NOTE: Hey, I'm alive and still working on this! Yeah! Here, have this giant-ass chapter, which may or may not contain a teeny tiny AU Stranger Things cameo. *whistles innocently*
You Might Think
but I think that you're wild
when you flash that fragile smile
"Come on, you have to admit, the fight with the giant scorpion was pretty badass," Eddie says.
Richie does not have to admit any such thing, any more than he has to admit that yeah, it was actually really fucking sad when the ant died. He already watched the goddamn movie - what more does Eddie want from him?
Stupid curfew. Stupid sold-out Monday Batman matinee.
They're wheeling their bikes to the video store, because it's Wednesday and Eddie's mom doesn't know that the boring-ass youth group she makes him go to got canceled for summer (because of the disappearances, but nobody ever says that out loud), so they're free men.
Free men who are in the market for pizza and a two-day rental of 48 Hrs.
"And we're not getting 48 Hrs. again," Eddie says.
Sacrilege! Betrayal! "Uh, says you," Richie bounces his bike up over the curb. There's no rack outside Movies 4 U, so they have to lean them against the building (or dump them on the sidewalk, which is what Richie does). "It's my pick! We already saw your dumb movie this week. And what the hell do you have against 48 Hrs.? It's a comedy classic!"
Eddie throws his hands up. "We've already rented it fifty fucking times!"
"No way," Richie scoffs. It's been a modest ten times (this year...so far). "And anyway, that's totally beside the point."
"How is that not the point?" Eddie squawks. Some people just don't appreciate art. Richie shakes his head, and a familiar flash of auburn catches his eye through the window next door. "I swear to god, if I have to listen to Eddie Murphy's stupid donkey laugh one more time, my face is gonna melt off -"
"Hey, is that Bev?" Richie interrupts.
It's her, all right. No mistaking that curly red mop. She's at the laundromat, slouched in one of the ugly orange plastic chairs up front and looking bored as hell. The giant picture window frames her like a goddamn painting or something. Does she do shit like this on purpose? It's got to be on purpose. Nobody could look that cool without trying.
Eddie bites his lips like he always does when he's thinking. "Maybe we should say hi."
The laundromat looks deserted except for Bev and about as fun as licking stamps. It doesn't take a genius to guess she might appreciate some company (even theirs). "I say, old chap, what a smashing idea," he says in his Sherlock Holmes Voice. "Come along now, Edward Spaghedward, the game is afoot! Pip pip and tally ho!"
"Do not call me that," Eddie snaps. "And for the love of god, don't do the British guy at her, I'm serious. Richie? Richie!"
Beverly doesn't notice them walk in, staring blankly at a load of towels tumbling around and around in a dryer. Usually he'd show off his master ninja skills and sneak up on her, but everybody's a little tense right now, what with the, you know, dead kids, and he doesn't want her to freak out and start screaming. Or punch him in the 'nads, which was a shit-ton more likely.
He strikes a moody Sam Spade detective pose instead. "What's a classy dame like you doing in a lousy gin joint like this?"
She looks up, startled, then grins when she sees it's them. "Working on my water ballet routine, obviously."
There's a joke in there about offering to judge the wet tutu contest, but Eddie cuts him off. "Hi, Beverly," he says shyly. You'd think every girl was armed with a chainsaw and the thirst for virgin's blood from the way he acts around them.
"Hey, Eddie," she says, just a little softer, a little sweeter. There are some real perks to being cute that Eddie doesn't appreciate enough. "What are you guys doing here?" she raises a sly eyebrow at Richie. "Are you stalking me now?"
"Oh yeah, big time. I've got a shrine in my closet and everything. In fact, I'm actually here to steal some of your clothes for the life-size mannequin, you know, add some realism to the display," he nudges Eddie. "That, and the Edster here can never pass up a good fluff and fold, am I right?"
The sheer disgust on Eddie's face is priceless, a Kodak moment if he ever saw one. "Shut up, Richie!" he hisses, like a tiny angry mongoose with fanny packs. He turns wide-eyed to Beverly. "We were just getting a movie, I swear."
She smiles. "Don't worry, I'd never lump you in with this degenerate."
"Hey, I resemble that remark," Richie says.
"You could come along and watch the movie, too," Eddie says suddenly, and Richie looks at him in surprise. "If you wanted."
Bev looks pretty surprised herself. "Um, yeah, I'd totally like to," she sighs, kicks the empty laundry basket at her feet. "It's just I have two loads going, and then I still have to dry them. Everything takes forever with these piece of shit machines."
"So?" Richie shrugs, and pushes his glasses back up his nose (thank you, Henry Bowers, for shoving him face-first into a locker; the black eye healed, but his frames are still bent to shit). "Save a couple quarters and dry 'em at my house. Problem solved."
"Really?" she asks, like he just offered her the use of his private jet or the Taj Mahal or something.
Dude, it's a dryer, not the family jewels (though he could probably be persuaded to loan those out, too). "Well, in some cultures it'd mean we're married, but sure, what the hell," Richie clasps his hands and bats his eyelashes, puts on his worst Southern Belle Voice. "Ah always dreamt Ah'd be a June bride."
"They do drive-through divorces in Las Vegas," Eddie raises his hands, palms out. "I'm just saying."
Beverly whistles. "Wow, a wife and a trip to Nevada. You guys really go all out."
"We're getting pizza, too," Richie says.
"Well, now that seals the deal," Bev smiles, brushes her hair out of her eyes. "I mean, if you guys don't mind waiting around 'til these loads finish?"
There's a joke in there, too, about loads and finishing, but this time Richie cuts himself off. Even he knows there's a difference between saying gross shit to the guys or about Eddie's mom that she'll never hear and saying gross shit to a real live girl who's looking you right in the face, a girl who's been decent to you and that people probably (definitely) say gross shit to all the time.
"Goody, we can catch up on girl talk," Richie says instead, and squeezes onto the slippery plastic seat with her, metal legs shrieking against the tile floor. Beverly shifts over for him with something suspiciously close to a giggle, and he settles in, flips imaginary hair over his shoulder. "Oh my god, like, Keanu is such a babe and a half. He was, like, soooo dreamy in Bill And Ted. Don't you think he's super dreamy, Eddie?"
"I think you're an idiot," Eddie crosses his arms.
Yeah, well, some people think the earth is flat and Debbie Gibson is cool. People are wrong about all kinds of stuff. "Hey, pull up some chair, why don'tcha," Richie scoots further into Bev to clear some free space, which is like three inches, sure, but it's the thought that counts. "Join the party."
"There isn't room, dummy," Eddie says. "I'm not a fucking Polly Pocket."
Debatable. "Plenty of room for you right here," Richie pats his lap, and waggles his eyebrows. "Best seat in the house."
Eddie gives him the king of are-you-kidding-me looks. "I'd rather sit on the filthy, disgusting floor and catch scabies, thanks."
"It's okay if you don't want to. I mean, if you don't think you're man enough to handle it," Richie leans back, fingers laced behind his head. "This much beefcake is pretty intimidating."
Steam is practically coming out of Eddie's ears. "Can't handle - " his eyes dart over to Bev, then he shuts his mouth with a clack, squares his jaw. "You know what, fine," and before Richie can say a word, the little fucking maniac hops aboard.
Well. That is...well.
For a second, he's genuinely and completely dumbfounded. It must show on his face, because when Eddie looks back at him, he smirks.
So that's how it's gonna be. All right. Richie wipes the stupid look off his face, and does what he always does when he's backed himself into some ridiculous, dumbass situation: act like this is exactly what he meant to do. "So anyway," he tries to sound casual. Success rate is...you know, there's a sliding scale for these things. "Pizza, Marsh. What's your poison?"
Beverly is biting her lip, probably to keep from laughing her ass off at what dipshits they are. "Uh, pretty much anything. I like mushrooms and olives a lot."
"Yeuugh, mushrooms," Eddie scrunches up his nose. "They're literal fungi! It's like eating athlete's foot, o-or snails, since they're all slimy and rubbery and gross - " his brain seems to catch up with his mouth, and he looks at Bev, who is definitely trying not to laugh now. "But olives are good. I like olives."
Eddie Kaspbrak, silver-tongued devil.
A car honks outside, and Beverly turns her head to look out the window. The afternoon light hits her hair like fire, glowing copper, and Eddie's staring at her, mouth open, equal parts fascination and panic. And maybe it's not the lovestruck way Ben stares at her, or Bill (or Stan a little bit once or twice when he didn't know anybody was looking), but it's some kind of struck, all right.
Hail Molly, full of grace, blessed are you among Brat Packers.
Look, he gets it. She's the only girl in the sausage party that is the Losers Club, and even if they're getting used to that, there's still a real fucking novelty factor there. Sometimes it just hits you that yeah, as well as funny and reasonably cool, she is in fact a girl.
And pretty. You don't have to be doodling her name in hearts all over your notebook to admit that. She's pretty, okay. No shit she is. Noticing doesn't mean dick except you aren't blind or a complete liar.
Eddie shifts, sliding back a little from his rigid perch on the edge of Richie's knees, and Richie is suddenly very aware of how they're all squashed together in this 1970s egg-shaped stackable monstrosity, Beverly's thigh pressed along his, the sticky heat of Eddie's bare leg draped over. How the sloping seat has her sort of wedged against him, and if he put his right arm down now, there wouldn't be anywhere to go except around her, and how he can smell cherry cola lip gloss and Eddie's Johnson & Johnson baby shampoo, feel him breathing, his quick inhale when Bev turns back around and he looks away.
Richie swallows.
A washing machine buzzer cuts through the tension. "That's me," Beverly says, and slithers out from their tangle of legs and raging hormones.
Which just leaves them, two dudes in a chair. One dude sitting on another dude's lap.
As you do.
"Here, I'll help," Eddie scrambles off him like a starter pistol just shot.
Richie's brain lags pathetically behind. If this actually was a race, he'd still be fumbling with his jockstrap in the locker room. He clears his throat. "Uh, yeah, me, too."
He'll say it again: puberty. It's a wild fucking ride.
The three of them haul out approximately six million pounds of wet sheets and blankets, which sucks donkey balls, but does get rid of that semi he totally hadn't popped (whatever, don't judge him - he's thirteen, literally anything can give him wood).
"Jesus H., Marsh, are you smuggling gold bars in here or what?" Richie grunts, wrestling with a bedspread that might actually be heavier than Eddie.
"Oh no, you've discovered the secret of my vast wealth," she deadpans, and twirls her wrists in the most sarcastic ta-da gesture he's ever seen. Stan would be impressed and / or jealous.
"Less whining, more helping," Eddie wheezes. He's already one puff deep on his inhaler and rocketing toward the next.
"Psh, like I can't do both."
They pile wet laundry in one basket and dry into another, and Eddie and Bev both blush when he accidentally grabs a pair of panties with little faded pink rosebuds. "Sorry," she mutters, stuffs them underneath some towels, and Eddie mumbles something that's barely vowel sounds, let alone words.
Whatever. Richie's lived in a house of women way too long to get worked up over any underwear that isn't occupied. "Come on, let's blow this popsicle stand," he grabs the wet basket without thinking, and just about squirts blood out of his eyeballs trying to lift it. "Fuuuck!"
Eddie does worried jazz hands. "Stop! You're gonna rupture a disk!"
"You have that all right?" Beverly sounds doubtful.
Oh god, he can taste organs. Maybe Cock-Knocker had been right about pull-ups and the importance of the presidential fitness test. "I got it, I got it," he huffs, only staggering around wildly a little bit.
"No, he doesn't," Eddie snaps, and yanks one of the handles away. "Gimme that before you get a hernia, idiot! Do you want your intestines to shoot into your balls?"
Not...especially? "Gee, thanks, Doogie Howser," Richie jokes, yet in no way tries to shake him loose.
Things veer into Keystone Cops territory when he and Eddie try to navigate a joint clothes basket, a door, and a mutual lack of coordination or ability to communicate. Beverly was smart enough to get out first, and calmly watches them embarrass themselves from the sidewalk. "Hey, do you guys mind if I drop this stuff off home?" she jostles the dry basket propped on her hip. "You know, less stuff to drag around. It'll only take a minute, I promise."
"As you will, m'lady!" Richie bows as low as he can without dumping wet laundry on the ground. "A thousand years we shall await thy return, fair maiden, if thou bidst us!"
She shakes her head. "You are such a weirdo sometimes," she says, and ruffles his hair. Tingles shoot all over his scalp like lightning.
"Sometimes?" Eddie says pointedly.
"Sure. He's asleep part of the time, right?" Beverly ruffles his hair, too. If Richie tried that, he'd rip his hand off and slap him with it, but Eddie doesn't even grumble. He just ducks his head and grins, sneaks a look up at her with big dopey eyes.
Pretty In Pink strikes again.
"Time me!" she yells back to them. They watch her run across the street to the old crappy brick apartment complex where she lives, dodging around a clump of little kids on the steps, who are playing with jacks or marbles or some other dumb 1950s bullshit.
"So," Richie says finally. "That, uh, ball thing. Is that really what a hernia is?"
"Oh my god," Eddie groans.
To get to her place, Bev has to pass an apartment with its door open and some burnouts hanging around outside, smoking and drinking beer. Real Ted Nugent, shitty faded eagle tattoo, walking ashtray, Monday morning at the dive bar, beer gut and BO dirtbags. He's familiar with the type - Mom's dated enough of them. Is dating one.
One dirtbag says something to her, and tries to grab her arm. Beverly slips past him like he doesn't exist, unlocks her door and disappears inside. "Creeps," Eddie mutters.
"Yeah," Richie agrees flatly. The dirtbags are all laughing now. Ha ha, so funny.
So fucking funny.
A few minutes later, Bev comes jogging around from the back of her building. What do you know, looks like her fire escape doubles as a creep escape. "How'd I do?" she pants, smiling like nothing happened.
He's familiar with that, too. Sometimes when shitty stuff happens, you just don't want to deal with people feeling bad for you, or even, like, pissed off on your behalf. Sometimes you just want to move the fuck on, you know?
He knows Eddie gets it, too, even if it takes him an extra second to blink and shake off his angry frown. He checks his watch. "Uh, three minutes, forty-two seconds."
"Damn, not my best time," she says. "Well, thanks for waiting."
"It was touch and go there for awhile, I'm not gonna lie to you," Richie says. "We thought about hocking your sheets and going on the run to Canada, but the laundry black market is so unpredictable these days, and then there'd be all that maple syrup to deal with."
"Not to mention the hockey and widespread courtesy," Beverly adds, straight-faced.
"Right? Who needs that hassle," Richie hitches up his side of the basket. "All right, heave ho, Spaghetti Man! Time's a-wastin'!"
Eddie's glare is murderous. "I will fucking neck-punch you, I am not even kidding."
Bev holds the door of Movies 4 U for them while they squeeze through. The good news is they've upgraded from Keystone Cops to Abbott and Costello. The bad news is, well, literally everything else about that. "Hey, Steve," Richie calls to the clerk when they finally squeeze inside. His elbow is scraped up and bleeding, and Eddie's grumbling, rubbing his bruised hipbone through his short-shorts.
"48 Hrs. is out 'til tomorrow," Steve doesn't even glance up from his issue of Sports Illustrated, floppy hair falling in a perfect swoop over his forehead.
Okay, so maybe he's rented it a time or two too many.
Beverly raises her eyebrows, amused. "Come here a lot?"
"I'm known in the area," Richie says. He's pretty much here or at the arcade whenever there's nobody to hang around with, because there's pretty much dick to do by himself in Derry and he pretty much hates Kenny's guts, who's pretty much moved in since he got canned from his last job and pretty much hates Richie right back.
You know. Pretty much.
Steve finally looks up - probably to get a load of whatever girl would willingly be seen in public with him or Eddie - and does a double-take at the laundry basket. "Uh, what the hell?"
"It's an emergency," is all Richie says, and plunges deeper into the shelves, dragging Eddie along by the basket. Which isn't as dirty as it sounds.
Beverly trails after, looking around. "So what movie did you guys have in mind?"
"If you say Another 48 Hrs., I actually will punch you in the throat," Eddie says.
Such hostility. He'd only been, like, casually considering it. Richie scans the new release section. "Die Hard?" it came out like three months ago and they've already watched it, but whatever.
"Uh uh, it's out," Eddie says. Sure enough there's just the empty cardboard sleeve, no plastic boxes with the actual tapes behind it.
"Shit," Richie sucks his teeth, thinking. "Uh, Night Of The Demons?"
"No! No creepy stuff," Eddie ping-pongs a jittery glance between Bev and him, mouth pulled down into a tight, anxious line. "Things are creepy enough right now."
Right. Missing kids, alleged clowns and shit. "Jeez, make it easy on me, why don't you," Richie notices Beverly drifting aimlessly, sliding a fingertip along the shelf lip. "Hey, how about we get something you want?"
She looks up in surprise. "You want me to choose?"
"Sure. I mean, obviously you have good taste. You're hanging out with us, aren't you? We could get - " Richie checks the titles again. Shit, what do girls like? "I don't know, Mystic Pizza or something."
"Or Dirty Dancing," Eddie suggests, way too eager. The little jerk's dying for an excuse to make him watch that shit again. It had 'dirty' in the title, okay? Anybody could make that mistake. And okay, maybe they spent two weeks last summer trying to recreate the lift on Stan's trampoline until Bill fell off and sprained his wrist, but that's, like, barely relevant.
One corner of Beverly's mouth twitches. "Or Predator?" she suggests.
Like he said: obvious good taste. Richie grins at Eddie. "You heard the lady."
They grab the movie from action-adventure (don't think he doesn't spot Eddie's longing stare at the romance section), then it's up to the counter. "Oh crap, this is rated R, isn't it? I didn't even think," Beverly says. "We can pick something else."
"No sweat," he says. "They have my mom's permission on file, so I can get whatever."
"Yeah, she doesn't care if he warps his mind," Eddie says.
"You say 'warp', I say 'expand'," Richie slaps the tape down. "Ring me up, my good fellow!"
Steve gives it and him a bored look. "What, no Eddie Murphy? Won't you have to turn in your secret fan club decoder ring or something?"
Why's everybody busting his balls about this today? The guy's a freaking comedic genius. What, he's not supposed to appreciate that? "Nah, I hid it from the repo squad down your pants. Nobody's ever gonna find it there," he puts his hand out for a high five. "Ohhh!"
Eddie ignores him, and Beverly just rolls her eyes. Everybody's a critic. "Wow, hilarious. You should write that down in your diary tonight," Steve rings them up. "All right, that'll be $2.50, it's due back Friday, blah blah blah. You know the drill."
Their last stop is Rocco's Pizzeria, one street up and two over. The second the door swings shut, Richie closes his eyes and breathes deep. Man, if there's a better smell than burnt cheese and tomato sauce, he hasn't found it yet.
(cherry cola and peaches and Johnson & Johnson, cheap coin-dispenser laundry detergent, that sweet skin smell underneath)
"Hello, Earth to Richie! You wanna keep walking, or are we just planning to starve?" Eddie harps. "Because hypoglycemia is actually a really serious condition - "
"Yeah, yeah, I got it," Richie cuts off the medical report. "Damn, can't a man just enjoy the ambiance?"
Eddie looks around at the grimy wood paneling, ancient beer-stained carpet, and makes a disgruntled face. "What ambiance?" he mutters.
After some controversy over whether Richie has in fact eaten a vegetable this week (duh, of course he has; Doritos are made of corn), they order a large supreme pizza. "No mushrooms," Beverly adds with a wink at Eddie, who immediately drops his side of the laundry basket.
"FUCK, ow!" Richie hops and grabs his shin. "What the hell, numb nuts! You trying to goddamn kneecap me here?" the gray-haired old biddy working the register sucks in a scandalized breath, and he looks up. "Uh...that's, er, eleven bucks, right?"
They stake out the Pac-Man arcade table to wait. "Oh, hey, how much do I owe you?" Bev asks, and climbs onto a stool.
"Huh?" Richie's busy digging out a quarter. Fucking cargo pockets.
"For the pizza and stuff."
He shrugs it off. "Don't worry about it. My dad sent me a birthday check this week, so I'm rolling in dough right now."
"Oh. Well, um...thanks," she fiddles with the key around her neck. "So when was your birthday?"
"March," he sees the surprise flash across her face, the pity that chases its heels, and feels that weird twist in his gut. Okay, so he has a kind of shitty dad. Big whoop. Things are rough all over, Ponyboy. He fixes his glasses again (seriously, screw Henry Bowers), and clears his throat. "Hey, Eddie, ready to get your ass kicked? Bet you a scoop of tin roof I beat your score by at least 5,000."
"In your dreams," Eddie scoffs. If he feels sorry for him, too, he knows better than to make a thing out of it. "Make it two scoops, and you're on."
The joint's a total ghost town except for them, so there's not exactly a line in the kitchen. They barely make it through one and a half games before the old lady's yelling that their pizza is ready. "I win!" Richie jumps up, fists pumping. "Over 5,000! What'd I tell you?"
"No way, that doesn't count! I didn't even get to finish!" Eddie complains.
"Who said anything about finishing?" Richie smirks. "I just said I'd beat your score. Which I did."
Eddie goes purple around the edges. "You are such a giant dick."
"What's that? I've got a giant dick? Thanks for noticing."
"Girls, girls, you're both pretty," Beverly interrupts. "Now can we maybe get on with our lives?"
It's a fifteen minute walk back to Richie's house, eight if you hurry. They make it in twenty, Eddie and Beverly on either side of his bike, balancing the laundry basket and movie on the seat between them, while Richie rides in looping circles around them with the pizza box on his handlebars. "You're gonna crash," Eddie says. "Or drop the pizza. Or both."
"Oh come on, that happened one time," Richie gripes. It was a pretty memorable time - turns out pepperoni grease burns like a motherfucker in open wounds, and pizza sauce looks enough like blood to make any and all nearby hypochondriacs think you're dying and freak the fuck out (his neighbor, old man Hersh, probably still has heart palpitations from Eddie pounding on his door, screaming call 911 oh god he's hemorrhaging).
He doesn't bother getting his key out. The door isn't locked. It's never locked unless nobody is home, and Denise's Pinto is sitting in the driveway, continuing its slow disintegration into a pile of rust and mummified french fries. Richie ditches his bike in its usual spot in the overgrown yard, holds the door open. "After you," he says. "Mi casa es su casa."
Bev, Eddie, and the basket squeeze through with minor incident, and he kicks the door shut. Denise is in the kitchen, phone glued to her ear and foot propped up on their ugly '70s brass and glass dining table, or more accurately old-mail-ashtray-and-empty-beer-bottle table. She's tipped back on one of the rickety matching chairs, all wiggly joints and ripped vinyl, painting her toenails neon pink to match her lipstick.
He ducks in to snag some drinks. "Hey," he opens the fridge, scoops up three cans of Orange Slice. "Where's Mom?"
Denise rolls her eyes, giant lime green plastic triangle earrings clacking. "Guess."
Bar. Right. It's always five o'clock somewhere. He jostles the pizza box open one-handed, offers it to her. "Is that your new lover boy?" he starts making obnoxious kissing noises. "Hi, lover boy!"
"Shut up, dickhead," she grabs a slice, pushes him away with her other foot. Her chair wobbles ominously. "No, not you, Mark. Why would I tell you to shut up? You weren't even saying anything. Jesus. I'm talking to my twerp brother."
"Bye, lover boy!" he yells, and heads back out to Eddie and Bev in the living room. "Come on, Marsh, we'll give you the nickel tour."
Richie leads them down the hallway, and provides a running commentary on rooms as they pass by. Bathroom, AKA the war zone. The hagfish's room, AKA where dreams go to die. His room, AKA either the coolest place in the house or, if you listen to Eddie, a disgusting pit of sweat socks, petrified Ding-Dongs, and probably the Black Plague.
Total bullshit. He's never left an unfinished Ding-Dong in his life.
At the end of the hall is the only closed door, and Richie throws it open with a flourish (well, the best he can manage while juggling a pizza and three soda cans). "Last but not least, the Danger Room!"
Or, you know, his basement. It's nothing fancy, bare drywall and exposed pipes and ancient orange shag carpet you can still feel the cement through, the eternal haze of dust and Cheeto funk, but there's a big pull-out couch, a secondhand TV and VCR, and zero adult supervision. What more do you want?
Richie tosses the pizza box onto the middle couch cushion, waves at a doorway with a tacky flowered curtain strung up. "Laundry's through here."
It's tight quarters for three people, and about two people too many for the actual job, but they make it work, even if Eddie gets his head tangled in the curtain at one point and Bev accidentally elbows Richie's glasses half off his face.
"Shit! Sorry," she hooks the arm of his glasses back over his ear, cups his cheekbone where she hit him. "Are you okay?"
His head buzzes like it's full of bees, and his heart is going ba-bump, ba-bump in his ears. "Uh huh," he says.
Dryer locked and loaded, Eddie and Beverly get situated on the couch while he coaxes Predator into the elderly toploader VCR and turns on the TV. That weird kids show is on, the one with the bleachers and the host lady who looks like a church mom. Seems like it's always on lately...like, all the time. Last night Kenny passed out in front of the TV, and when Richie got up for a midnight bologna sandwich, there it was. He doesn't get it. Why the fuck would anybody run a kids show in the middle of the night? Who do they think is watching?
"You ready, Rich?" Eddie prompts.
Church Mom drones on about swimming or something, learning how to float and...the sewer? What the actual hell. Richie shakes his head, feels like he's climbing out of a hole. "Are you kidding? I was born ready," he flips over to channel three and the waiting blue screen.
There's no remote, so he has to hit play and scramble back to the couch before it starts. Bev's sitting in the middle, pizza balanced on her lap, and he reaches blindly for a slice. He doesn't want to miss a single second of the Schwarzenegger experience, not even the FBI warning.
From the opening shot of the Predator's ship cruising through space, he's sucked in. It doesn't matter how many times he's already seen it (twice with Bill, once with Bill, Eddie, and Stan), it's still just as awesome. They cram lukewarm pizza into their faces and watch badass commandos get stalked by an even more badass alien through the Central American jungle. "Whoa," Beverly says at the big reveal when the mask finally comes off.
You're one ugly motherfucker, he mouths the line along with Arnie. The Predator flexes its mandibles and roars, and the hair stands up all over Richie's body.
Fuck church. This shit right here...this is all the religion he needs.
When the credits roll, Bev gets up to empty the dryer while he and Eddie dissect the finer plot elements. "Do you think mud would really block heat vision like that?" Eddie asks.
"Oh yeah, totally," Richie says. "I heard it's like a real army tactic."
Eddie pulls a face. "Bullshit. No way."
"Uh, yes way," Richie says. "It's science, dude."
"What do you mean, it's science? What do you know about science? You told me that if a dumb monkey eats a smart monkey's brain, it would get smarter."
Gonna harp on that one forever, isn't he. "Okay, one: that was in second grade," Richie ticks it off on his fingers. "And two: I still say you have no definite proof it wouldn't."
Eddie stares at him, half-disbelief, half-amazement, all annoyed. "How the hell do you get straight A's?"
"Sheer genius, my friend," Richie claps a hand on his shoulder, and Eddie shoves him away. "Sheer goddamn genius."
The dryer door shuts, and Beverly reappears, ducking under the curtain. "So what I don't get is why the Predator couldn't see his eyes," she sits on the floor between their dangling feet, criss-cross applesauce, and speaking of eyes, his drop to where her dark blue flowery dress rides up over black shorts, pale thighs. He looks away quickly, catches Eddie doing the same. "I mean, eyeballs have body heat, right? And he had them open like the whole time. Wouldn't they show up"
Richie opens his mouth, but Eddie cuts him off. "Do not even try to suggest 'eye mud'."
It could have been, like, a very thin layer.
Bev leans against the edge of the couch, chin on her hands. "Hey, thanks again for inviting me," she smiles, soft and shy. "It's been nice getting to hang out with you guys."
"We like hanging out with you, too," Eddie says, and flushes, slides a look at Richie. "Right?"
"Sure, yeah," Richie rubs his neck, weirdly flustered. Stupid tag on his shirt must be scratching him. "So, uh, you guys wanna continue this lovefest and go see Batman this weekend or something?"
Eddie shakes his head. "I can't. My mom wants to visit my aunts in New Hampshire."
"Ugh, barf-o-rama," Richie winces. All three of Eddie's aunts are just like his mom, except older and even more batshit, if that's actually possible. "That blows."
"I guess," a shadow flickers across Eddie's face, and he fidgets with one of his fanny packs. "Honestly I'm kind of relieved to go somewhere normal right now," he glances up, mouth tight. "Safe, you know."
"Yeah," Beverly says.
"I'm so fucking sick of being scared all the time," Eddie bursts out, zipping and unzipping that fanny pack over and over and over. His hands are shaking. "I just want to walk down the street or get up to piss at night, and not wonder if something's there waiting for me."
"I know what you mean," Bev admits quietly. "I hate being alone in the apartment now. My neighbor says I can stay with her when my dad's at work, but I can't just...live at her place, and my dad is working basically every single night, so yeah," she traces the ugly faded flower pattern on the couch, staring down. "I'm pretty much on my own."
Fuck that, Richie thinks. "Well, just come over here then," he says.
Her forehead crinkles. "What?"
"I mean, if you need someplace to hang out, I have it on pretty good authority that this is a place," he says. "So, you know, you can hang out."
Look, maybe he hasn't seen any ghosts or blood-geysering sinks or fucking demon clowns or whatever (maybe he doesn't know if he even really believes in all that, not exactly), but he knows something fucked up is going on in Derry, and he knows nobody else is gonna do shit for them, so they have to take care of themselves.
Losers stick together.
Beverly's eyebrows lift. "And your mom is gonna be totally cool with some girl showing up your house all the time?" her tone turns bitter. "A girl like me?"
He snorts. Denise has been screwing any guy with a car and a pulse since eighth grade, and his mom never gave a shit about that. Why would she give a shit if Bev does? "She won't care, trust me," he says. He'll be surprised if she even notices.
"You can come to my house, too," Eddie offers. "My mom would 100% care, so it'd all have to be secret, but you still can," he swallows. "I mean, if you want."
"See?" Richie says. "That's two places now, and if you play your cards right, you could get to see Mrs. K's head spin around."
Beverly studies them like she's trying to figure out what the punchline is. "Why are you guys being so nice to me?" she finally asks.
'Why the fuck wouldn't they be' is the better question. Richie shrugs. "Well, that's what friends do."
She bites her lip. "Friends, huh?"
It's on the tip of his tongue to crack a joke - all this, like, emotional shit gives him hives - but for once, he swallows it. "Yeah," he says. "Friends."
"Friends," Eddie chimes in.
Bev's eyes look suspiciously bright. She blinks, and nods slowly, smiles. "Okay," she says. "I can do that."
Richie grins. "Good, because you're stuck with us now, Marsh," he says, and gives her shoulder a playful nudge with his knee.
She laughs and pushes him back, hair falling in her eyes. "Is that a promise or a threat?" her smile veers crooked, challenging, and if his stomach jumps a little, so what. Stomachs do things. You can't control that shit.
"Both, kind of," Eddie says.
"Duly noted," she reaches out to tilt Eddie's wrist so she can read his watch, and he freezes, pink-cheeked, lips parted. Beverly sighs. "I should probably get going. Nancy - my neighbor - has a date tonight, and I'm supposed to babysit her daughter."
"I should go, too," Eddie says. "Curfew's in an hour, and my mom will have a total psychological meltdown if I cut it too close."
"How could you tell the difference?" Richie says. Eddie flips him off.
Beverly grabs her basket, then they all plod upstairs. The house is empty except for them now - Denise is long gone, out with whoever doing whatever (and / or also whoever). Mom and Kenny will be out 'til who the fuck even knows, Kenny ideally until the heat-death of the universe.
Looks like tonight is gonna be another sexy three-way between him, a Marie Callender pot pie, and Night Court reruns.
In the meantime, the three of them stand in an awkward knot around his open front door. "Well," Bev says after a minute. "Thanks again for having me over."
"Sure," Richie says. "Thanks for almost giving me a hernia with your fucking lead-lined sheets."
"And thanks for not leaving me alone with this jerk," Eddie adds.
Richie slips into his best Vito Corleone, eyes squinted, hands curled and fingertips pressed together like he's making tulip shadow puppets. "I invite you into my home, I shower you with pizza and Arnold Schwarzenegger, and this is how you repay my generosity?"
Eddie rolls his eyes. "Bye, Richie."
"Yeah, yeah, see you around, you little ingrate," Richie says. "You, too, Marsh."
"Not if I see you first," Beverly winks, then jogs down his crumbling cement steps. "Later, guys."
Hardy har. "That a promise or a threat?" Richie calls after her.
She turns, walking backwards, and smirks. "What do you think?"
He thinks she really probably is too cool to be hanging out with rejects like them, and if the world wasn't an unfair flaming garbage heap, she'd be the one sitting at the popular kids' table and getting voted Best Hair and shit instead of that preppy yuppie-larva snob Sally Mueller.
Eddie stoops to grab his bike and right it, scrambles to catch up with Bev. In the distance, he hears him say: "Hey, I can help you carry that, if you want."
"Oh, um, all right. Thanks," her reply is faint, getting fainter as they disappear down the street. "I thought you had to go home?"
"Well, I mean, you don't live that far away - "
Eddie Spaghetti, you dirty old dog, you. Richie chuckles to himself, and closes the door. Oh man, his mom is going to have fucking kittens.
It's dead silent in the house now it's just him, nothing but a clock ticking somewhere. He didn't even know they had a clock that ticked. He's pretty sure every house just comes with one.
Silence presses in on him like a trash compacter, leaves his ears ringing. Richie goes and flips on the TV in the living room to fill the vacuum. Too early for Jeopardy and Wheel Of Fortune, but even shitty local news or whatever would be better than nothing.
He and 'quiet' don't really get along. 'Quiet' is a little too close to 'alone'.
Which he is. But...you know.
That stupid kids show is still on. Close-up on Church Mom, staring right into the camera, and he actually takes a stumbling step back (away). "Are you ready to meet our very special friend?" Church Mom asks, and his whole body prickles. It feels like she's looking at him. He reaches for the controls along the bottom edge of the TV, and for a second, it really seems like her eyes follow him. "Are you ready to meet the clown?"
Oh fuck that. Richie hits the up-channel button so fast, he jams his finger. Whoopi Goldberg's face fills the screen instead, the very tail end of Burglar on HBO, and he breathes in relief.
Jesus, like that show wasn't creepy enough already - why not add some fucking clowns. And they seriously want kids to watch this shit? "I'll take Warping Future Generations for $200, Alex," he mutters.
Sometimes he really wonders what the hell is wrong with people in this town.
Richie heads to the kitchen to get another soda, feeling a little shaky, a lot like an idiot. What kind of total puss gets spooked by a kiddie show? Even if that kiddie show is...weird, like beyond freaky. Even if you're alone and nobody would ever know what happened to you.
Even if seven kids have disappeared in just the last four months, and all your friends say there's a clown following them.
Richie locks the door on his way by, then grabs a can of Old Milwaukee instead, even though it tastes like shit. He pops it open right there, sucks down the foam that immediately spills down his arm. Maybe he'll give Big Bill or Stan the Man a call, harass them awhile. Maybe he'll just hop on his bike and show up at one of their houses. Maybe he'll go knock on doors 'til Bev answers one and join the Babysitters Club.
Maybe he'll throw a turkey pot pie in the microwave and drink shitty beer in the middle of his kitchen until his heartbeat slows down, his knees don't feel wobbly anymore, and he (almost) stops thinking about Church Mom's crazy Stepford Wife grin, the flick of her eyes trailing him when he moved.
Clowns. Why the fuck does it have to be clowns?
NOTE: The dumb monkey / smart monkey theory is a direct quote from one of my earliest real life Richies (I seem to collect them). And no, the mud thing doesn't work like that.
ALSO NOTE: My characterization of Richie's family situation in this fic comes from not only what Finn Wolfhard has said in interviews, but also an interview with Andy Muschietti, who describes each Loser as knowing a 'situation of despair' and Richie as being neglected at home (you can read it here: /news/3446886/andy-muschietti-talks-holding-nothing-back-r-rated/). Never let it be said I don't bring receipts. ^_~
