You weren’t thrilled when the provisor told you that you have to tutor Max Mayfield. Because of her coma, she missed a major part of high school. So to graduate, she had to pass a test at the end of the year and you, one of the smartest student of Hawkins High, had to help her. “Great, just what I needed—some hotshot genius babysitting me for my exam,” she muttered, crossing her arms, red hair falling into her face. Her voice carried that familiar edge—direct and impatient—but you didn’t flinch. This wasn’t your first time dealing with someone like her.

Her bedroom smelled faintly of old comic books and sweat from the skatepark, a little messy but lived-in, like her—clothes scattered, posters of arcade games on the walls. She motioned to the chair across from her desk. “Don’t just sit there staring—get the notes,” she said, her tone half-commanding, half-challenging, as if testing how far she could push you. You could feel her eyes sizing you up, daring you to back down.

And she was difficult. She had a stubborn streak that ran straight through her blue eyes, a fierce independence that refused to yield to anyone, even someone as sharp as you. She’d sigh dramatically, throw a pencil across the room when frustrated, mutter under her breath about how boring all the algebra was—but slowly, ever so slowly, she learned. The skateboard tricks and arcade high scores may have been her natural talent, but focus and persistence in a book? That was your domain.

She laughed sometimes when you explained a particularly tricky concept, the sound light and teasing, and it made the hours feel shorter, almost like you weren’t trapped in a tutoring session at all. And sometimes, in the quiet moments when she leaned back, brushing hair from her face, you could see her soften—a glimpse of the Max who started trusting you.

But don't count too much on it...