I'll Be Your Mirror

I

"Guh- Richie ! Stop!" Stan shouted suddenly, voice explosively loud in the otherwise quiet cab of Richie's '78 Silverado. The ancient truck somehow still ran at 18 years old, but was currently parked in Derry High's student lot in the pitch-dark of night.

"Whoa, whoa, Stanny!" Richie replied, jerking backwards as his hands left Stan's shoulders, "Cold feet already? I thought—"

"Yeah, yeah. You thought. But I just now realized how ridiculous this is. I mean, kissing practice? We're not 12 year old girls, Rich."

"Whuh! Huh? Ridiculous?! How else are we gonna learn? Bev said no now that she's with Ben!" Richie retorted, throwing his arms out in question. Unfortunately, this caused him to hit the windshield hard with a long, lanky arm.

" Fuuuhckingow! " Richie hissed, glaring at the windshield. Stan had to hold back a snort.

"Richard. This is foolish. Why don't we just wait until our first kiss with a real girl, okay? It's too weird to... To practice with one of your best friends. I know you get carried away, but—"

"Uh, Stan. The keyword is 'practice.' Do you want to look like a clueless virgin the first time you kiss someone? I sure don't! That's why you practice . And it's better anyway because we're BFFS so we'll be honest when assessing performance. It's like, Bro Code." Richie reasoned. Stan rolled his eyes.

"Richie. In case you haven't realized, we are clueless virgins. If a person really liked us they wouldn't care about our... Performance. This whole thing is pointle—" Stan began to rationalize, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Richie cut him off, apparently deciding that now was a perfect time for an exaggerated Southern accent.

"Staynyul. Stop. I git it. Yer 'fraid ol' Richie's gonna be just a little too good at kissin'. Yer gettin' a little per-for-mince ang-zaiyuh-tee . That don't mean a lil' practice won't help. In fact, I reckon the only way ta not be clueless virrr-geens is ta practice. On yer best cowpoke. Yer ol' pal Richie who won't judge ya fer bein' green'r'n a spreeng pasture."

Stan blinked, then tried and failed to suppress an amused burst of laughter.

"Beep beep, Richie! That was terrible ." Stan said, still failing to hold in his snickers.

Richie gave him that look. The one that seemed to say (in a terrible Southern accent): ' Gotcha .'

"It's still a stupid idea, Rich." Stan expressed, composing himself and trying his best to look serious. Richie quirked his lips down in a tiny frown.

"Stanny. If it sucks, we stop. Whatta we got to lose by just trying?" Richie wheedled, sensing that his best friend was beginning to cave.

(As always.)

Stan frowned contemplatively. Like he often did, he reflected on how every choice in his life seemed to lead, somehow, to Richie. Be it for better (rarely) or for worse (mostly), he could never say no to Trashmouth. His parents always warned him about peer pressure, but giving in to Richie Tozier never felt quite like that. No, it was more like he actually said yes to Richie because he wanted to say yes.

And this was Stanley Uris's achilles' heel. Some dumbass in Bill Gates's glasses.

"Ugh. Fine. But I swear, if this is anywhere near as gross as I think it's going to be, we're stopping and never speaking of it again." Stan capitulated, slumping in defeat as his crossed arms fell limp at his sides.

" Nice ! But, Staniel... Gross ?! You wound me. Anyone would be lucky to get a piece of," Richie gyrated in his seat and gestured down his entire body, " All this ."