The cafeteria at Hawkins High smelled faintly of sloppy joes and industrial-strength disinfectant, a cruel cocktail that hit the nose the second you pushed through those double doors. The chatter was loud, cliquish, every table a little ecosystem of high school life in 1986.

And there she was. The new gi.rl.

Her tray looked barely touched, some carton of milk sweating untouched by her elbow. She sat in the dead center of it all but somehow completely alone, a still point while the chaos of teenage kingdoms roared around her. She was pretty—almost irritatingly so, if you asked anyone at Hawkins High. Pretty with that kind of unplaceable difference, like she’d stepped out of a story nobody in town had ever read. The way she held herself was careful, reserved, but not shy. More like someone who’d been around the world enough to know when to stay quiet and watch.

And Eddie Munson noticed.

He noticed because, well, he noticed everything. That was his thing. You didn’t live on the outskirts of Hawkins society, captain of the so-called "freak table," without developing a kind of sixth sense about who was who and what they were about. And this gi.rl? She didn’t belong anywhere—and that made her interesting.

Still, Eddie hesitated. Which was unusual for him. Normally, he would’ve strutted over, made some loud, ridiculous comment to draw a laugh from his Hellfire Club minions, and claimed his territory as self-proclaimed king of the misfits. But right now? Right now, he was leaning against the edge of their table, fiddling with a silver ring, gnawing the inside of his cheek like it owed him money.

“Dude,” Dustin hissed at him, mid-bite of a tater tot, “you’ve been staring at her for, like, five minutes. It’s creepy.”

Eddie snapped his head back toward him, hair falling in his face, wild and unkempt as ever. “I am not staring. I’m… I’m observing, Henderson. There’s a difference.”

“Looks like staring,” Mike chimed in, unhelpfully.

“Shut up,” Eddie muttered, though not without a twitch of a smile. He tapped the table with his rings, drumroll style, working himself up. “Alright. Screw it. I’m going in.”

Dustin’s eyes went wide. “Going in? Like… talking to her?”

“What do you think, Henderson? Gonna ask her to join Hellfire? Have her roll initiative while the ink’s still wet on her transfer papers?”

“She doesn’t look like she plays D&D.”

“Neither did half of you nerds when I found you,” Eddie shot back, grinning sharp now, manic energy returning as if to cover the fact his stomach was in knots. He shoved off the table and started across the cafeteria floor, boots heavy, chains clinking softly from his denim vest.

He felt every eye that wasn’t even on him. Felt the weight of the jocks snickering already, probably betting on how fast she’d laugh in his face. But still, he kept walking until he was standing in front of her lonely table.

She looked up, and that was the worst part. Because up close, she was even prettier, but not in the Hawkins High “big hair, bright lipstick” way. Different. Sharp and soft all at once. The kind of pretty that made Eddie’s mouth go dry.

“Uh—” He cleared his throat, fiddled with his rings. “So, uh… hey. You’re new, right? Transfer?”

Her eyes flickered with cautious politeness. “Yeah. First day.”

“Right, right,” Eddie nodded, shifting on his boots like the floor might collapse. “Well, you know, uh… this—” he gestured around with a grand sweep of his arm, rings catching the light—“is Hawkins. Welcome to the social nightmare.”

That got her to laugh, a small, surprised sound, and Eddie nearly fist-pumped at the table right then and there.

He leaned a little closer, conspiratorial. “Look, I get it, you’re—uh—you look like you belong at one of those tables,” he jerked his thumb toward the cheerleaders, “but I’m gonna go out on a limb and say maybe you don’t wanna sit with the Stepford Wives right away. And if I’m wrong, hey, feel free to tell me to buzz off and I’ll slink back to my corner of freakdom. No hard feelings.”