of everything at home. It took a full 9 months for Robin to figure out what the hell they were doing. It took that amount of time to get Susan to agree that Max can stay and an extra 2 months to get her to sign the guardianship papers.
She drives slow down the neighborhood road until she spots Max sitting on a stoop, skateboard held tightly in her grasp. From a distance, she thinks that Max might be crying and it breaks her heart immediately. Has she been so wrapped up in her own shit that she caused this?
The heavy door opens with a squeak as Max opens it. The redhead tosses her board into the back and shoves her backpack into the floor before climbing in. The door is shut so hard that she jumps in surprise, choking on the air in her throat. She opens her mouth to say something but Max’s back is turned towards them so she decides to just drive.
Silence is hard for her. Not even the music can drown out the thick air of the silence. The only for them to make the thoughts stop is to speak them aloud. So she says, “Dude, are you ok?”
“I’m fine,” Max says, curt.
“Have you eaten?” She asks. The silence is palpable. She can hear the answer despite Max not gracing her with one. “I’m starving. Let’s get something to eat.”
“Whatever,” Max replies.
“Will you talk to me, please?” They ask, “Not this mean thing you’re doing. Like actually talk to me.”
“You’ll be mad,” Max says.
“I’m freaked, dude,” she says, “It’s been a whole day since I’ve heard from you. You left for school yesterday morning and I haven’t seen or heard from you since. I - I don’t know what to do. This is sort of out of my element.”
“You didn’t say you won’t be mad,” Max says.
“I won’t be mad if you promise me you’ll never do anything like this again,” they say, “When I told you that I got you, I meant it.”
“I know,” Max says, “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I just felt…the pressure. Like I didn’t have a choice.”
“You always have a choice,” she says, “I know it doesn’t always feel like it but if you’re in a situation you want out of you can call me. Any time. I’ll show up.”
“Obviously,” Max replies, reaching over to slap her thigh, “So the band is back together?”
“If you’re up for it,” she says, “New drummer but damn good.”
“Hell yeah,” Max says, smiling tiredly.
When they pull up to the house, it’s after 4. It leaves her a little concerned that it’s a bad start with their new drummer. But that’s the least of their concern right now. All that’s running through their mind is Max’s safety and well-being.
“You sure you’re up for this?” She asks, twisting the key into the off position of the ignition, “I can just send her home.”
“Nah, let’s meet the broad,” Max says with a smile so obviously forced.
“She’s actually kinda hot,” Robin replies.
The garage door is closed and, as she follows Max to the side door, she listens for music. It doesn’t sound like anyone is practicing. She holds her breath, hoping that Chrissy and Vickie didn’t scare Nancy off. The two are opposite sides of the same coin and often balance each other out. Half of the time, she thinks Chrissy doesn’t even like her and they’ve known each other for 6 years. She can’t imagine how a new person might feel.
She rushes in to the garage, rounding the corner so quickly that each shoulder hits one side of the door frame. Her eyes widen as she glances around the room, a rapid intake of her surroundings. She breathes a little easier as she sees Nancy behind the drum kit and Vickie at her keyboard.
“Hey,” she says, breathes heavy, “Sorry we’re late. Traffic was crazy.”
“Sure was,” Max says far too chipper.
“Did you get a chance to learn the music?” They ask, making her way over to her guitar.
“I did,” Nancy says.
“Where’s Chris?” She asks, looking around the garage for her, “She won’t want to miss this.”
“She’s, uh,” Vickie starts, smiling apologetically. The woman doesn’t like any kind of confrontation. She likes for things to be calm and lovely all of the time. She adds, “She’ll be here. We should just warm up.”
Quirking an eyebrow up on their forehead, they say, “Sure, ok. You pick the song, Nance.”
“That’s generous,” Max says with a snort.
“What?” She says, turning slowly to look at Max.
“You always pick,” Max says with a shrug, strumming a few chords, “You’re just letting her pick because you think she’s pretty.”
“Dude,” they say, glaring, “Not cool.”
She glances over at Nancy, afraid to look for too long now. She does find the woman attractive; undeniably so. Still, she sees her putting those earbuds back into her ears and it spikes their curiosity. They regulate their breathing, trying to ease herself into the moment at the realization that everything is falling into place.
Nancy starts playing and, as soon as they all pick up on the song, they join in. It would be better with Chrissy playing bass, but she knows enough chords to fill in where needed. It’s much easier without singing. Right now, the focus is on the music rather than the vocals.
Thirty seconds into the song, Chrissy appears in the doorway with a grin on her face. The first one Robin’s seen on her face in weeks. She gets a thumbs up from the blonde before the woman gets her bass guitar and joins in.
Robin laughs from deep in her chest, the sound slicing through all of the instruments flowing together better than they ever have before.
LYRICS
In the guided hallows
Of your steep and floating mind
There’s a lot of trouble
And we’re running out of time
Just one more last ditch effort
Then you’re really gone
My last mistake before I say goodbye