mixtape (reddie)

November 25th, 1988

Richie,

You're sitting right next to me as I write this. You keep moving closer and closer, and I don't know if I'm supposed to notice or not, but I definitely have. The fire is blazing, embers threatening to attack at any given second. This winter has a bright, glaring sense of death lingering in it, a stiffness in the air that only brings misery with its harsh winds. We're right on the cusp of the first snowfall, the clouds have that pout about them that tells me it won't be long now.

Despite this, I haven't felt warmer. Not because of the campfire, not because of the blankets wrapped around me, but because you just moved a little closer. I really do think you're trying to be nonchalant, and something about that strikes me as humorous. Whatever it is that you're hoping to achieve, I truly do wish that you don't give yourself any splinters by the way that you're digging your palms into the log.

I walked a lot today. I could've had my mom drive me, I could have called the Denbroughs to drive me, hell, even Ben's mom would be glad to pick me up, but I needed to walk. I needed the time to think, and I even left early so that I could loop around town a couple of times and just sit with my thoughts. I was hoping that it would help clarify some things, such as why I shiver and get goosebumps when you exhale, but I'm afraid it only made things worse.

I was reflecting on all of these unique little Richie Tozier things that make me so shaky, and only thinking of them got my heart racing. My feet were treading through dead, heavy leaves, and I considered laying down and burying myself right in a grave of autumn to escape what the conclusion keeps circling back towards. I don't want to say it, mainly because I think you already know. Everyone else already knows as well, I've been called a fag since the second grade. Why should I have to say it in the first place? It doesn't matter. I think it'll go away, it's just a phase. I don't feel anything towards boys in the first place; just you. That's got to mean something, right? That means it's not serious, it's not real. Right?

I want to ask Stan. He seems a little weird and bothered since you guys came back from gathering firewood, but I don't want to ask and potentially make him uncomfortable. I still hear the echoes of his muffled sobs through thin drywall barriers. I know that, like, being gay or whatever is a touchy subject, but I just need to know if this is normal. Why is it just you? Just Richie Tozier? Nobody else makes me feel like this, nobody at all. Is it normal? Am I normal?

What if I'm not?

What happens then?

Do I have to live the rest of my life knowing that I've had a crush on a boy for a majority of this school year?

Oh god, I actually said it. Oh dear god. The words actually left my mouth- or, left my pen onto the page. Pen. I can't erase this, Richie, I genuinely just wrote those words down. Oh, you're moving closer now. Please don't look. Don't look at this page. Don't look at that sentenc- okay, you're talking to Beverly now.

I have a crush on a boy. A boy. I have a crush on a boy. Why do I keep repeating it? Am I trying to convince myself it isn't true? It's almost like those times when you say a word so many times that it no longer sounds real, you know what I mean? Like, apple, apple, apple, apple, apple. Sounds weird doesn't it? I have a crush on a boy, I have a crush on a boy, I have a crush on a boy, I have a crush on a boy.

Jesus, it's not working, it's just sounding more and more real. What the fuck, dude? What the fuck. Like, actually, genuinely; what the fuck. Oh god, what if my mom finds this journal? Fuck. Mom, if you're reading this, it's a joke. Richie pulls pranks on me, I'm just trying to get him back.

Yeah, maybe that's what it is. I'm just trying to prank him. Or prank myself. Why would I prank myself? But why else would I like a boy? God, none of this makes sense. I just want somebody to fucking tell me if this is okay, because I don't know!! I already get the living shit beat out of me, I don't want to add to it by actually being queer, god, my life would be hell. I can't imagine it, nor do I want to.

The idea of Henry Bowers discovering this journal is enough motivation to not tell anybody. I can't; I mustn't. If anybody were to read this, my life would be over.

You're pressed against my side now. I smell that coconut, that dusty book smell, that old leather. I hate how comforting it is. I hate how warm you are. I hate how familiar you feel. I hate how lovely you look against the tangy glow of the blaze. So beautiful. I hate it.

I feel sick. I need to take some anti-nausea medication so I don't end up vomiting in the marshmallow bag and ruining the night for everyone. I'll be back later- maybe.

For now,

Eddie.