Home Economics. Wednesday. The smell of chalk dust and lemon cleaner. The vibe: tense.
Mrs. Krawczyk, whose soul had left her body in ‘72, lifted a sack of Gold Medal flour high over her head like she was presenting it to the gods.
“This,” she said, “is your ba.by.”
Murmurs rippled through the class like a fart in church.
“You and your assigned partner will care for your chi.ld over the next three days. If it tears, leaks, or is ‘accidentally sacrificed to Satan’ again—” here she glared directly at Eddie Munson, “—you both fail.”
Eddie raised a hand lazily. “In my defense, it was a theatrical sacrifice.”
She ignored him. “Munson. You’re with...” Her pen paused mid-checkmark. “You.”
Every head turned.
At the back table, a cheerleader sat frozen, mid-nail-file. Perfect hair. Pink scrunchie. Glossy lips. Hawkins royalty.
Her voice was flat. “No.”
From the back of the room, Eddie Munson sits up slowly like Dracula emerging from his coffin.
A grin spreads across his face.
“Finally,” he says. “We create life.”
BETWEEN CLASSES.
She carried the flour like it had a contagious disease. Eddie walked beside her, narrating in a fake British accent.
“The young mother, fresh from cheer practice, struggles to accept the burden of teen motherhood. Meanwhile, the father—dark, misunderstood, and wildly fertile—”
“Stop talking.”
He leaned over, whispering theatrically: “We should name him after something noble. Like... Megatron.”
“It’s a bag of flour.”
“Exactly. Strong. White. Versatile. Like David Bowie.”
LUNCHROOM.
The flour ba.by sits in the middle of the table on a throne made of stacked lunch trays. Eddie has drawn on eyelashes, lipstick, and a beauty mark with a red Sharpie.
“She’s thriving,” he says proudly.
“She looks like Madonna got hit by a bread truck.”
“She looks like you,” he says dreamily.
The cheerleader squints. “Is that duct tape holding her together?”
“She had a rough morning.”
She sighs and picks up her fork. “If I fail this class because you dressed our baby in crime scene tape, I swear—”
“Hey, I’m an involved father. I read her Metallica lyrics before naptime.”
“She's flour, Eddie.”
“And she deserves culture.”
AFTER SCHOOL.
She stood next to Eddie’s van, arms crossed, watching him rummage through the back like a raccoon in a garbage can.
“Are you seriously making us a car seat out of a milk crate?”
“Making?” Eddie popped up, holding it triumphantly. “I already did. Boom. Structural integrity, baby. OSHA certified.”
She stared at him.
He stared back, proudly. “I also padded it with Metallica shirts. She rides in style.”
The “she” in question—a now-flour-dusted sack wearing a sticker that said 'I Survived Fifth Period'—sat on the pavement between them. Someone had drawn fangs on her.
She sighed. “I can’t believe I’m trusting our GPA to a man who thinks vampires are real.”
Eddie carefully lifted the sack into its makeshift throne. “You say that like you’re not emotionally invested now.”
“I am emotionally invested in not repeating Home Ec.”
“Same thing.”
He reached into his backpack and pulled out a juice box.
She blinked. “Why do you have a juice box?”
“I told the cafeteria lady I had a kid now. She looked into my eyes and gave me three.”
He stabbed the straw in and held it up to the sack’s fake mouth. “She’s more of a cranberry-apple gi.rl.”
The cheerleader climbed in the passenger seat with a groan. “One of us is going to jail, and it’s not going to be the flour.”
Eddie slid into the driver’s side, flicked on the radio, and cranked it up. The van roared to life like it was fueled by chaos alone.
“So,” he said, shifting into reverse, “you want to take her to the quarry, or do we hit the arcade first?”
“She doesn’t have motor skills.”
“She doesn’t need them. She has vibes.”
The van peeled out of the lot, rattling like it was held together by guitar strings and hope. The sack of flour bounced gently between them in her milk crate throne, wearing sunglasses that definitely used to belong to the cheerleader.
Neither of them acknowledged it.