1

When Evelyn woke up on Monday, Patrick's violet was the first thing she saw. Somehow, it looked even less like a flower now—less like a flower, but no more like anything else. In the murky morning light, it could have just as easily been a spider or a scorpion or a coiled-up snake; and, truthfully, any one of those would have been less alarming than the shapeless purple mass currently lying on her nightstand. At least then it would look like something. And it had to be something, right? If not a flower, then what?

Evelyn tried to throw it away twice: once out of revulsion and once out of sheer frustration. Both attempts ended with her shamefully digging through the trash like a dog. She hated it for taking up so much space—on her nightstand, in her room, in her life, in her mind. She hated how it hovered in the corner of her eye while she dressed for school and styled her hair, how it captured every third thought and refused to let go. It was offensively grotesque, whatever this thing was, but it possessed a peculiar, enigmatic quality that attracted her all the same.

She winced a little as she said to Hannah-Beth, "I think I've made up my mind about Patrick."

The school bus rolled over a bump, making everyone rock back and forth. This, paired with Evelyn's unexpected revelation, jolted Hannah-Beth from her rose-tinted literary world, where the Countess of Hornsby was beckoning the tall and brooding Baron Dumont into her bed. Hannah-Beth snapped her book closed and spoke in a groggy voice. "Oh?"

"Yeah."

"And... what have you decided?"

Evelyn pursed her lips together, wondering—and not for the first time this morning—if she was making the wrong choice. "Well, I've decided to give in... but just a little. Like, I'm not planning on going all the way with him or anything."

"And that's totally fine," said Hannah-Beth, "respectable even."

Evelyn liked the sound of that. She was, indeed, very respectable. "I mean, I'm probably not even gonna kiss him."

"Wait, you're not gonna kiss him?"

"No... Why? Do you think I have to?"

"Well, no, of course you don't have to. It's just... well, what's the point of even doing it then? I mean, that's like buying a cake and never eating it, you know? It's like, why bother? It's just gonna sit on your counter all day and tempt you."

Evelyn's chest tightened. "You really think so?"

"You haven't been tempted already? Not even a little? Be honest now."

Evelyn didn't want to be honest; she wanted to lie (convincingly) and bury the truth deep inside her. She puffed up her cheeks and blew out. "Well..."

"You have. I can tell."

"I have not..."

"Well, your face says otherwise."

Did it, really? Evelyn put her palm to her cheek and felt its betraying warmth. "Okay, fine, maybe I have," she said, "but just once."

That earned an excited gasp. Forget Baron Dumont, this was the juicy stuff Hannah-Beth had been waiting for! She scooted across the bench and dropped to a whisper level. "When?" she asked in a delighted voice.

"Last night."

"Last night?"

"In my room."

"He's been in your room?"

"Twice."

"HE'S BEEN IN YOUR ROOM TWICE?" Hannah-Beth pushed her hand through the air, as if she couldn't take any more. "Oh, forget it, you're not gonna last a week."

Evelyn raised her chin in proud defiance. "I'll last a week... I will! He's not a cake, y'know."

"Patrick? Evie, that guy's a whole bakery, and you've got keys to the front door. If that's not temptation, I dunno what is." Hannah-Beth picked up her book and skimmed through it until she got to the right page. Under her breath, she said, "I can't believe you let him in your room."

Evelyn frowned. "You say that like I had a choice. Patrick does whatever he wants. If I hadn't let him in, he probably would've broken in while I was sleeping or something."

Hannah-Beth's head turned slowly, as if on a swivel. "And what would he do while you're sleeping, hmm?"

"Huh...?" Evelyn had a thought and gulped it down. "Well, I dunno."

"You don't?"

Evelyn rolled her eyes. "Oh, just read your book."

Hannah-Beth simpered, looking very pleased with herself. "I am reading my book, and it's a pretty racy scene, too. You wanna check it out?"

"No, I don't."

"Oh, I think you do." Hannah-Beth buried her face into the crook of the pages and giggled. "One week, I'm calling it now."

Evelyn brushed her off and turned her attention to the rest of the students on the bus. Not one of them had dressed up for Decade Day. Nobody, not a single one. Row after row, it was a sea of plain coats, sweaters, jerseys, and jeans. Where were the bold colors and the loud prints? The floral headbands and the tacky fringe? At the very least, somebody could have drawn a peace sign on some acid-washed denim, but no, even that was too much work for the too-cool-for-school students of Derry High.

Evelyn, now sitting uncomfortably in her yellow mini dress and white platform boots, let out an exasperated huff and said, "You know, the lack of school spirit in this town is an utter disgrace."

"Oh, tell me about it," said Hannah-Beth. Today, she was wearing a floral green dress with sheer sleeves that ballooned around her forearms. She was going for an elegant bohemian look, and even crocheted herself a matching headband to accentuate her loose blonde curls. When she left the house that morning, her mother said she looked like an angelic flower-child. Now she just felt stupid... and itchy. She scratched the inside of her wrist. "I woke up two hours early to get ready today, and I spent half that time just trying to curl all this hair. Now watch: with my luck, it'll fall flat before lunch. I don't know why I even bothered. God, I feel like such a doofus."

Evelyn put her hand on Hannah-Beth's drooping shoulder. "Aww, no, don't feel that way, Hannah. You look amazing. They're the ones who should feel like doofuses. Them, not you. They're just a bunch of scrooges, spirit week scrooges."

But Hannah-Beth was inconsolable. "Everyone's gonna be staring at me now. And I always think I want people to stare at me, but I don't, I really, really don't. It freaks me out, Evie. Like that kid there—" She gestured toward Brian Fogarty, a freshman sitting a few rows down. "He keeps looking over here, and it's driving me crazy. Like, what do you want already? I just wanna get to school in peace." She slumped down as far as she could and threw her book over her face.

Evelyn glared at the freshman boy. "Hey, Brian, how 'bout you take a picture?"

Brian Fogarty turned around in his seat. "Well, why are you two so dressed up?"

"It's spirit week."

"Oh... See, I didn't know that. They should've put up posters or something."

"They did put up posters. They're all over the place."

"Oh... Well, I didn't see 'em." He sat back down.

Evelyn looked at the puddle that was Hannah-Beth. "Don't worry, Hannah. Other kids will be dressed up. They will. And so what if people stare at you? Let them stare. If they do, I'm sure they'll just be thinking about how incredible you look."

"You look incredible," Hannah-Beth grumbled underneath her book. Evelyn helped her sit up. "You look like you just stepped off a magazine cover."

"You really think so?" Evelyn smiled demurely, fluttering a set of thick black lashes. "I've never teased my hair before, so I was worried it would come out looking too poofy." She gingerly touched the side of her head, making sure her half-pony hadn't come undone. (It hadn't.) The rest of her hair cascaded down her shoulders in gentle waves. "And I didn't have any fake lashes or anything, so I just put on a shit-ton of mascara. It turned out all right, but now I'm trying not to blink too much 'cause I'm afraid my eyelashes are gonna stick together. Can that happen?"

"I don't know," said Hannah-Beth, a trifle worried herself. "I'm not allowed to wear mascara."

"Well, you don't need it anyway," Evelyn told her. "Your eyes are gorgeous."

Hannah-Beth blushed deeply and smiled. "Thanks."

The bus pulled up in front of the school and all the students shuffled off. Halfway down the aisle, Hannah-Beth turned back and said, "You're really not gonna kiss him?"

Evelyn merely pushed her along.

2

Grant Elmhirst, dressed all in black with a matching beret, was standing in front of the school with his camera ready. He dismissed all the plainly dressed students with a curt nod.

"Love the effort, guys, really. Nobody bothered to dress up today, huh? No one? No? Seriously? What the hell's wrong with you people? Did everyone forget its spirit week? Oh, come on, you guys are killing me here... No, don't smile, I'm not not taking your picture. Yeah, like I'd waste the film on your ugly ass... Oh yeah, Becca, you want me to take your picture? Is that what you want? How 'bout you go fuck yourself? You bitches aren't worth the yearbook space... Yeah, that's right... Follow the damn theme, and I'll put you in the yearbook... You guys suck. All of you suck. I'm gonna be stuck doing this all damn—HEY!"

Grant jogged across the lawn to Evelyn and Hannah-Beth, who were carefully unloading their fundraising supplies from the bus.

"Hey, you guys look great!" he said. "Mind if I get a quick picture?"

Hannah-Beth grimaced. "Why?"

"It's just for the yearbook, Hannah. Gimme one second, Grant." Evelyn propped her sign against the bus and then positioned herself next to Hannah-Beth, who stood as rigid as a pole. Evelyn pulled her into a one-armed hug and gave her bicep a comforting squeeze. "Relax," she whispered to her, "it'll only take a second." To Grant, she said, "Nobody dressed up, huh?"

"Are you surprised?" Grant crouched down and raised his camera.

Shutter-click. Shutter-click.

"Not really," said Evelyn between smiles. "They didn't put up enough posters."

"Yeah, they never do." Grant squinted behind his viewfinder. "Umm, can I get a peace sign or something?"

"Are we sure that's even sixties?"

"I dunno," said Grant, "and at this point, I don't really care."

The girls did it anyway. Hannah-Beth's pose was weak and unconvincing.

Shutter-click. Shutter-click.

Paul Colborne yelled across the lawn: "Is that for your personal collection, Grant?"

Grant seemed not to hear him. He took his last pictures, gave his sincerest thanks, and peddled away from the girls with a cordial smile. "I'll see you at the next meeting, Evelyn." Another smile. A quick wave goodbye. Then he whipped around and bellowed with unseemly rage: "KISS MY ASS, COLBORNE! YOU'RE JUST JEALOUS YOU'LL NEVER BEAT MY SCORE."

Paul and Lenny tittered behind the folding table. Then Paul hollered back, "Yeah, well, that's the only scoring you'll ever do," and that had the boys in stitches, with Paul close to tears and Lenny cackling with his cap over his face.

Evelyn told them both to quit it. "Oh, leave Grant alone. This is a very stressful week for him."

"Eh, he brings it on himself," said Paul, while Lenny pushed his hair back and covered it with his hat. "The guy's a certified Grade A asshole, and he knows I'll beat his score one day."

Lenny said, "No, you won't, dude. You suck at Street Fighter."

"Oh yeah? Well, I'm still better than you."

Evelyn said nothing as she gave their outfits a disapproving glance. All student council members had to dress up for spirit week. It was kind of like an unwritten rule. When they signed their official oaths of office (which were really just generic pieces of paper, but that's beside the point), they promised to represent the values and virtues of the school and to serve as leaders in their respective classrooms. That meant dressing up for spirit week, no matter how silly or stupid the day's theme was. Sadly, this was Paul and Lenny's maximum effort. Today, they were wearing matching tie-dye shirts over plain blue jeans. They had worn those same shirts for last year's Tie-Dye Tuesday and would likely wear them again for this year's Twin Day. That's how little they cared.

Evelyn, who had carefully coordinated all her outfits, held in a sigh while she arranged her t-shirt display. Don't let them get to you, Evie. You have more school spirit than both of them combined, because you're a spirit week warrior. That's right, you are. You look great. Your sign looks great. And, god dammit, you're gonna sell a bunch of shirts today.

She cupped her hands over her mouth and shouted, "COME SUPPORT YOUR SOPHOMORE STUDENT COUNCIL!"

3

As promised, Scott Kellerman was Evelyn's first customer.

In honor of Decade Day, Scott had traded his signature skateboard for a surfboard, a yellow one with two blue vertical stripes, although much of the paint had been scuffed by the time Scott brought it to school. Yeah, that board had certainly taken a beating—from waves, walls, as well as several parked cars as Scott made the long trek from his house on Jackson Street. Scott always made sure to leave a note, though. For every little ding, he would stop, dig into his backpack, rip out a piece of notebook paper, and scribble out a most heartfelt:

sorry, dude
my bad

He strolled over to the table in faded jeans and an oversized Pendleton wool plaid shirt. The surfboard went down first, burying its nose deep in the dewy grass. Scott propped it up with his right hand; then he flipped his sandy blond hair out of his eyes and proclaimed with a self-amused chuckle, "I'm a Beach Boy!"

"You sure are," said Evelyn, as Scott flashed a stupid, goofy grin. It was so endearing she couldn't help but smile back. "You look great, Skelly!"

Scott pointed a finger-gun at her and fired. "Hey, thanks, Tozier! Mom's a Cali girl at heart and the Beach Boys have always been her favorite band, so I figured I'd pay tribute."

Evelyn, who always sang along whenever one of their songs came on the radio, thought his outfit was spot on and a refreshing contrast to all the half-assed hippy looks she'd seen from the handful of students who bothered to dress up.

Even Paul, one of those half-assed hippies, was all smiles. "Man, Kellerman killin' it as usual. C'mere man!" He put out his fist for a knuckle-bump, which Scott enthusiastically accepted.

"Yeah, buddy!" Scott cheered, and giggled at himself for a good minute. "All right, guys, hook me up with some of those sweet shirts. I'll take... uhh... well, I'll take a large for myself. Yeah, this one looks nice. And then I'll take, uhh, I guess I'll take a medium here for my buddy. Yeah, that should fit him." Scott handed Lenny six dollars and stuffed the shirts into his backpack. "Pleasure doing business with you guys. Keep up the excellent work, okay?" He picked up his surfboard and wedged it under his right arm, then took a couple steps and did a half-turn. "Oh, and Tozier: lovin' your look, by the way. It's very Brigitte Bardot."

Evelyn said, "I don't know who that is."

"No? Well, you should definitely look her up. She's a total babe." Scott whipped around and smacked a freshman girl with his surfboard. "Oh, dude, my bad! Are you okay? Are you okay? I'm so sorry!"

Evelyn cringed while watching him dust off the girl and continue on his way. "That thing's gonna get confiscated before the end of the day, isn't it?"

"Before lunch," said Paul.

The next wave brought a small group of seventh- and eighth-graders to their table. At first, Evelyn didn't find this particularly unusual, because underclassmen often browsed her shirts and complimented their design. They never bought them, though, which is why it became so concerning when they all started forking over their lunch money. Evelyn asked one of boys why he wanted a shirt made specifically for another class. The boy shrugged and said, "Destiny said we had to."

Evelyn immediately told Lenny to stop accepting cash.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because this is dirty money."

His eyes bulged wider than Evelyn had ever seen them. "You mean it's drug money? Oh shit."

"What? No, it's not drug money... Do you know a lot of twelve-year-old drug dealers, Lenny?"

"I know a couple," he said, but Evelyn ignored him.

"Look, the money's dirty because Destiny forced these kids to buy our shirts. This is coercion, guys! If we accept this cash, we might as well be accepting blood money. Our whole fundraiser will be forever tainted by this immoral act."

Paul thought she was overreacting. "You make it sound like Destiny's busting kneecaps behind the school. So she persuaded a couple kids to buy our shirts. Who cares?"

Evelyn said, "It's unethical, Paul."

And he said, "It's a three-dollar shirt, Evelyn. Nobody's going to prison over a three-dollar shirt. Chalk it up as a win and take the damn money."

Evelyn opened her mouth to further protest, but closed it when she caught sight of something blue in the distance. Paul noticed it, too. He put his head between his hands and groaned. "Great, just great. As if this day couldn't get any worse." Belch Huggins's Trans Am was rolling down Pasture Road, the morning sun glinting off the blue paint, off the windshield. Seeing it made Evelyn's breath catch in her throat. She fought back a smile and lost immediately, the corners of her lips raising white flags of surrender. Screw it, she thought, and let them rise. She was going to relish in this victory, because she didn't get a lot of them. So while Henry Bowers climbed out and slammed the car door, while he stomped across the lawn and scowled at every person he passed, while Paul Colborne and all the students of Derry High School shared a defeated sigh, Evelyn sat there thinking things were finally looking up.

Sorry, guys, I know your lives are about to get a lot more annoying because of me, but... I really needed this win.

"Lenny," she said, "take the money and go."

4

When they arrived at school, the first words out of Belch Huggins's mouth were, "How does it feel to be back, Henry?"

And maybe it was the way he said it, in that congenial yet slightly condescending tone, as if he was really saying, Hey, remember you almost got kicked out, Henry? Huh? Do ya? You almost got expelled. Yeah, Hellraiser almost kicked you out for good. Remember that? (As if he could ever forget.) Or maybe it was the smile he gave afterwards, that impish curl of the lip that belied the sincerity of his words. Henry couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something—maybe that, maybe nothing at all—made him want to punch Belch Huggins square in the jaw.

How did Henry Bowers feel about being back?

"Fine fucking dandy," he muttered before putting a cigarette between his lips and lighting it.

A group of eighth-graders scurried past. One of them, he saw, was wearing a suede fringe jacket, oversized sunglasses, and bell-bottom jeans. Boy, did that kid choose the wrong day to play dress-up. Henry could have easily singled him out as the first victim of the day, could have burned the kid's jacket and stomped on his sunglasses, given him a wedgie or a swirly, thrown him into one of the dumpsters out back, as Henry was often apt to do.

Or he could have taken Grant Elmhirst's camera, ripped out the film, and smashed it to pieces.

He could have tracked down Tommy Aronson, who had been talking a lot of shit during Henry's suspension, and shown him who the real bitch was.

He could have taken the air out of Principal Hellyer's tires.

Or keyed Mrs. Lafferty's car.

Or settled any one of his outstanding scores.

But how was Henry supposed to do any of that when Evelyn Tozier was standing over there looking like that?

Folding up those shirts, stacking them, bending over to put them away, while looking like that?

Smiling, laughing, chatting with her friends, while looking like that?

Evelyn always went all-out for spirit week. She would show up to school in pajamas and bunny slippers, twist her hair into this wild, ornate designs, glue on fake mustaches and beards, even paint tiger stripes across her whole body (Spirit Week 1986, Show Your Stripes Day), but she never dressed like this. When Henry first saw her, he had to do a double-take. Images flashed through his head like reels on a View-Master: Evelyn in knit sweaters and sweater vests, in striped tees and light-wash jeans, in baggy spring overalls and puffy winter coats, with mittens, scarves, and stocking caps, because she didn't care how dorky she looked when she was trying to stay warm. Henry tried to reconcile those images with the new image in front of him, of Evelyn with big hair and a full face of makeup, in a short yellow dress with a flouncy little skirt that went whoosh-whoosh every time she moved her hips (and she had hips now—the dress made that more apparent than ever), but he couldn't reconcile them at all. This new image sent Henry's brain into overdrive. All at once, his body felt hot and tense, and there was an uncomfortable tightness in his jeans. He threw down his cigarette and stormed across the lawn, intending to

(bend her over the table and)

"What the fuck are you wearing?" Henry growled, jerking Evelyn toward him by her elbow.

Evelyn made a sound, some sound, and raised her head to look at him. Pink-blushed cheeks deepened in color. Light brown eyes met his in a timid stare and wavered uncertainly beneath thick black lashes. When she parted her mouth to speak, all Henry could think about was how soft her lips looked.

"It's Groovy Monday," Evelyn said in a quiet, confused voice.

Groovy Monday.

Monday.

Today was Monday.

Henry was back in school.

And the first warning bell was ringing.

Just like that, Henry snapped out of his frenzied state. His shoulders relaxed. His breathing returned to normal. Then, like an addict rousing from a drug-induced stupor, he became acutely aware of himself and his surroundings: of Belch Huggins standing at his side, his expression nervous and unsure, of Evelyn's scrawny arm trapped within his grasp, of the unnecessary amount of strength he was using against her—still using against her. His grip loosened with a sudden jerk that sent Evelyn staggering backwards.

The Colborne kid was standing off to the side with his mouth wide open, looking like he desperately wanted to say something, like he felt obligated as a man, as Evelyn's vice president, as her friend, to...

Henry squared up to him. "You got something to say, Colborne?"

The kid winced like he'd just taken a punch to the stomach. He stepped back, dragging his right foot, then his left, and shook his head.

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

Meanwhile, Evelyn's other friend, the mousy one who had one of those real southern sounding double-barreled names, like Holly-May or Helen-Sue, had rushed to her side and was fawning over her injured arm. Henry fought back the urge to yell at her.

Oh, come on, quit acting like I broke her arm. She's fucking fine!

Evelyn was telling her that too, in a much kinder voice. "I'm fine, really," she said, her eyes occasionally flicking over to Henry. "It doesn't even hurt."

She said that, but Henry caught her rubbing her arm several times throughout the day, and sometimes pushing up her sleeve to check for a bruise. Henry hoped she never found one. If she ever did, well, he would probably never forgive himself.

He gave Belch a shove that nearly put him on his ass.

"Let's go," Henry said, and they left.

5

For Hannah-Beth Stokes, the walk to the sophomore locker area felt unusually long and unbearably tense.

She lingered a few steps behind her friends, like she always did, with her pink trapper keeper pressed tightly against her chest: a flimsy form of protection against everyone's unwelcome stares. And people were staring. Hannah-Beth knew they would.

Let them stare, Evelyn had said. They'll just be thinking about how incredible you look.

Hannah-Beth hoped that was true.

A cheery homecoming banner passed overhead; the other one had been ripped down by a group of rowdy seniors and was currently being trampled by a stampede of incoming students. Who had school spirit? Nobody here, apparently. Crooked posters hung on this wall and that one, but none of them grabbed anyone's attention.

SHARPEN YOUR CLAWS, TIGERS!
LET'S HEAR YOU ROAR!

They liked to shout that phrase at all the games and pep rallies. Let's hear you roar! Yeah, they probably thought they were being terribly clever with that one. Tigers roaring, how inventive. Of course, Hannah-Beth would never roar. No, that would be too embarrassing. Imagine if someone heard her, if someone singled out her voice among all the other voices, and they looked at her and thought, Jeez, what a weirdo. Why, Hannah-Beth would just about die if that happened.

In the eighth-grade locker area, Hannah-Beth saw Grant Elmhirst raise his camera toward a group of nearby students, and she found herself caught like a deer in a hunter's scope. Seconds before the flash, Hannah-Beth let out a panicked squeak and ducked out of frame. Months later, while the eighth-grade girls squealed and pointed at their picture in the yearbook, they would notice a strange, phantom-like blur hovering in the background, and they would forever wonder who ruined their photo. Hannah-Beth, the frightened little ghost, hurried to catch up with her friends as they rounded the corner.

Finally, after glancing at Evelyn twice, Paul said, "How's your arm?"

"I already told you, it's fine."

"Don't lie..."

"I'm not lying," Evelyn said. "It really doesn't hurt at all."

Paul nodded, seeming to accept her answer, but he didn't drop the subject entirely. "I can't believe the school board actually voted to keep him in school. What, are they all on crack or something? Is this some kinda conspiracy? It has to be, right? Because who in their right mind would look at someone like Bowers and think its safe to have him around other kids? I mean, it's beyond insane! It's practically criminal, what they're doing. And now look: the guy's back for five seconds and he's already committing assault."

Evelyn turned toward him with a somber smile. "I'm not mad at you, Paul."

"Huh?"

"I'm not mad, okay? I'm glad you didn't try to stand up for me. It would've only made things worse."

Paul looked offended. "Is that what you think this is about? Evelyn, did you see what happened back there? The guy totally wigged out. He was like a split-second away from raping you."

Hannah-Beth squirmed at that word. Evelyn's jaw fell open in disgust.

"That's not funny, Paul," she said with a shrewd glare.

"I'm not joking! Look, you and I might not see eye to eye on most things, but I'm still your friend, okay? And I'm starting to get a little worried here. Because you tend to push his buttons a lot, Ev. You know you do. And if you're not careful, one of these days you might find yourself trapped in a really dangerous situation. I mean, who knows what that guy's capable of..."

"He's not capable of that."

"Yeah, well, don't be so sure."

Evelyn's steps slowed. "What's that supposed to mean?

"I dunno," said Paul. "I've just heard some stuff, that's all."

"What stuff?"

"Just stuff."

Paul tried to walk away, but Evelyn yanked him back.

"What stuff, Paul? You can't just throw out an accusation like that and not back it up with evidence."

"Well, I didn't realize I was in a fricken courtroom, Evelyn! What are you, his lawyer now?"

"Paul..."

"I suggest you get a new client, counselor."

"What stuff?"

"I heard some stuff," Hannah-Beth blurted out, but she immediately wished she hadn't. The wounded expression on Evelyn's face was absolutely heartbreaking.

"What did you hear, Hannah?" Evelyn asked. Her voice was high and unsteady.

"I dunno," said Hannah-Beth, doubting her memory for a second, "I just overheard some senior girls talking in my study hall. I wasn't trying to eavesdrop or anything, but they were right next to me, and they were talking really loud, so I kinda couldn't help it. Anyway, they were talking about this bonfire over at the quarry. I guess a whole bunch of people were there. And there was this girl—umm, Manda Bosch, do you know who that is?—and I guess someone saw her going off into the woods with Henry Bowers. Well, the girls confronted her about it in the middle of class, and Manda got really mad and denied the whole thing. She said she wouldn't touch Henry Bowers with a ten-foot pole. But they kept saying they saw her with him. So then Manda got really emotional and said she didn't wanna do anything, that Henry forced her to... well, you know... do stuff. And then he got super violent all of a sudden, so she left, and now she might press charges against him. And then it became this whole other thing because none of the girls believed her. They said she was just embarrassed because she got caught and she was making it all up. And I'm just sitting there listening to them. The whole thing was just wild. I've never seen anything like it."

Paul motioned toward Hannah-Beth with his hand, a boastful smile on his face. "Well? That enough evidence for you, Evelyn?" He walked away, shaking his head.

"That's not evidence," Evelyn said in a small, faraway voice. "It's just gossip."

Then, to herself, she whispered, "He had a cut on his face."

Hannah-Beth didn't know what that meant, but Evelyn sounded utterly devastated when she said it.

Hannah-Beth wished she had just kept her mouth shut.


Okay, okay, I'll admit I kinda dropped the ball a little on that last section, but this chapter is actually part of a much larger chapter, and while I was writing it, I realized it was running way, way too long and had too much going on, so I had to find a place to cut it off and do a last-minute rewrite. That's why the ending feels a bit awkward compared to rest of the section. Sorry about that.

The good news is, I'm already almost done with the next chapter! So please accept my sincere apology because the next chapter is gonna be pretty fantastic. I'm really happy with how it's coming along so far. A new character is going to get introduced (well, she's been mentioned several times, but she hasn't made an official appearance yet) and there's gonna be tons of Henry and Patrick and Vic and Reggie. The gang's all together again. It's gonna be a fun time.

Anyway, thanks for reading!