mixtape (reddie)

Chapter 2

The selection that resides within girl's products is one that will always baffle Richie. Why are there so many different brands? Who needs fake eyelashes? What's wrong with their real ones?

Richie has no idea what the difference between eyeshadow and eyeliner is, besides, Beverly never wears makeup anyway, why bother?

Instead, the nervous boy carries himself further down the drugstore aisle, finding himself lost in a sea of colors brighter than need be. He carefully reads the sign above their display, acknowledging that this is nail polish, and deciding that would be his safest bet.

Beverly's birthday is this Saturday. Technically, her birthday is on Thursday, but the party that Richie was formally invited to is set for Saturday afternoon. A sleepover, he was told. At Ben's house.

Richie has met Ben a handful of times, but none of them ever stuck to his memory. Ben is chubby and short, but then again, everyone is short in comparison to Richie. All he knows is that Ben has a group of friends that Beverly adores, and Richie has started mentally preparing himself for the isolation and discomfort he will experience the entire party. He desperately wants to skip it, but he can't do that to Bev. It would be unfair.

Richie's fingers dance along the glassy bottles of nail polish, every color he could possibly imagine all lined up for his personal choosing. What color does Bev like? He feels as if he should know. She's mentioned it before, hasn't she? Maybe Rich is just a terrible friend.

He spends ten minutes deciding between two shades of blue, eventually giving in and falling victim to the color that resembled the sky. As Richie turns on his heel, ready to sneak away with the varnish for his beloved friend, he bumps his shoulder right into another person's face.

"Ouch, ouch, my nose!" A soft, high pitched voice carries up to Richie's ears. The words have poise in them, as well as a hotheaded temper that makes Richie's chest constrict nervously.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Richie looks down at the person he's bumped into, being met with the widest Bambi brown eyes he has ever seen. The kid has smooth, tanned skin, with clusters of freckles eating through the cookie dough of his cheeks and nose. His feathery hair is neatly combed to the side, giving Richie a clear view of every long eyelash decorating the boy's hot whiskey eyes.

"It's fine," the boys says, his face twisting up as he takes a step away from Richie.

Richie stares for a moment more, just out of curiosity of the boy's actions, and then shakes his head. "Your nose is bleeding, kid. Must've bumped my shoulder pretty hard."

"What!" The boy instantly panics, bringing his dainty hands up to his face so very frantically. When he pulls his polished fingers away, the ruby gems of blood trickle down his knuckles. His chest expands with each breath he takes, and Richie swears the boy's eyes are going to pop out of his head. Distressed, the kid side steps Richie and starts rushing down the aisle, his tiny legs spilling out of very short gym shorts. While staring after him, Richie shakes his head and looks back down to the nail polish in his hand. He's sure Bev will like this, but if not, he has a bigger present that he is positive will excite her.

Upon returning home, cautiously stepping through his front door instead of his bedroom window, he approaches his parents at the dining room table.

"Hey," he announces his arrival, only to receive nothing in response. His father reads the paper, puffing a cigar so carelessly, while his mother pours another glass of scotch. "Beverly's birthday party is on Saturday. Is it alright if I go?"

As if he hasn't been heard at all, his mother continues pouring until the amber liquid climbs the glass and threatens to spill over the brim. Richie takes a deep breath in, his heart thudding roughly in his chest, and he tries again.

"Can I go to a sleepover this weekend?"

His father lifts his eyes from the paper just long enough to acknowledge Richie standing there. The man waves Richie off, mumbling "Fine, whatever."

Richie feels the words pierce through his chest, so, in a dejected fashion, he retreats down the hall and to his room. As he goes, he can hear his mother's voice slurring words that are loud enough to make his blood boil.

"He's staying with that Marsh girl? I've heard about her. No good with boys, that one."

Even worse, his father's reply. "Who cares if she wants to tramp around with the kid?"

Richie shuts himself in his room and digs through the pile of shit on his desk until he finds his Walkman and headphones. He hates being called the kid. Why can't they ever admit that he's their son? Why can't they call him by the name they chose? Why won't they admit that he is their child?

Richie feels all of these thoughts swirl around in the dangerous pools of his brain, flickering like lighter flames and sewer drains all at once. He turns the volume up on his tape deck as loud as he can, letting his favorite mixtape of all time fill his head until he can no longer think.

He needs the music sometimes. He can't function without it. Richie isn't drawn to the melodies, but moreso, the words and what they say. He finds it hard to speak up most times, and when he does, he usually gets a quick "beep beep." Music fills in for that, explains what he's feeling without him ever having to open his mouth.

When the familiar words of Freddie Mercury singing "I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me," reach his ears, he squeezes his eyes shut and let's the words fill him up inside. Carefully, as to not damage his precious tape deck, he raises the volume to deafening levels. Richie can't think badly of himself if all that his surroundings will allow him to feel are the sweet melodies of his favorite songs compiled onto mixtapes he crafts with precision for each mood that he has. They mean the most to him, and he fears what would become of him if anything were to ever happen to his darling songs.

Richie lifts himself out of bed, digging around in his pockets for the nail polish he shoplifted, setting it on top of the box that's already been wrapped and is ready to be delivered. Inside, a pack of cigarettes and a brand new butterfly switchblade knife, a combination of items that couldn't be more Beverly if he tried. He feels the need to one-up her, especially since she was the one who gave him this Walkman on his fifteenth birthday.

But still. Richie fears the sleepover, knowing very well that he is going to be the outsider. He doesn't want to even bother going, but after everything that Beverly has done for him over the years, he would really be a shitty excuse for a human being if he were to skip out on her special day.

For a brief second, he gets a flash of red, and he wonders if everything turned out okay with that little kid he bumped into today. Looking at it in retrospect, he probably should have followed the kid to make sure he was alright, but in the end, Richie was frozen by his fear of annoying someone once again.

Even then, Richie still can't help but think about how that kid had eyes like a mid-July sunset and a voice like a mixtape.