Chapter Text
Oh, you're the best friend that I ever had
Been with you such a long time
You're my sunshine
And I want you to know
That my feelings are true
I really love you
JULY 4, 1989 : KANSAS STREET
Mike squinted into the sun. It seemed too bright out to be pedaling to one's doom. Sweat was beginning to seal his shirt to his back, and Mike told himself it was because of the heat and the exercise, and not because of where they were going.
Richie piped up. “For the record, if that thing kills me, don’t let Eddie take my Atari. I know he wants it.”
“Richie, I don’t want your fucking Atari, okay?” Eddie said.
“Can I have it?” Ben asked.
“Sure you don’t want my library card instead, Haystack?”
“Guys, focus. We’re turning here.” Eddie said, pulling ahead to make the turn onto Kansas.
Mike wondered if anyone from church would see him, would ask him what he was doing. One of them might say something to his Gran, and she would ask him later over cornbread. He’d say it was something like a race, probably, and maybe she would be happy for him.
“Can you guys bike any faster?” Beverly called back. She was ahead of all five of them, her shirt fluttering in the wind.
“Yeah, slowpokes.” Mike put his legs to work with renewed vigor. “Bill’s gonna get himself killed .”
The look on Bill’s face had scared Mike. It was like he understood something the rest of them hadn’t put together yet; Mike thought maybe he did. He didn’t think Bill was joking when he said that he wanted to kill it. He also didn’t think the clown, or whatever it was, was something you could just kill, like a spider or a sheep. That thing wasn’t made of blood and flesh and a heartbeat.
Mike didn’t like killing things.
“If I go any faster I’m gonna get an asthma attack!” Eddie warned. “So maybe calm down a bit! Because if I get an asthma attack I’m gonna have to stop and that’s going to slow us down even more, so-”
“Maybe you’ll breathe easier if you shut up!” Richie said.
Stan had been quiet so far, and when Mike glanced at his face he could see a certain amount of tension there. None of them were thrilled about this plan, but it seemed to Mike like Stan was the least thrilled out of all of the group.
“Do you think if Bill dies, they’ll let me have Silver?” Richie asked.
“Stop it!” Stan said. He gripped the handlebars of his bike and his elbows weren’t bent at all. “Stop joking about dying!”
“Yeah Rich, this is serious.” Ben said.
“We’re almost there!” Bev called. Mike was nearly caught up with her now.
“Do you think he’s already inside?” Mike asked.
“No, I saw him,” Beverly said. Her voice was breathy–she clearly didn’t go this fast often. “I saw him make the corner.”
Mike wanted to say something– we have to talk him out of this, what do we do if he goes inside? Do you think we can actually hurt it? -but he didn’t want to rock the boat. He already felt like he was in their debt for what they did back in the Barrens—he wasn’t about to question them now.
Don’t get in the habit of owing people favors, his grandfather would say. Be friendly, always be friendly–be good-natured, Mikey. But don’t get in the habit of owing people favors.
“Thanks for coming along, Mike.” Beverly said. “I know you barely know us.”
Mike stopped himself from thanking her for allowing him to come along. This wasn’t exactly the kind of thing he should be grateful to be involved in.
“Someone has to do something.” He said.
“I guess I barely know him.” Beverly said, as if realizing this as she spoke. “Doesn’t feel like that, though.”
“Funny, I know what you mean.” Mike said. “Feels like I’ve already known you all for ages.”
Eddie shrieked behind them. “I’m going to hit you if you keep doing that!”
“No you weren’t, I was being careful!” Mike heard Richie say.
“You’ve never once been careful, you act like a six year old every goddamn day and you’re lucky you’re still alive. If it weren’t for me and Stan you’d be hanging out with the likes of Betty Ripsom in a fucking coffin somewhere-”
“He’s biking around Eddie in circles again, isn’t he.” Mike said.
Beverly looked at him, smiling. “Probably.”
“Guys! There it is!” Ben piped up, pointing.
They turned the corner of Kansas and Neibolt, and there it was, approaching in the distance.
Looming, dark, and rotting like an animal carcass. Mike was suddenly overwhelmed with that all-too-familiar smell of dead meat, even though the house was still far away. He wrinkled his nose and looked away. They passed the church and Mike didn’t hear any singing.
“Looks like Havisham manor.” Ben said.
“What the fuck is that?” Richie asked.
“Don’t you guys remember? Great Expectations ? I thought all the seventh graders had to read it.” Ben said.
“Dude, you actually read that book?” Eddie asked incredulously.
“Yeah, I–you didn’t? ”
Mike had never read Great Expectations, but then again, he hadn’t been a typical seventh grader. It occurred to him that there were so many things they could joke about that he would never understand, would never have the context for. The house was growing steadily closer, and the pit of dread in Mike’s stomach grew in tandem.
“I think we’re gonna be dealing with something a lot worse than an old lady in a wedding dress.” Stan said.
“Oh, so you read it too?” Richie said. “What the fuck is this, the Derry book club?”
“Shut up!” Beverly said, pulling over towards the side of the road.
Silver was there, abandoned in the grass just outside the gate. Bill was standing in front of the steps, looking at the door.
Mike waited for him to walk in, or for a dark specter to leap out, or for the clown to beckon from inside. Bill simply stood there, like the tin man in the Wizard of Oz . He needs oil, Mike thought.
He and the other Losers set up their bikes next to Silver, and Beverly marched through the iron gate.
“Bill, you can’t go in there!”
Mike looked up at the house, which looked like it might fall apart if a strong wind kicked up. The siding was brittle and dry, vulnerable to rot or, god forbid, a fire.
As he stared, Mike thought he saw a white gloved hand wave from one of the windows. He looked away before he could see anything else.
Less than half an hour later, all of them were back in front of the iron gate.
“I can’t ride my bike this, I can’t ride it one handed, I won’t be able to steer it’s going to be–” Eddie said, clutching his arm.
“Come on, you j-just have to get on the back of Silver,” Bill said, pulling up his bike. “We’ll g-get you back to your hous-se and-”
“ Owhowhowhow !” Eddie wailed. He didn’t think he’d ever felt pain this bad, and it made the things he normally took double-doses of aspirin to manage look like a tap on the head. “My mom is gonna kill me!”
“Then she’ll put you out of your misery!” Richie said. “Get on the bike!”
“I don’t want to go to the ‘mergency room again!” Eddie cried. “Just leave me here… just leave me to die!” [1]
“Okay drama queen, let’s g-go.” Bill had mounted Silver.
Eddie climbed on the cargo carrier and wrapped his good arm around Bill’s midsection, groaning wretchedly. The metal rack wasn’t made for sitting, and he had to hold his legs weird, his ankles pressed together, to keep them from tangling with the spokes and dragging him to the ground.
“You’re a good man, Big Bill.” Richie said, climbing onto his own bike. “I’ll help you wipe off the slobber if he drools.”
“I am not drooling,” Eddie said, his self-awareness beginning to return.
“Maybe we can just take him directly to the hospital?” Ben said.
“That’s not how it works,” Eddie said miserably. “They’ll just call her… she always comes eventually… and then she’ll be even more mad…”
“Are you on th-there g-good? I’m g-gonna s-s-start moving now.” Bill warned.
“Let ‘er roll,” Eddie said. “Thanks, Big Bill.”
Silver began to rattle down Neibolt and Eddie closed his eyes against Bill’s shoulder, his face twisting up. His arm throbbed horribly.
“Are you gonna make it to your house? You look like you’re gonna faint,” Mike said.
“I’m not gonna faint, ” Eddie said, though he wasn’t sure if he fully believed it.
“‘Ah, my arm!’” Richie said in a floaty, high-pitched voice. “‘Fetch the physician, good sir! I think I shall lose my wits most presently!’”
“Go easy, Richie.” Stan warned. “Last thing he needs is an asthma attack.”
Asthma. Stan was right. If Eddie got an asthma attack on Bill’s bike, would he be able to pull his inhaler out without losing his balance? No, probably not. He’d have to let go of Bill. So his options would be to suffocate, or fall off of Silver and roll across the asphalt. Richie would probably run him over, and then he’d fall on top of Eddie, which could only mean good things for his already broken arm, and-
“You’re gonna be alright, we’re gonna get you home.” Bev was talking to him, holding steady alongside Bill’s bike. “Do you think you can hold on okay?”
“I’m fine,” Eddie muttered.
“Can you loos-s-sen up a little?” Bill asked. “You’re crushing m-my chest.”
“Sorry,” Eddie relaxed his arm slightly. Bill’s shirt smelled like a basement, sawdust and spiderwebs and maybe old cans of paint.
“I’m gonna go home and eat an entire box of fruit roll-ups.” Richie said. “Bev, you have any ciggies?”
“How are you hungry after that?” Stan asked.
“I’m resilient.” Richie said. “I have a healthy appetite. I’m a growing boy. ”
“You can’t smoke on your bike, Richie.” Bev said. “I’ve tried.”
“Maybe you can’t,” Richie grumbled.
“Worry about Eddie,” Ben said. “He looks like he’s going to fall off any second.”
Eddie groaned. “I’m not.”
“Ben, are you okay?” That was Mike. “It got your stomach, didn’t it?”
“It’s not that bad,” Ben said, though there was blood dripping onto the shiny metal of his bike. It almost looked kind of badass.
“Looks pretty bad.” Richie said. “Looks like you triggered one of those traps from Indiana Jones. ”
“Come back to my p-p-place after we finish dropping off Eddie,” Bill said. “We’re not s-sending you home like th-that.”
“Maybe you can borrow Eddie’s fanny pack!” Richie said.
“Nice fucking try, Trashmouth.” Eddie said.
Richie scoffed. “Come on, you have a spare!”
“We’re almos-s-st t-to your house, Eddie.” Bill said. “Hold on.”
Eddie leaned into Bill and sighed. “Gross. You’re sweaty.”
“You could use a sh-shower yourself, Eds.” Bill said.
Eddie heard Mike whispering something to Stan behind him. “Why’s he not want his mom to know?”
“She’s… kind of a lot,” Stan said. “You’ll see.”
And they would. Eddie felt a pang of embarrassment, the way he always did when people brought up his mother. He didn’t want her to act that way.
He wished they could know the other side of her, the side that hummed while making bacon-zucchini casserole and set Eddie’s laundry folded on the end of his bed, so he’d remember to put it away. He thought if he tried to explain that, though, Richie would say something about how he knew all the sides of Mrs. K, he knew her forwards and backwards and… shit, Eddie was really losing it.
“She thinks he’s some kind of delicate little flower.” Richie said. “Gets so worked up about him.” He paused. “You should see her in bed, though!”
“Beep beep, Richie.” Eddie groaned.
“How did it break? What happened in there?” Ben asked.
“Fell through the floor,” Eddie muttered. “Crashed through something. Could’ve died. Still haven’t taken my meds…”
He’d have to do it on the car ride to the hospital. He could already imagine his mother’s endless frantic questions, demanding that he explain himself, demanding that he disavow all of the mistakes he’d made, demanding that he move to a monastery in Germany and fucking, Eddie didn’t know, never go outside. He’d shove his pills in his mouth and swallow them hard without any water and there’d be tears pricking the back of his eyes. He wouldn’t answer her questions, and eventually she’d settle into stony silence. He’d pay for that later.
“There was a- a bunch of s-stuff in th-there,” Bill said. “Before we s-saw th-the clown. It t-tried to divide us.”
“That’s what it wants.” Beverly said presciently. “To divide us.”
“I don’t know, showed me a bunch of fucked up dolls of itself.” Richie said. “Maybe we can bribe it with raggedy-anns.”
“Good luck trying to pacify that thing.” Ben said.
“Remind me to bring my gun next time.” Mike said.
“ Next time?!” Stan cried, at the same time as Richie said, “You have a gun? ”
“Eddie, do you know if your m-mom is-s home?” Bill said.
“Should be,” Eddie said. He wanted to sigh again, but thought maybe that was getting old.
“She lives a pretty sedentary lifestyle. Like a–you ever hear about komodo dragons? Sit under a light on a rock all day?” Richie said.
“Shut up, Richie.” Eddie shot him a glare.
“I’ll go ring the doorbell,” Mike said, and Eddie realized that Bill was slowing down. They were approaching his house, with its arborvitae and shadowy brick porch. Somehow, he thought he’d rather go back into Neibolt.
“Don’t try to visit me in the hospital,” Eddie said, climbing off Bill’s bike unsteadily once Silver had stopped. “Cuz she’s gonna flip out and–you’ll see.”
“Good luck, man.” Richie said, looking toward the door distastefully. “Would not want to be you right now.”
“We’ll visit anyway,” Beverly said.
She’s kind, Eddie thought. Kind of stupid.
Bill nodded. “We’ve g-got to– to st-stick together.”
“Yeah, absolutely.” Ben said.
“If I finish my chores,” Mike said, more uncertainly.
Despite the pain, Eddie smiled. “No, you won’t. Don’t do that. But thanks, guys.”
JULY 4, 1989 : RICHIE’S HOUSE
Richie opened the door to his room and exhaled. He had been mad earlier, mad enough to shove Bill–something he never thought he'd do, not for serious–but now he was just tired. He flicked on the lights and grabbed his radio, turning to his bed, and-
His bed was made.
He furrowed his brow and looked around his room again.
It was… neat.
There was no laundry on the floor. His shades were up and his desk drawers were closed. His dresser was cleared off, except for a smiling picture of himself from the last round of school pictures. He had not put that there.
There were cardboard boxes sitting on his desk. One of them was labeled “DONATE.” He glanced inside that one and saw neat stacks of t-shirts, a couple of his old action figures. He began lifting things and looking through the second, unlabeled one, finding some of his nicer shirts, a few yearbooks, and–what the fuck was that.
There was a doll in the bottom of the box. Slightly worn clothes on a white fabric body, beady little eyes and red yarn hair.
He’d never seen it before in his life, but hell if he didn’t recognize it.
He heard muffled whimpering and spun around.
His mom was kneeling at the edge of his bed, wearing a nice black dress that Richie thought was new.
For a second he watched her there, head down and crying softly.
Her voice trickled quietly from the figure. “My little boy…”
“Mom…?”
She didn’t turn around, still sniffling. “Can you help me? My son, he’s missing. Something terrible’s happened to him...”
People don’t talk like that, Richie thought. It was jarring. People don’t talk like that, people don’t say things like that, cliche’d things like that.
“I’m right here,” Richie’s voice hitched with panic. He was frozen in place. “Mom?”
“I lost my little boy!” she cried.
“Mom- I’m- I’m right here,” Richie began to edge around the room, scared to look at her face.
She didn’t react, and he was going to say it again— Mom, I’m here, stop it —when she spoke again.
“No,” she said, almost sounding confused. “You’re not him,”
Richie took a step back as she began to turn in his direction, dread filling his stomach and weighing him in place.
“You’re not my little Richie,” She said, her face beginning to twist into a snarl. “You’re a, a disgusting little-”
Richie threw open his closet door and ducked inside, slamming it behind him. He pressed his back to the door and slid almost all the way to the dusty floorboards, his knees brushing against a shirt that he hadn’t worn in so long that it was still on a hanger.
It was only once he was in there that he realized the lightswitch was on the other side of the door.
He stared into the darkness, his hands balled into fists, breathing shakily.
The lights flicked on.
He held his breath. It was just his closet.
A click, and they were off again.
“Whatcha doin’ in there, Richie?” That was Pennywise. That was definitely Pennywise. He was on the other side of the door.
“You can’t stay in there forever…”
It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.
Real enough for Georgie.
But Georgie was just a little kid, a nice kid, but a dumb kid, and Richie wasn’t dumb. He wasn’t stupid enough to let this fucker scare him. He wasn’t-
“What if someone goes looking for you?”
The lights flicked on to reveal Pennywise inches from Richie’s face, teeth bared in a horrifying grin.
Richie screamed and kicked where he thought the clown’s nuts should be, ducking as it lunged at his face.
The impact he expected never came.
He looked around his closet frantically, but the creature had vanished. He pressed his knees to his chest and leaned against the door, eyes wide. His heart was like a canary in a cage, he thought it might kill itself throwing its body into his ribs.
“Richie?” His mom’s voice again, from the other side of the door.
Richie tensed.
“Are you alright? I heard a scream.” He heard her walk around the room a bit.
The worst part was waiting for it to end.
Always, always, that was the worst part.
Pressed up against the door, Richie thought it was gone. She was acting like his Mom, and it would be pretty odd not to answer her if it really was her.
But he couldn’t be sure.
“Where are you?”
Richie stood up and opened the door. “In here. Sorry.”
His mom stood in the center of the room with a questioning look on her face. She was wearing a sweater and jeans.
“Is everything all right?”
He looked from bed to floor to dresser. It was messy again.
“Uh, yeah. Fine.” He swallowed and adjusted his glasses.
“Hon, you’re all shaking!” His mother frowned and leaned down to get a good look at him, but he dodged away.
“There was a spider,” he choked out. “Got scared and fell.”
“Okay,” She said, raising her eyebrows. It was clear she had decided not to press. “Dinner’s in twenty minutes. Wash your hands.”
He watched her walk out of the room, his legs trembling. Stiffly, he slid down the closet door and clutched his legs to his chest, trying to breathe.
JULY 5, 1989 : PASTURE ROAD
Bev had a pep in her step, despite it all. The air was heavy with humidity and there wasn't a breeze for miles, but she was pleased. She had called that morning, and he had agreed to go see a movie with her at the Capitol in a few days, when a few new pictures would start showing. She was hoping they would agree on Catch Me If You Can, which she thought looked intriguing. Her first date, she thought giddily. She wanted to pedal her bike over to his house right then and give him a kiss on the cheek.
However, as he had told her, stammering, he had to be out of town all afternoon to see a speech therapist.
So Bev was heading off to the Barrens, because she didn’t feel like spending the rest of her day cooped up in her room. She was getting bored of the color of the walls. She thought she might buy some paint if she could get some money, lay down a tarp, move all of her things into the closet and get to work. Something dramatic and stylish would do, like ochre or burgundy or maroon. But none of those colors would go with her bedspread.
Today, if she was still home when her father returned from work, he might ask her to clean the house or start dinner or something else intolerably boring, and she didn’t want to be around for that. When she got home, she would tell him she had been at Lisa Andrews’ house, and hopefully he would believe her. Bev was in too much of a good mood to worry about him right now.
As she rode her bike through the stodgy summer heat, she wondered if Bill felt this way as he left town. She felt electric, zapped with life and energy. She tried not to be too conceited, but she guessed she looked amazing for it, self-possessed and overflowing with that abundant verve of girlhood. She imagined that, with her blouse flowing and her hair curling by her ears, she looked better than pretty, but something more elemental. She felt like the picture of youth and summer and carefree confidence, freckled and strong and unafraid. Bill Denbrough was taking her out on a date, and she felt divine.
She let herself grin as she dropped her bike on the dirt path that led into the woods, practically skipping to the clubhouse. All of the leaves were like stained glass except better, because they shimmered with the summer air, which wasn’t moving but might at any moment, shifting the kaleidoscope of shining green above her. When she approached their spot, she heard the muffled sounds of arguing from below, rising up from under the trapdoor. She bit her lip playfully and stomped a little around the door.
“ ShhhhH! ” A hurried whisper from below.
“Is it Bowers?” That was Ben.
“Shut up! He’ll hear you!” There was Richie, too.
She stomped around the clearing again, eventually pounding her feet down in a slow trail towards the hatch.
“That’s not Bowers,” Ben said. “He’d be taunting us by now.”
“BOO!” Beverly threw open the door and leapt down, waving her hands.
Ben shrieked. Richie let out a yelp and grabbed for Stan’s arm–Stan was there, too, pale and startled. The three of them were sitting on the floor around a mess of paper and markers.
“You guys are such wimps!” Bev grinned, and she and Richie began to laugh.
“You really got us there, Beverly!” Ben was red-faced and embarrassed.
“That could have been really bad.” Stan said, sounding like he wasn’t completely convinced she wasn’t secretly Henry.
“What are you guys doing down here?” Beverly closed the trapdoor. It was cooler down in the Clubhouse, refreshing compared to the thick heat of the forest above. “Arts and crafts?”
“We’re trying to make a fortune teller,” Stan said, recovering his nerves. “One of those paper ones?”
“A cootie catcher!” Richie snickered. “For catchin’ cooties.”
“Richie’s doing it wrong,” Ben said, laughing. He grabbed a crinkled piece of paper from Richie and unfolded it, squinting.
“Listen here, Haystack!” Richie said. “I know exactly how the cooties are caught! I’ve seen it done! Give that thing back to me-”
“Hold on, hold on ! Let me-” Ben held the attempted cootie catcher away, laughing.
“I saw it at sleepaway camp last year! Give it back! I was almost done!” Richie snatched it back.
“You’re going to ruin all our paper.” Stan observed.
Beverly sat down between Ben and Richie. “Give it.”
Richie handed it over to her with an exaggerated sigh. “As you say.”
She unfolded the mess of paper and realized quickly what the problem was.
“Oh, you’ve got to cut off this extra bit here so that it’s a square,” She said. “Do any of you have scissors?”
Stan shrugged. “I didn’t bring any.”
“I’ll use my teeth! ” Richie said.
“That’s gross!” Ben laughed.
Beverly folded the piece of printer paper so that the top edge was flush with the side, and then folded over the strip of extra a couple times so that it would tear clean. The paper resisted her hands, already crinkled by countless attempts, but she was patient. She carefully ripped away the strip as the others watched, and then got to work re-folding the fortune teller.
“See, that’s what I was doing!” Richie gestured at Beverly.
“Sure you were.” Stan said.
“What’d you want it for?” Beverly handed them the complete cootie catcher, briefly demonstrating with one hand the way it opened and closed.
“You made that look so easy,” Ben said, awestruck.
“We’re going to bring it to Eddie in the hospital,” Stan said. “To cheer him up. It was my idea.”
“I don’t know what he’s going to do with it,” Richie said. “Do you think the hospital is where they bring the third grader girls for recess?”
“Do nurses have cooties to catch?” Ben asked. Stan giggled at that.
“I’m sure they must,” Bev assured him. Ben smiled at her.
Stan grabbed a marker and began to write numbers on the outside flaps of the fortune teller, and he did it the proper way so that when they were folded out the numbers would be face-up instead of diagonal. “It’s the thought that counts.”
“How’s he even going to use it?” Richie complained. “He only has one hand.”
“Oh really?” Beverly grinned. “Should we find him a hook to replace the other one?”
Richie giggled. “‘Yarr, me hearties! Swab the deck and hail the westerlies! There be ibuprofen in that Rite Aid!’”
Beverly and Ben cackled heartily.
“‘No one messes with Captain Kaspbrak! First mate, bring me my inhalarrr!’” Richie was caught up in his own giggles.
Stan chuckled, having filled the inside flaps of the cootie catcher with more numbers. “It’s time to put the fortunes in.”
“Oooh, ooh, let me do them!” Richie grabbed for the fortune teller and Stan yanked it back.
“There are eight places for fortunes and four of us,” He said. “Let’s each do two.”
“Let me start,” Bev said, taking the paper and unfolding it enough so that she could write on the innermost spaces.
In one space, she wrote, “You will live to be 100 years old, ” and in the one next to it, she smiled and put, “ You will lose your life savings to an encyclopedia salesman.”
She passed it to Ben. “Do one good one and one bad one. To make it even.”
“And remember, these are for Eddie .” Richie said, snickering.
Ben filled his out, looking pleased with himself, and passed it to Richie, who had barely written one word when he started giggling madly to himself. Eventually he pulled himself together enough to pass it on to Stan, who finished them off and capped the marker with a neat click.
He passed it back to Beverly. “You knew how to make it, so I think you should get to give it a test run.”
“Ben!” Bev turned, holding out the cootie catcher. “Pick a number.”
Ben grinned. “Uh, two.”
Bev opened and closed the fortune teller twice. “Red, yellow, green, or blue?”
“Red.”
There was the number 7 in the red spot, so Bev folded it in and out seven more times.
“Spring, Summer, Winter or Fall?” She asked.
“Summer!” Ben peeked at the paper creation in her hands.
She opened the flap under Summer and squinted.
Then her smile faded. “Richie, that’s not funny.”
“Yes it IS,” Richie grinned. “Read it, read it. I’ll do the curse words if you don’t wanna.”
Beverly frowned. Her hand began to tremble slightly.
Stan grabbed it from her and read the fortune, only to drop it like a hot coal. “Richie, you didn’t write that, did you?” He asked, his voice a little more strained than usual.
Ben’s smile was long gone. “What is it?”
Richie grabbed the cootie catcher, curious himself. His face went white. It was then that Beverly noticed dark circles behind his glasses.
“What is it? Let me see,” Ben took it, and Richie let him without any resistance.
Now they all saw it, and the look of horror on Ben’s face confirmed what Beverly already suspected–he hadn’t written that either.
There, in red marker that bled slightly through the paper, was the phrase:
You’ll float too.
Ben opened the other flaps of the cootie catcher, and to his terror all of them said the same thing. You'll float too. You'll float too. You'll float too.
“What do we do?” Ben dropped it and scooched away, breathing a little faster.
“Stomp on it!” Richie said. “Tear it up!”
None of them did any such thing. Instead, they only stared at it with silent fear, knowing that something else was coming next.
The fortune teller didn’t disappoint. As they watched, red ink began to spread across the paper, so thick and dark that you couldn’t read Stan’s hard work anymore. Eventually it reached the edges of the paper and began to drip off, and Ben became certain that it wasn’t ink at all–it was blood. Of course it was blood.
“It’s bleeding!” Beverly cried.
“I can see that!” Richie replied.
Stan was the first to scramble to his feet, nearly bumping his head on one of the beams. He began to back away, and Ben thought he saw Stan’s mouth moving, like he was whispering something.
A smell hit Ben’s nose like radioactive grenadine, so sweet as to make one’s mouth pucker, sickening and unnatural. He envisioned that the blood would continue to spill forth, slowly filling the clubhouse–they would try to escape through the hatch in the ceiling, of course, but then it would slam closed and they would pound up against it ineffectually, Ben would take Beverly into his arms as she wept, blood would slosh into his throat and the last thing he would see would be the panic in Stan’s eyes as he–
“What do we do, what do we do?” Richie stood up as the blood began to creep in his direction. “Somebody stomp on it!”
“I’m going to stomp on it!” Ben said, trying to find his brave face. “I’m going to stomp on it, get ready!”
The blood was beginning to seep into the dirt floor of the clubhouse, burbling and muddy. Ben would later cover the spot in an old doormat he found in a gutter, not wanting to look at the stain.
He gulped. What if there were razor blades inside of it and they cut his foot? What if the floor vanished from underneath and he was sucked down like some kind of blood-soaked quicksand? He thought he heard a low giggle from the shadows and he nearly screamed.
Then he glanced at Beverly, who had a hand over her mouth and was pressed back against the wall with fright in her eyes.
He stomped on the paper abomination. It squished under his foot as easily as an abandoned twinkie wrapper. When he lifted it, wincing, there was a smear on the bottom of his sneaker and some splatter on his socks, but the paper was no more than a flattened wet crinkle on the floor. It looks like a dead mosquito , Ben thought. They all stared at it for a moment, waiting to see if it would do anything.
“Gross.” Richie finally said. “Bev, is that what it looks like when you use a pad?”
“Beep beep, trashmouth.” Beverly flipped him off.
“Let’s get out of here.” Stan said, his voice still shaky.
Ben agreed. He bolted up the ladder, opening the trapdoor and reaching an arm back behind him.
“Why thank you, kind sir!” Richie said, accepting the help. Beverly managed to climb out before Richie let go of Ben’s arm, to his annoyance, the toothy edge of her boot scuffing the mulch.
Stan was last, and he held the trapdoor open for a moment, staring down at the bloody mess they had left behind, before slamming it shut decisively. He wiped his hands on Richie’s shirt with the casualness of someone using a dishrag to dry their hands. Richie didn’t slap him away, only muttered, "Thanks a million, old champ," which Ben thought must mean they did it often.
They covered the trapdoor with leaves and pine needles, as they always did.
“I guess we’re not bringing Eddie that thing after all,” Ben said once his heart rate had returned to a less frantic pace.
“No!” Bev agreed.
“We can’t even pretend to have a nice future.” Stan said, frowning. “Everyone floats up eventually…”
“That’s dark,” Ben frowned. I think some people sink, he thought.
“Let’s get Eddie a comic book or something!” Richie said. “I told you guys it was a stupid idea anyway. Sorry, Stan.”
Stan glared at him. “I’m not paying for it.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Richie grumped. “I’ve got cash. I’m loaded! ”
“How about we try the bookstore on main?” Ben suggested. “Then maybe we can see if there’s a movie playing!”
Bev seemed to perk up at that, sending Ben’s heart tumbling. “Maybe!”
“I can’t do the movie, but I’ll follow you guys to the bookstore.” Stan said.
“Alright.” Richie grinned, their brief run-in with terror overcome with ease. They were like Ben’s little cousin, who liked to throw tantrums easily solved by the promise of candy, but different. Different because Ben thought they all knew they were being placated. “Onward ho!”
JULY 8, 1989 EDDIE’S HOUSE
Eddie was out of the hospital two days later when Richie came to finally deliver the comic book. When he, Beverly and Ben had showed up at the hospital, Sonia Kaspbrak had insisted that her son was resting and that they had better get home before it was dark. There was a tone in her voice that insisted they move before she revealed what she really thought of the lot of them.
Richie could’ve given her a piece of his mind, but he knew she’d only take it out on Eddie.
So, he resolved to deliver the issue of Spiderman he’d bought for Eddie now that he was home, and now that he knew Mrs. Kaspbrak would be at work.
The Kaspbrak’s house was small, tucked under some old oak trees that filled the gutters with acorns in the fall. Richie walked up to the front door and rang the doorbell, fidgeting with his shirt buttons as he waited.
There was no response.
Richie pressed it again, three times.
“I’m COMING!” Eddie shouted, muffled, from inside.
Richie grinned and managed to ring four more times before Eddie yanked open the door. The hand that didn’t hold the door was in a cast, which Richie noticed first, but the second thing he noticed was that Eddie had clearly been crying.
“Whoa, you okay, Eds?” He asked.
“Get inside, dickface.” Eddie sniffled and moved behind the door as he opened it further.
Richie stepped in and held out the comic, which was only a little sweaty from his hands. “I brought you this. Tried to bring it to the hospital but I got distracted because of your mom .”
Eddie closed the door and turned. “Did you like, spit on it or something?”
“No?” Richie poked Eddie with it. “Do you want me to?”
“No, obviously!” Eddie grabbed the comic and stomped past him into the kitchen. “Just seems like the kind of thing you’d do.”
“Oh, so I can’t be nice? ” Richie said, following him. “I can’t just be a kind, compassionate soul who brought you a comic to cheer you up when you got your widdle fragile arm broken?”
“Shut UP!” Eddie groaned. He slapped the comic down on his counter, rattling a couple bottles of pills that were scattered across its surface, and sat in one of the wooden chairs by the breakfast table. Richie noticed a couple balls of tissues on the table, though now Eddie pushed them onto the floor.
“Dude, what happened? ” Richie asked. “Were you crying?”
“No.” Eddie lied.
“How’s your arm?”
“‘S fine.” Eddie sniffled. He was holding his cast under the table.
“Lemme see,” Richie said, walking over.
“No!” Eddie said.
“Why are you hiding it?” Richie furrowed his brow. “Do you think I’m not gonna see eventually? I’ll sign it for you, that’ll be worth something in ten years.”
Eddie took this in and produced the arm from under the table. Richie saw now that someone had written “LOSER” across it in huge letters.
“Well that’s unfortunate.” Richie said. “Did you sign it yourself?”
Eddie glared at him, but then his eyes darted around the room, the way they always did when he was nervous. “Greta Keene wrote it. She offered to sign it, and then she wrote that .”
“She signed it as ‘loser’?” Richie raised his eyebrows.
Eddie gave a half-smile at that. “I guess.”
“Damn, that’s rough.” Richie said. “And you like her, right?”
That’s what he’d said at their last sleepover, anyway. Not–okay, their last planned sleepover, with Bill and Stan. Richie didn’t count last night.
“I used to.” Eddie slouched. “Not anymore .”
Richie tilted his head at the cast. “I bet we could fix it somehow.”
“ How? ” Eddie looked down at the damning word reproachfully.
Richie bit his lip and adjusted his glasses. “I could put a C in front of it.”
“Closer? What does that even mean?” Eddie squinted at him. “I’m not trusting you, Trashmouth. You’ll probably make it worse somehow.”
LOSER. He could turn the L into a lot of different letters, the E could become a B, the R could be another B. There was nothing really to be done about the S, though, and the more Richie stared at the letters, the more nonsense words his brain generated.
“It’s hopeless.” Eddie sighed. “I’m going to go around all summer with this dumbass cast and everyone’s going to think I’m the stupidest person ever. Broken arm and no friends and let someone write LOSER on it. Why’d I think she was going to sign it like a normal person? What’s wrong with me?”
“Wait, wait.” Richie grabbed a red sharpie from off the counter.
“No you don’t!” Eddie jerked away.
“Relax, I’m not gonna do anything yet. I have an idea though.” Richie grabbed a piece of paper off the counter–probably a note from the hospital explaining what pills to take when–and wrote out LOSER on it. Then he drew a V on top of the S.
“Lover?” Eddie grimaced. “Gross.”
“I don’t know, it could be kind of cool.” Richie pulled out his most macho voice and ran a hand through his hair. “‘Don’t worry baby, I won’t hurt you. I’m a lover, not a fighter.’”
Eddie laughed. Richie beamed at him.
“You can still see the S,” Eddie pointed out. “It’s not bad, though. It might be the best we can do.” He gave a long-suffering sigh. “Go ahead.”
Richie waited for him to nod before he uncapped the sharpie and leaned over the table. Eddie propped his arm up, adjusting it to give Richie a better angle.
“Stop moving!” Richie said.
“I will, oh my god.” Richie felt the tips of his hair touch Eddie’s face and Eddie made a pfuh sound, spitting them out of his mouth. “Be careful, because if you fuck this up, fucknuts I will end you.”
The soft tip squeaked as it slid over the bumpy surface of the plaster, making first one long line, then another. Richie went over the lines a few times to make them thicker before he stood back, satisfied with his work. The red was a nice contrast, he thought. It occurred to him that you could put two arches above the V to make a heart, though Eddie probably wouldn’t go for that. Richie didn’t even know why he’d thought of such a thing.
“Thanks.” Eddie’s face was scarlet to match the marker, though that could be leftover embarrassment from crying.
Richie grinned. “No problemo, Eddie Spaghetti!”
“Absolutely not. Absolutely not.” Eddie was even redder now. “If you ever call me that again I will turn your brain into meatballs , you understand me? Meatballs. If I can even find any brain inside your thick-ass skull. Stop laughing, you’re so not funny!”
Richie couldn’t help himself. “Dude, you’re so easy. Look at you. You’re like tomato sauce right now. Someone get the oregano.”
“Shut up, Richard! ”
Richie laughed even harder. “Richard!”
“Richard Blows-ier, want me to call you that for the rest of your life?”
“ Yes ,” Richie’s stomach was getting sore. “Do that.”
Eddie couldn’t help but laugh too. “You’re gonna regret that!”
“No, it’s you who will regret it!” Richie crowed. “I think you’ll find dad is a lot shorter-”
“Shut the fuck up!” Eddie cackled, punching Richie in the arm with his good hand. “You’re so stupid!”
“Owwww you’re gonna break MY arm!” Richie wailed, sitting back in the other kitchen chair. The pine legs squeaked with disdain on the kitchen floor.
“I like, barely hit you. You’re such a liar, Blows-ier.” Eddie giggled. “Maybe I will break it, so I can perform unlicensed medical procedures on you, see how you like it, huh?”
“It was pretty funny,” Richie wheezed, wiping his glasses on his shirt. “You were an opera singer there for a second. The most beautiful, angelic high note that I’ve ever heard–”
“Beep beep, already!” Eddie protested.
“Ahh, fair’s fair.” Richie switched out his laughter for a snarky smile. “Enough chucks have been had at your expense for one day.”
Eddie snorted. He picked up the comic book, flipped through the pages briefly. “Thanks, by the way.”
“Don’t thank me, sir! I live to serve.” Richie said grandly. Then he added, “Owesies, though.”
“Bitch,” Eddie said. He wiped his face with one hand, though it was still red and a little puffy. “My mom will be back soon, you should probably run. She wants me resting. ”
“Scatter, boys!” Richie cried. “You never let a mother bear see you with her cub!”
Eddie rolled his eyes and began to walk Richie out. “Do you think you’ll be able to sleep okay tonight?”
Richie was surprised that Eddie would bring it up, what happened the night before. It didn’t seem like daytime talk, or maybe any time talk, more like… more like sleepover talk.
“Pestered by haunting visions of your mother? No, not at all.”
“No, I mean.” Eddie blinked. “You know.”
“I’ll try,” Richie’s smile flickered as he opened the door. “Don’t worry about me , Eds! You’re the one sleeping in the den of the beast. ”
“Haha, very funny.” Eddie put one hand on his hip. “How about you take your smartass mouth with you out of my house, huh?”
“You like it,” Richie poked Eddie on the shoulder.
“Out!” Eddie said, closing the door.
“Bye, Spaghetti!” Richie called, chuckling to himself. He glanced at the house one last time before he got on his bike and rode home. He could see the spot on the tree, to the left of the door, where his sneaker had scratched off a bit of loose bark the night before.