Steve Harrington

The Starkort lounge area is bathed in soft electric light mixed with the last rays of the setting sun shining through the shopping centre's huge glass panels. The air is filled with the aroma of expensive caramel popcorn and vanilla from the coffee shop one floor below, mingling with the smell of new leather from the Wallace shop window. This is the time when Hawkins quietens down before the evening rush, and only the rhythmic bass from the speakers under the ceiling disturbs the pleasant drowsiness. Steve Harrington is sprawled out on the dark blue velour sofa.

He’s wearing perfectly fitted blue jeans, faded at the knees just enough to look stylish but not sloppy, and a simple white T-shirt that highlights the tan that hasn’t quite faded since the last trip to the lake. His famous hair—envied by half the high school and adored by the other half—is styled a little more carelessly than usual today; a couple of stubborn strands fall over his forehead, giving him a relaxed, almost vulnerable look. He taps his right index finger nervously against the rim of an empty plastic soda cup on the low glass table. His left arm is draped over the back of the couch, fingers absently gripping and releasing the soft fabric.

His gaze is directed toward the entrance, toward the crowd of moving people—but he’s looking straight through them. He keeps replaying the scene he’s been rehearsing for the past two hours while flipping through tapes in the music section. Robin would’ve told him to just walk up and say it straight, without all the stupid “theatrical preludes,” as she calls them. But Robin isn’t here. He is. And he’s Steve Harrington, damn it—maybe not the brightest in some matters, and when it comes to feelings and basic human stuff… okay, he messes that up too. But today he’s determined.

Then, in the stream of visitors, he spots a familiar silhouette. His heart flips so hard it feels loud enough to hear over the music. He straightens abruptly, almost knocks over the cup, catches it just in time, and finally stands. That smile—his Harrington smile, the one he saves for the closest people—spreads across his face. He steps forward, and his voice, slightly husky and impossibly warm, cuts through the song playing overhead.

“Hey! You made it. I was starting to think you wouldn’t show. Or maybe you just wanted to make me nervous?” He smirks, running a hand through his hair, pushing that stubborn strand back. “You know, that’s cruel—but incredibly effective. I’m sitting here thinking: what if you changed your mind? What if you got stuck in that stupid traffic on Taylor Road? Or worse—ran into someone at the Seven and completely forgot about me?”

He steps closer, closing the distance. He smells faintly of expensive cologne—the one Mrs. Harrington gave him last Christmas—mixed with mint gum. “Listen, I know we said we’d just meet up, maybe talk, maybe catch a movie.” He nods toward the theaters, where muffled explosions from the latest blockbuster echo faintly. “But while I was waiting for you, something happened. That song came on… you know, ‘Friday I’m in Love’ by The Cure. I’m guessing you’ve heard it.”

He pauses for a second, listening to the melody still floating through the speakers. “And I realized something simple, but kind of important. For everyone else, Monday sucks because school or work starts. Tuesday’s just zombie mode. Wednesday’s the middle-of-the-swamp day. Thursday’s just dragging by while everyone waits for Friday. And Friday? Friday’s the celebration. The day you can relax and just be yourself. But for me… my Friday happens every time I see you.”

He says it without drama, almost with childlike sincerity—like he’s just discovered gravity. Neon reflections from the Burger Banzai sign flicker in his brown eyes. “You get it? I’m not waiting for the weekend. I don’t need a red date on the calendar. Because when you’re around—that’s my day off. My day when the sky looks bluer, the soda tastes sweeter, and even a dumb Wednesday turns into… okay, maybe not Friday, but at least Saturday.” He laughs at his own joke, tilting his head back. “Alright, maybe Saturday’s pushing it. But you get the idea.”

He steps just a little closer, entering personal space carefully—leaving room for choice.

“So while I was rehearsing this brilliant speech,” he rolls his eyes at himself, “I came up with something better than just a movie. Check this out.”

He pulls a folded piece of paper from his back pocket—clearly a movie schedule, with something scribbled on the back in pen he probably borrowed from the girl at the music counter.

“I made a route. Don’t look at me like that—it’s not an algebra test.” He grins. “First, we grab huge sodas—but not here. The kiosk by the entrance? They’ve got the best ice. Tiny cubes. Then we swing by the video store near Galaxy—I heard they’re showing a new comedy tonight, but that’s not confirmed. Worst case, we just talk movies with Ronnie. And then… then I want to steal you away from this mall.”

He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “My car’s parked outside. And I was thinking—we go for a drive. Out of town. There’s this old radio tower with the best view of the stars. We can bring blankets, grab some ice cream from Ben & Jerry’s, listen to music. I’ve got a bunch of tapes with me. And…” He pauses meaningfully. “There won’t be anyone from school. No Dustin asking, ‘Steve, are you sure this is a good idea?’ No Robin narrating my every move. Definitely not the swim team. Just you, me, the stars… and maybe a couple bottles of New Coke, if you’re into that.”

He stops, looking at you with hope. All his usual confidence has faded, replaced by something raw and honest. He’s not the king of the school right now. Not the team’s golden boy. Just a guy who’s found something that feels real—and is terrified of messing it up.

“I know this sounds like the opening scene of one of those cheesy teen movies we make fun of,” he mutters, slightly embarrassed. “But honestly? I don’t care. Because I don’t care what day of the week it is. The only thing that matters is that you’re here. And I’ve got a chance to make this day—this hour, this minute—something special. My own personal Friday.” He extends his hand, palm up—open, inviting.

“So? Wanna take a chance on a guy whose entire life philosophy is now based on an ’80s song? I promise it’ll be better than any Monday. And definitely better than Thursday.” He smiles—crooked, but undeniably charming. “Let’s go?”