"I've realized that..." he started, then took a shaky breath. "Earlier today, when Stanley pulled you aside... seeing you two so close and secretive, I hated it." The words tumbled out in a rush. "I don't like how others make you smile..." He traile...
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°•Vanessa's POV°•°
Another summer hovered, so close I could almost taste the freedom. Around me, my classmates vibrated on their seats, a collective energy focused solely on the clock above the door. Its slow, ticking hand was a shared torment. Just ring, I pleaded silently in my mind, let this be over.
At the front of the room, our teacher droned on, a solitary island of normalcy in a sea of barely contained chaos. Her words washed over us; we were already gone, our bodies just waiting for the bell to release them.
A shrill electric scream echoed throughout the building. In less than a minute, the classroom was empty, chairs shoved back and backpacks snatched in a frantic exodus. I followed at my own pace, a quiet eddy in the rushing stream of students. There was no specific destination calling me, only the known comfort of the group.
As expected, they were already loitering outside my door—Bill, Richie, and Eddie. Their proximity to my classroom was a small, daily blessing. The only one missing was Stanley.
"So there's this church full of Jews, right?" Eddie announced as I fell into step with them. We began weaving through the crowded halls, a single unit navigating the current. "And Stan has to take this super-Jewy test."
"But how's it work?" Bill asked, his curiosity genuine, his brow furrowed.
"They slice the tip of his dick off!" Eddie stated with absolute, deadpan conviction. The sheer seriousness in his tone almost sold it. A laugh bubbled in my throat. Only Eddie, I thought, could deliver absurdity with such believable gravity.
"But then Stan will have nothing left!" Richie chimed in, pushing his glasses up his nose with a finger. His joke was met with snickers from Bill and Eddie.
"That's true," Eddie conceded, nodding sagely.
"You guys can be so mean," I said, aiming for a tone of disapproval. But the fondness for their ridiculousness broke through, and my scolding melted into a laugh. Maintaining any semblance of seriousness around them was a futile battle.
"Wait up, you guys!"
Stan's voice, slightly breathless, cut from behind us. He finally caught up, his expression a mix of relief and mild irritation at being left behind.
Bill swiveled toward him immediately. "Hey Stan, what happens at the Bar Mitzvah, anyways? Ed says they slice the tip of your d-d-dick off." He stumbled over the last word, but his interest was plain.
I leaned in, intrigued. Despite our teasing, the mysterious rituals of Stan's faith were a point of fascination for all of us.
"Yeah," Richie jumped in, unable to help himself. He flung an arm around Stan's shoulders, his voice dropping into a theatrical, game-show-host baritone. "And I think the rabbi's gonna pull down your pants, turn to the crowd, and say, 'Where's the beef?!'"
We all chuckled, less at the joke and more at Richie's predictable, dramatic delivery.
"At the Bar Mitzvah," Stan explained, shrugging off Richie's arm with practiced ease, "I read from the Torah, and then I make a speech. And suddenly, I become a man." He said it with a simple dignity that made our jokes feel childish.
The description sounded painfully formal. "That's it?" I asked, unable to hide my disappointment. It seemed like a terribly underwhelming way to enter manhood.
"Yeah," Stan said, a small, patient smile playing on his lips. He reached out and ruffled my hair. I swatted his hand away, a flicker of real annoyance crossing my face. I'm not a little kid. As I glanced away, I caught Eddie glaring at Stanley, his usual cheerful expression darkened by something sharp and unreadable. The look was so intense it gave me pause. What was that about?
"I could think of funner ways to become a man," Richie leered, wiggling his eyebrows.
A wave of utter disgust twisted my features. "Ugh, Richie, don't. I don't need that image in my head."
"More fun, you mean," Stan corrected him primly.
Of course, I thought. That explains his A's in English.
The laughter died in my throat. The hallway seemed to dim, the cacophony of slamming lockers and shouting students fading into a dull roar. A familiar, cold prickle crawled up my spine—the unmistakable feeling of being watched. I didn't need to turn my head toward the row of lockers. I knew.
"Oh, shit," Richie mumbled, the humor vanishing from his voice, replaced by a nervous tension that snapped our group to attention.
My body moved on instinct. I took a half-step closer to Eddie, my arm nearly brushing his. A silent, desperate bid for safety. I'd never understood why, but his presence always felt like a shield. Solid. Reassuring.
"Think they'll sign my yearbook?" Richie whispered, a weak attempt to deflect with humor. "'Dear Richie, sorry for taking a hot, steaming dump in your backpack last March. Have a good summer.'"
But his joke fell flat. It was never a joke. Henry Bowers didn't tease; he hunted. He targeted anyone he deemed a loser, and being his cousin placed me squarely at the top of his list. The phantom ache of old bruises seemed to pulse beneath my skin, a painful reminder of where this usually led.
