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Richie Tozier wasn’t that into boys. And boys weren’t that into her, either.
Maybe it was the lack of effort she put into her appearance. Maybe it was the jeans she wore so often the ass was starting to give out. Maybe it was her taste in music, her laugh, her jokes, or just her .
Richie Tozier wasn’t deterred by any of this. After the summer of 1989, she was convinced it was her god given right to be as annoying and boisterous as she pleased. You’re upset that I've been doing Edward Scissorhands at a brothel for the past forty minutes? Four years ago I indirectly saved all your asses from being clown food. Go fuck yourself, dickwad.
Her best friend, Eddie Kaspbrak, on the other hand...
They’d been at the Tozier residence, laying on the bed that Eddie had insisted on least smoothing out before they started their homework. They were supposed to be doing homework, at least.
What they’d actually been doing was talking about boys. It kind of felt like that’s all Eddie wanted to do nowadays. Which boys were nice, dicks, cute, funny. The conversations never shifted to sex, and for that Richie was grateful. It was hard enough listening to Eddie cautiously talk about a guy from her math class without butting in to say that the week before Richie saw that same guy getting head behind the church. Preacher’s daughter, no less.
There had been a lull in the conversation and Richie was staring up at her ceiling, trying to ignore the weird ache that appeared in the pit of her stomach whenever Eddie talked about this stuff.
“Rich?” Richie’s dad had always called her Ritchie instead of Rachel when she was really little. After Ritchie Valens, the singer. Then, on her first day of school, she wrote “Richie” at the top of her page because that’s how her teacher told her to spell it, and it stuck longer than her dad probably intended it to.
“Rich?” Eddie pressed. Richie realized she’d completely spaced out.
“Yes, Spaghetti Head? Eddie Spaghetti? Ellie Bean?” Eddie’s nose crinkled and she swatted at her, but Richie managed to escape by rolling onto her belly. “Nice try, Eleanor, but you’re no match for—”
“Richie, I have to ask you a question!” A bit of franticness bled into her sentence and Richie mimed zipping her lips. “Okay, Jesus.” Eddie paused, seemingly trying to figure out how to word whatever it was she had to say, her neck slowly flushing in that way that let Richie know she was about a minute away from going red as a tomato.
“Have you ever been kissed? Or, like, kissed someone?”
Richie’s mouth went dry and blinked. “No, Eds, I can’t say I have.” She tried to make it sound even a little funny but failed, and realized that without the jokes backing her up she was scared. Really, really scared.
“Oh.” Eddie was staring at the ceiling, but Richie had flipped over onto her side, propped up by her elbow. Eddie hadn't even snapped at her for calling her Eds. Something was up. “Oh.”
“Why are you asking me that, Eddie?” It came out a little harsher than intended and Richie winced.
“I don’t know, just, like, this year feels like the cut off for that stuff.”
“Oh.”
“And I don’t think, when I get a boyfriend, that I should….” Eddie stopped and completely started over. “When we get boyfriends, we should go into it knowing how to kiss.”
Richie’s whole body felt dry, like she was having an allergic reaction or something. But a good one. Did those exist? She’d have to ask Eddie, later. Not right now. Right now, she was pretty sure Eddie Kaspbrak was talking about them kissing. Each other, specifically.
“Yeah, probably.” Not. Definitely not. No boyfriends for her. Richie ignored the punch in the gut ‘boyfriend’ delivered. Did Eddie want her to kiss her? “So…. you want to practice?” Eddie went bright red, and her cheeks made Richie think of cherries, not tomatoes. Cherries. Like the chapstick Eddie had reapplied heavily a few minutes earlier, before this conversation even started.
“Well, if you want to. I mean, I guess I just want to know what it feels like to be kissed. Because what if when my future boyfriend kisses me, I don’t know how to kiss him back? What if I’m a bad kisser, Richie—” Eddie was cut off by Richie’s lips against hers, by Richie’s hand against her cherry-red cheeks, by Richie.
She, Rachel Tozier, was kissing Eleanor fucking Kaspbrak. Richie felt Eddie freeze under her and panicked for just a moment until she felt Eddie’s hand snake up the back of her shirt and pull her closer, and Richie felt like she was going to pass out or die or just fucking explode.
Twenty-three years later, when Eddie yells
“Let’s take our shirts off and kiss!”
at the Jade Orient, Richie’s insides clench up and the memories of that afternoon body slam her. She feels like she’s going to pass out or die or just fucking explode all over again. She doesn’t think about how much fucking saliva there was, or how their teeth had clicked against each other or any of that shit.
Richie just thinks about how when they’d pulled apart, she’d tasted the cherries that had transferred from Eddie’s lips to hers, and how fast her heart had been beating, and the way her throat had closed up when she realized I’ll never be able to marry this girl.
Twenty-three years later, Richie realizes that even though the laws have changed, she still hasn’t married this girl. There, at the Jade Orient, Richie makes a few promises to her seventeen year old self.
- You are going to kill this fucking clown.
- No matter what happens, you and Eleanor Kaspbrak are getting out alive.
- You will marry this girl.
The next day, when Richie’s swimming in the quarry, she thinks back on the past 24 hours.
Two down, one to go.