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gravedigginbbydoll · 10 months

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His Best Girl

Eddie Munson x Latina! OC

AN: Hi. So this lil blurb is very personal to me and my own experiences (and a few of those of loved ones) as the daughter of a latina immigrant. This is heavily based on Your Best American Girl by Mitski. Also I'm sorry for making Steve an ass at the beginning, I just think pre-upside down and Nancy, he was a bit misguided. And to all my immigrant daughters out there: please know that you are not out of place or just pieces and not a whole. You are a human with multiple facets and pieces and parts to make up something amazing. Anyways, like and reblog if you enjoy as per usual. Love y'all ❤️

CW: Xenophobia, stereotypes, internalized xenophobia and anti-latinidad, pressure of fitting in, strenuous relationship with mother, toxic motherly relationship at times, anxiety, bullying. Fear of not being accepted, etc. Mentions of food. Slightly suggestive thoughts.

I stuck out like a sore thumb in Hawkins. It didn't matter that we had lived there for longer than Billy Hargrove, we got more sneers than he ever did. Teased for lunches homemade by my mother, now rotting in a garbage can behind school. Teased for the poncho I wore in grade school, chubby cheeks wet with tears as I sobbed over the laughter. Teased for my mother’s pronunciation of words like Illinois, too many syllables crowded into her mouth for the english language.

It didn’t matter how far I distanced myself. I stopped speaking my mother’s native tongue, pushing down the hurt I saw in her eyes that now her own daughter was pitted against her. I stayed silent at my father’s snide comments about her heritage and pretended to be busy when her family called. I tried to get involved in cheerleading and dance, trying to show that I too could be part of the American Dream. Yet still, like a birthmark unable to be scrubbed away, Hawkins remembered me as a stranger.

It seemed like the effort finally paid off when Steve Harrington got interested in me. I wasn’t ugly, but I wasn't Molly Ringwall. He flirted with me after basketball practice, messing with my scrunchy, stealing my pom poms. I felt my heart soar. I’d finally made it. I’d finally been made a resident in my own community. When he finally asked me out, I felt my chest burst with pride, my sense of belonging almost fulfilled. Yes, my home was tense and sad. But now I could exist outside our little bubble without fear of being ostracized.

Then came the roadblocks.

Steve liked my hair straight, down and perfected with hairspray. Liked me clean shaven and bare. Wanted me to do makeup like Carol, simple. Wanted me dressed in pinks and perfect baby blues, the style as All-American and feminine as possible. Wanted me to stop carrying around the small rosary and evil eye bracelet I’d hidden from the rest of the world. I obliged, sugary smiles and gut wrenching nerves, just wanting to stay enough, be enough.

Then it went deeper. Steve wanted to hear me speak Spanish in private, words hushed and filthy, pushing limits I knew I’d be thinking of later in confession. But in public, he only wanted English, urged me to take French at school instead. He never asked to meet my mother, who had showered me in affection despite my cold shoulder. Who only spoke in proud words over me on the phone whether it be about my latest test, my excelling in dance classes, or just my part on the cheer team. And as we went further, he’d scrutinize little things, like the way I looked, the little superstitions I picked up from my mother, the small bits and pieces of her folded into me.

It all bubbled over the night I met his family. He warned me that they were tough but his mother was sweet. I sat, makeup perfect, smile shining, and careful to seem like the picture perfect girl they’d approve of. I nibbled at the meal his mother prepared, my heart longing for the familiar comfort of my mamá’s cooking wafting in the kitchen, the laughter in the kitchen as she made milanesa or empanadas. Steve’s mother’s cooking felt cold, lifeless. The casserole was lightly salted, and the energy at the table stale and somehow tense all at once.

“So, what’s your mother do? Stay at home?,” Steve’s father asked nonchalantly.

I felt my stomach sink. Wealthy mothers in Hawkins didn’t work. They stayed home while their husbands hopped around their business meetings and towns nearby. My smile faltered, but I decided to be honest. After all, they’d know sooner or later.

“No, sir. She works at an Italian restaurant downtown.”

“Well, I suppose Italian isn’t all that different from speaking Spanish,” He offered, shrugging.

My stomach sank to the floor, my heart squeezed. Something about his inflection, something about his writing off my mother speaking English, stirred something in me.

Steve stayed silent, his eyes begging me to let it go.

“My mamá speaks English, sir. As well as Spanish,” My voice shook softly, my hands clenched under the table.

“Ah, okay. Wasn’t sure. Seems a lot of Hispanics nowadays can’t just try to learn the language when they come into our country, for god's sake. But I should have known. You’re such a…well-adjusted girl.”

I felt the small thread holding together my façade crack. I breathed in, trying to stop myself from screaming. How could such wealthy and lucky people be so small minded? I gritted my teeth.

“English is surprisingly a hard language. My mother still struggles with it even after living here longer than she did in her home country.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Well, I’m not struggling. Just don’t understand why they can’t come here and assimilate. I mean, when Steve told us he was dating an ethnic girl, I questioned-”

Steve paled at the mention of this, turning to me and trying to explain himself through his eyes but staying silent.

I held up a hand, trying to keep my composure, my words cold and my anger boiling. “We try. Plenty. We try to squeeze into your boxes and norms and bend to your will and it’s never good enough. I still get notes taped to my back that say ‘river crossing’ or slurs that aren’t even correct for my heritage. I still get called ‘gorilla arms’ despite waxing and shaving daily since 6th grade. I get spit on daily and if I even look at some of the people in this town, I worry one day that I’ll be dead in a ditch. And I’m one of the lucky ones. My father is American, and I am fairly pale. I was born two towns over, for christ’s sake. I am just as American as you. My mother and any latino who steps foot in this country deserves to be here as much as you, if not more.”

I felt my hands shake and my cheeks wet as I wiped at them, the mascara I had been wearing smearing a streaky black as I stood, brushing my hands off on my dress, my heart feeling freed, my chest tempted to break open to allow me to let go more.

“Now if you excuse me, I must go home.”

I turned and walked out, leaving behind the big house full of dreams of all-star American athletes and nuclear households, tired mothers and fathers obsessed with infidelity. Part of my heart hoped Steve would run after me, apologize, kiss my cheeks and promise to love all the pieces and intricacies of me, promise to stand up next time.

But he never did.

Steve never called back, stopped speaking to me after practice, stopped trying to squeeze himself into my life. Maybe it was me embracing the soft curls of my hair and not shaving day in and out. Maybe it was me wearing what I wanted and quitting cheer to join the newspaper, and finding more people who accepted me for myself.

I won’t deny that it stung how he found Nancy Wheeler, perfectly American girl without any question. Straight A’s, beautiful, sweet, well-off family. I was happy for him. But I couldn’t deny that my chest stung with the idea that no matter what I did, I’d never be her.

My mother and I started mending our relationship, and while it always had that complicated knot of trauma and things she wouldn’t discuss, it was better than the frayed edges I’d left. She still pushed me hard, she still was stubborn and said things that would sting for a lifetime. I still cried alone when we fought, guilt over her giving up a life and home to make one mine, and yet I still got upset when she would refuse to budge and claim I'd ‘regret saying these things when (she) was dead and gone.’

But I felt less like a broken piece of glass trying to fit into a puzzle.

I met Eddie while eating lunch outside, still sensitive to classmates upturned noses and sniggering laughs behind their hands. I was at the bleachers, enjoying the fresh air and the empanadas I had reheated secretly in the front office. My mom had made the monthly trek to the latin supermarket to get ingredients and stock up on comforts. I was relishing in the flaky dough and savory inside when a voice startled me.

“What is that smell?”

I felt shame and embarrassment sink into my bones, knowing some of the kids at Hawkins hated the smell of the food I brought from home, claiming it was ‘too weird’. I turned to look at the voice, feeling my voice caught in my throat at the sight.

Eddie Munson.

I recognized the outgoing and loud metalhead anywhere. He was what I tried to distance myself from for so many years, trying to squeeze into Hawkins small sect of acceptable behavior and praised individuals. He always scared me, his clear and blatant middle finger to the idea of blending in, his behavior and interests always villainized in this town. But I also respected him immensely and was almost envious that he could do that, not consumed by thoughts of others mistreating him.

And yet now here he was, about to join the flock of Hawkins xenophobes, it seemed.

He scrambled to sit down next to me, his lean legs climbing over the seats easily as he sat by me. He had a pack of cigarettes in hand along with what seemed to be Twinkie. He smiled down on me, his wide grin causing my cheeks to heat quickly. Eddie was more attractive than the town of Hawkins gave him credit for, his smile dazzling and his eyes a warm brown. He white Reeboks rested against the bleachers in front of us as he leaned back on his hands, smiling over at me. His bangs came over his eyes a little with the wind, causing him to squint.

“I’ll trade you one of whatever that delicious thing is for my Twinkie. I forgot to pack a lunch,” he joked, dimples popping out.

I felt my hands clam up as I fidgeted nervously.

“I mean, sure, but are you sure you’ll like-”

“Princess, trust me. I love food. And that little doughy pocket you are currently munching on smells heavenly…Please?”

I nodded, feeling my stomach twist with nerves as I handed him the food, smiling at him sheepishly. He took it with eager hands, his own nimble fingers brushing mine and swiftly handing me the slightly squashed Twinkie.

“Sorry, it got a little beat up.”

I shook my head, shrugging. I had pocketed the twinkie, instead focused on his face while he took an eager bite into the dough, his moan coming soon after, his eyes rolling back into his head, his head thrown back.

I felt my skin heat up to blazing temperatures, my thighs squirming.

Who knew Eddie Munson’s moans sounded so… sinful?

He turned to me after chewing and swallowing, his eyes sparkling with interest as he sat up and faced me, scooting closer to me.

“You’ve got to tell me what that was. That was the best thing I’ve ever eaten. I need like fifty. Seriously. I’ll give you a free stash if you just bring me one like everyday.”

I laughed, my cheeks still heated and my heart squeezed at the excitement.

He liked it. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t spit it out.

“It’s an empanada. My mom makes them.”

“Em-pan-ahd-a,” He sounded out, stumbling over his words a bit and then grinning at me, his dimples popping up.

“Seriously though, I’ll pay you to get more of these.”

Eddie and I formed a bond tighter than anyone I’d ever known. After that meeting, we’d exchanged names and he offered to bring me one sweet each day in exchange for half of my mother’s cooking.

I was terrified at first, scared he’d turn away a dish or gag at the things she made. But as it turned out, that fear was short-lived.

Eddie Munson scarfed down empanadas, milanesa, cassava, rice, and soup. He acted as if each meal was worthy of a restaurant, praising my mother's cooking over and over again. I watched with swelling pride as he asked about the dishes and ingredients, how to cook them, and what my favorites were. He took extra care to express his love for the dishes I had assisted with the night before, his sweet words imprinted on my heart like ink.

We grew from that to more and more hanging out, me being an honorary member of Hellfire, and Corroded Coffin’s number 1 fan. I learned Eddie never got to learn how to ride a bike but could fix cars up pretty well due to working at an auto shop. I learned how Eddie sometimes would visit his dad at the jail but always came out of it bitter. I knew Eddie liked his eggs over medium, not scrambled (‘it looks like brains’), and how he had a tiny chip in his tooth from eating shit at a little league game when he was about 11 (‘I was never athletic, okay?’). And with each small piece of Eddie I got to know more and more, I felt a stronger tug at my heart. A pull to know all the parts of him, to familiarize myself with the calluses on his fingers and the dip in his collarbone. I wanted to consume all the pieces of him and feel our bones lock together.

One night, I had invited him over to help my mamá and I cook dinner, her over the top doting and affection causing us both to have heated cheeks, his a bright red. She was showing him how to make milanesa, her fingers already coated in eggy breadcrumbs. He listened intently, still joking around and making her laugh. She doted on him despite my fear, affectionately reprimanding him for not wearing socks on the cold floor and having his hair a mess. We laughed and sang along to old traditional love songs wafting in from the record spinning in the living room, Eddie taking my hand and swaying with me in the kitchen. My mother looked over at me with warm eyes, her smile soft and sad.

I never felt freer than that moment, all the small pieces that made me me visible to Eddie. He looked at me with warm and caring eyes, his smile soft but still bringing out his dimples. He liked me. He liked who I was. He didn’t mind that my mother had an accent or that she was overbearing sometimes, or that she burned palo santo to repel bad spirits and insects alike. He didn’t let Jason stick xenophobic notes to my back without a fight, and never made me feel like I needed to push down my heritage.

After dinner, I helped my mother wash the dishes while she urged Eddie to talk with my Dad and tour our home. I stayed in the kitchen speaking in hushed tones in Spanish with her, feeling frustration bubble up at her listing of all of Eddie’s flaws.

He’s too rebellious.

Ya se, mamá. Pero-

He has too many tattoos.

Sí, pero-

His hair is too long.

Mamá-

I had just about accepted defeat when she stayed silent for a beat before turning over to me.

“But does he make you happy, mijita?

I felt my heart skip a bit and a glimmer of hope shine through as I nodded my head and her expression softened. She turned back to her plate that she was scrubbing, looking into the suds rather than me.

“Good.”

We sat out on my porch hours after that dinner, our pinkies brushing as we sipped on water, Eddie smoking a cigarette but careful to not let the smoke come my direction. We had slipped into a comfortable silence that was familiar to us. Eddie dropped the cigarette, stomping out the smoke before turning to me and smiling.

“This was nice. I want more of this. More of us. What do you say, princesa? Be my girl?”

I felt my heart swell as my cheeks burned from my grin, my eyes watering over as I nodded enthusiastically. He pulled my hand closer to him with our connecting pinkies, interlacing the fingers and smiling as I answered.

“Yes. Always.”

I was on a date with Eddie when I finally saw Steve again. I mean, I had seen him in the hallways in passing, his arm usually wrapped around Nancy. However, I’d heard a rumor that the two had broken up. Steve wasn’t as popular as before and seemed to stop hanging around his group of usual assholes that included Carol and Tommy. But I had never expected to see him at the local mall working at Scoops Ahoy, serving me and Eddie.

Eddie had a protective arm wrapped around me, his expression guarded as he ordered some ice cream for the both of us. Eddie actively hated the mall, but this was the only place in town that really served ice cream and the two of us combined had a dangerous sweet tooth. He also was aware of me and Steve’s past, and our sour ending. He had soothed and comforted me when I felt afraid he would react the same way to my home and family.

While Steve rang us up, his expression was pained, which would have been laughable in his uniform if I wasn’t still stung by his behavior. He looked up at me, his eyes sincere as he sighed, his expression guilty.

“Look…I’m sorry I was such an ass while we were dating. I shouldn’t have let anyone talk to you like that. I shouldn’t have pushed you like that. I’m really sorry.”

Eddie’s arm wrapped tighter around me, ready to defend me if needed, his gaze on my face.

But strangely, I felt a sense of closure. A sense of forgiveness. I didn’t need approval from Steve or Hawkins or even Eddie. I could be all the little pieces of myself and my mother, all the parts of Midwest America and Latin America by myself. I deserved to be whole.

“Thank you. I deserve to be myself and feel proud of where I come from. I appreciate that you know that now.”

Eddie smiled softly down at me, kissing my forehead as his expression was filled with pride. He paid and tugged me away from the counter, his smile soft as he handed me my ice cream and held my hand with his free one, the other clutching his own.

“Sweet treat for my favorite girl.”

I smiled down at the cone, the phrase not lost on me. Maybe I wasn’t the All-American Girl. But I was Eddie’s girl. And that was more than enough.

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