Chapter Text
i. pinballs and rabbits
They've been sitting here like this for a couple minutes now. Every time Finney thinks of something to say he chickens out when he looks at him to say it. He coughs, Finney struggles for words and wonders how he can cough, wonders if he even needs to cough. Maybe he breathes. Finney doesn't think he does, or if he does, Finney doesn't think he needs to. Like maybe he can decide whether he wants to breathe or not. He glances at Finney out of the corner of his eye and Finney promptly fumbles for words yet again. He looks solid, like if Finney were to put his hand on him it wouldn't faze through him. But when he moves in the light, his edges look softer, not really There. Finney can tell he's Not Right, can tell that something with this picture is Wrong. He thinks about asking how, or why. He settles for something else instead.
"You're- You're dead."
"What about it?" The Ghost of 'Pinball' Vance Hopper snarls.
"How- I killed him. I- It- You're in my room," Finney says plainly.
"Yeah- Ya know, I used to play Basketball," The Ghost of 'Pinball' Vance Freaking Hopper says, stepping in front of a framed photograph on the wall. It's the one of Finney in a Basketball jersey. He's eating a blue snow cone and Gwen is sitting at his feet, trying to push the basketball out from between his legs. He runs a finger across it, the dust stays on the glass of the frame. He looks at his finger and his brows furrow in anger. He smacks a yellow plastic rocket that's dangling from the ceiling;—Finney hasn't bothered taking them down after Gwen said something about his room no longer having any personality. There’s around four others, blue, green, pink, and red. He doesn't really look at space the same, but Gwen wants him to, so he tries—it flys forward then backwards, straight into his face, earning itself another hit.
"I thought-" He turns to Finney—doesn’t look at him, just turns in his general direction. His words get caught in his throat and he coughs to cover it. He's covered in blood. It looks fresh, lazily running down his nose and steadily forming a thick glob on the ridge of his top lip; it doesn't move further than that. He gasps when he sees the two deep gashes in his sides. "I thought that- since I killed The- since I killed him you'd-"
"Disappear?" He raises an eyebrow. Stupidly, Finney flinches at the word, closing his eyes tightly.
"I thought you'd be free," he finishes quietly. 'Pinball' Vance Hopper looks at him for a moment, face blank, then he looks at the photo on the wall again. Finney watches his every movement. An odd bubble rises in his throat, threatening to break free any moment.
See, Finney's not so much freaked out by the fact that he's seeing someone who's been dead for three years now, not even in the slightest.
Ever since he's gotten out of that dreadful basement he's been seeing things. Not big things, small things. Like seeing the old man that lived a couple houses down from him and died five years ago sitting on his porch, petting the stray cat Finney likes to call Peanut. Like seeing that kid—whose name he figured out to be Loren—that died in a freak sledding accident when he was eight wandering around St. Luke’s or Mission Road. Or how sometimes he’ll get strange phone calls in the middle of the night with no one on the other side.
What's freaking Finney out is that Vance Hopper is here, in his room, definitely Not Free. Seeing Vance Hopper in his room holding his decorative little rocket makes something unkind and straight up cruel rush through his pulse, his veins, his Being. It makes his hands sweaty and twitchy with the urge to grab onto something, he can feel his heart beating in his eye —it twitches and he blinks fast to make it stop. Vance notices this and gives him a funny look before going back to the framed photo.
"Huh, would ya look at that." He clicks his tongue and points at something in the photo, "We were on the same team." Finney doesn't look. He's got the rocket in his hand. Finney isn't sure how a ghost is holding something substantial, something he himself can touch. It’s different than glass bottles being thrown across the room with the weight of a yell. It certainly feels different. It makes it feel more Real.
Belatedly, he thinks that what he's feeling is scared. He is scared. Like a child being scared of the monster that isn’t under their bed, like being scared of the dark—he is scared of the dark. And with that thought he's now embarrassed. Embarrassed and scared, feeling like a true kid.
"Think it'll fly?" he asks, holding the small yellow rocket to the light. He glances at Finney and Finney swears he sees the corner of his mouth quirk up a bit.
Finney isn’t sure what to think, honestly.
Think it’ll fly- No, it won't fly, it's a tiny model rocket made of plastic, maybe being dead caused brain damage.
He doesn't say that of course. He’s not stupid enough to say something rude to someone almost twice his size. Actually, now that he’s seeing him for the first time in three years, they’re around the same height—Finney could very well be taller. Regardless if he’s taller or not though, if he said something like that he'd somehow get knocked into next Thursday. Then he wonders if The Grabber had done anything to cause brain damage to Pinball Vance Hopper, the toughest kid in school.
Before he can try to find something Not Mean or appropriate to say, he yelps out and shuts his eyes because The Ghost of Pinball Vance Hopper's just thrown the little yellow rocket right at his face. He opens his eyes when nothing hits him.
Nothing is there anymore but the bare space where The Ghost of Pinball Vance Hopper stood only a moment ago. He’s taken the plastic rocket with him, it seems. Feeling great unease, Finney does a search around his room. He finds nothing and crawls back into bed, ready to turn out the bedside lamp. He hesitates, gets out of bed and checks his closet; nothing—just his normal closet—and if he plugs in that blue rocket night-light he said he got rid of when he was ten on his way back to his bed, well, no one needs to know. He reaches for the lamp’s chain again only to pause once more. Slowly, heart beating a little faster, he bends half-way off his bed and snatches the covers up.
Nothing is there and he finally turns out the lamp and lets his mind wander to how much he's gone bat crazy before sleep finally takes him for the night.
____________________________
He walks through a forest filled with bare trees, leaves discolored and dead on the ground. He's barefoot; he knows this because he can feel the wet and cold leaves beneath him. His feet sting for a minute, then the sting fades into a wonderful numbness, he continues walking.
"---I like birds. I even---------when I------very good at it, though," someone laughs, it's a small, almost sad sound. He frowns and keeps on walking, seeing an opening ahead.
"-caught my first ball.---------Baseball was it---it’s dumb, I know, I just----there wasn’t----never---" someone else says, a terrible mix of sadness and anger washes over him for a few seconds too long for his liking.
"I used to think-------never did------” another voice says quietly, like maybe they’re shy. It makes him smile a little. Then it is saying, in a much darker tone that makes him frown deeply, “Still is?-----weird look---dear------friends----was wrong----miss my dog…"
Getting closer to the opening leaves him unprotected from the cold air that bites at his nose and cheeks. He finds that he doesn’t mind though, as it is a welcomed distraction from the feeling rising in his chest. The air smells crisp and salty, he hears the faint sound of water falling and splashing into more. No doubt a waterfall, maybe somewhere close.
Just as he steps out of the forest and into the opening he hears a voice above him, loud and determined. "You ne--" He stops walking and waits for a moment. That sounded like it might be important.
"----?" he asks.
"--ed to wa--" it says again, louder, yet more muffled somehow. "-can't stay h---"
"----? -------------?" he asks again, looking around for this voice, the waterfall long forgotten.
"GET UP---GIVE UP!" The voice booms from all around. He covers his ears. There is a shatter of glass somewhere close to him. He thinks of yelling back or running, but those are distant, abstract thoughts.
"RAISE THE FUCKING PHONE!" a different voice yells, equally as loud. "----------!" it yells again, and, that can't be right. Whose voice is this?
"REMEMBER THAT FUCK-------!" yells yet another voice. He's on the ground now, curled in a ball, it's freezing. The voices are loud and his feet hurt from walking barefoot to the point that it burns.
"TIM
HE
PHO
MIN
CKING
P
NN!"
All the voices blend together; nothing making any sense to his brain that is flooding with water. It's cold. He's all too aware just how cold it is now, his lungs feel heavy, as if they're being weighed down. No, not weighed down, frozen. Stuck in place; they won't move anymore, he can't breathe. It burns and everything around him goes white.
____________________________
He wakes with a jolt, gasping for air that he's not been allowed for what feels like eons. He panics when the air doesn't help. He panics and thinks of people who don't need air anymore yet decide to still breathe it. He panics and can't stop panicking because the air isn't helping, it's not helping. Does he even need air? Dead people don't need air, they don't breathe. Air doesn't help dead people, they're dead. I'm dead.
"Hell of a dream," someone says. Finney jolts up. The Ghost of Pinball Vance Hopper is sitting against the wall farthest from Finney’s bed, right below the Basketball photo. He yells, of course, because he's still here.
"Shut the fuck up," Pinball Vance deadpans. "You sound like a girl."
Finney obediently shuts the fuck up with the memory of just last month where he got one of his last baby teeth knocked down his throat because that tone sounded a little too feminine, a lot faggy. He stares at him. Pinball Vance glances at him then picks up a wad of paper as if he’s examining it, or as if he needs something to do with his hands, smoothing it out then crumpling it again and again. He glances at Finney again and widens his eyes dramatically. Still looking at the paper ball in his hands.
"The fuck you want?"
"I don't- Why are you here?" Finney blurts. Pinball Vance's face goes blank. He gets up and puts his hands in his pockets.
"You don't know..." he says slowly, like he's thinking over his words, " You don't know why I’m here." He starts to walk towards Finney and Finney tries to subtly scoot back. Pinball Vance scoffs at this.
Walking to the other side of Finney's bed he looks at the singular blue rocket that still stands on his desk despite Finney telling himself repeatedly that he's going to throw it out—like he did the rest. He pointedly doesn't think about how this particular rocket was to be set off by Robin because one time Robin made an off comment about blue being his favorite color and Finney never had a friend before so he walked almost two hours to the nearest store with model rockets and picked the most expensive one there so Robin’s first blast off would be Perfect. Doesn't think of it at all.
"No, no I don't," he says. Pinball Vance moves his hand towards the rocket and for a moment Finney thinks that The Ghost of Pinball Vance Hopper is going to destroy the only model rocket of his childhood left and holds his breath, waiting for the destruction. Instead, he just lightly pokes at the nose. Finney lets out the breath in the form of a small relieved sigh.
Pinball Vance hears this and snorts. "Fuck you." And flatly states, "I can destroy everything in this room in a matter of seconds." And with more venom, "My name is Vance, fuckin' use it. "
"What?" Finney asks, still looking at the rocket. He… remembers his name. That statement alone brings so many questions Finney doesn’t feel like asking any time soon.
"It's not 'The Ghost of Pinball Vance Hopper,' or 'Pinball Vance Hopper,' or even ' Pinball Vance ,' and it's definitely not, 'The Ghost of Pinball Vance Freaking Hopper.'"
Finney looks at Pinball- Vance. "I never said-"
"Dipshit, you were talkin' out loud."
"Oh..."
They fall into an uncomfortable silence. Vance pulls something out of his pocket; it's the yellow rocket. He fiddles with it and Finney thinks it right to assume that it's no longer his. Not that he really even cares.
"Hell of a dream," Vance says again.
"Did you- You saw?"
"You talk in your sleep- Maybe." Vance stuffs the rocket back in his pocket.
"Maybe?"
"I don't know. I heard you, I think." It's like he can't stop second-guessing himself.
"You thi- You don't know ?"
"No I don't fucking know! I heard you screamin' like a bitch and I heard people talking- yellin’," he stumbles, then gives Finney a dirty look. "I don't fuck ing know, fuck off and stop looking at me like that, cuntwad!" he shouts, going tense and sharp, he looks a little more Not There. As if yelling drained what little color his Not Alive body still had. It's deeply unsettling.
He thinks for a few more moments before realizing something vital.
"If you're here, then, does that mean that the others are too?" He doesn't say what he really wants to ask: If you're here, then where's Robin? He doesn’t want to get his hopes up only for them to be shattered all over again.
Robin Robin Robin Robin Robin is the only thing his brain gives him as he frantically scans his room for his best and only friend.
Distantly, he wonders if ghosts age, then he remembers Griffin Stagg hanging upside down, looking and sounding like the eleven-year-old he was. Griffin Stagg would have been fourteen this year; same age as Finney. He was in his fifth grade class. Finney remembers, after a week or two into the summer of ‘79 spent sleeping he came out of his room in a frantic daze, hair ratty and greasy, skin as pale as a sheet, making the dark circles under his eyes all the more vibrant despite the full eighteen hours of sleep he'd gotten that day. He tore all the photo albums out of the milk crate on the bottom shelf of the bookshelf in the living-room. Trying to find something, anything, that could tell him who Griffin Stagg was. He'd almost given up when he finally found a picture with him after scanning the Northwest Elementary School album a couple more times.
Griffin Stagg, as young as he was the day he died it looked. Red curly hair—something that surprised Finney when he first saw it; Griffin's hair wasn't brown but a soft orange—a little more crazy than Finney remembered, skin a little more tan, a little more life-like. The photo being a picture of a now popular boy and some others smiling all stupid, showing off terrible stick-figure drawings they made. Griffin was in the background of the photo, but he was there. Sitting at a table to the far left all by himself, a small smile on his face as he colored some sort of bird he’d drawn. It wasn't a bad drawing, pretty decent for an eleven-year-old. He wasn’t all that great about staying in the lines, though, he thought when he first saw the picture then a terrible shudder took over his body as he realized he’d never get any better at it, either.
Forever eleven.
He shivers at the thought and Vance visibly calms, giving something like a shrug, he says, "'Unno.” He circles back around the bed to the photo of small Finney and Gwen with the basketball and snow cone. He stares at it for a moment. "Someone's coming," he says, still looking at the photo.
"What-"
Someone tentatively knocks on the door. "Finney? It's me, Gwen. You awake? I heard talking." She doesn't say anything more and Finney wonders if she thinks he's going to tell her to come in. He almost does, out of old habit, but then she’s sighing and saying, "It’s- It’s raining, so you’ll need your coat… You going?"
He looks back to Vance. He's not there anymore. Finney stares at the photo. Somehow Vance has wiped the dust off of it; not the whole thing, just enough to make a kid in the background the center of attention. The kid is wearing one of the school jersey's, it's too big for him—just makes him look impossibly smaller and more kid-like—and his blond curly hair is in a small ponytail, thick brows furrowed as he glares at a woman who seems to be wiping his face down with a napkin.
"Yeah, I'm going."
____________________________
"We know you're in there," Matty says, slamming one of the other bathroom stalls open as if to emphasize just how much he Knows Finney is in There. "Come on out, Finney the Fag." He draws the last word out much longer than necessary. Honestly, Finney's more upset about the lack of creative names than he is about the fact that he's about to get beat up.
"Why do you even bother hiding anymore?" Buzz asks.
He doesn't know. He gets off the toilet seat and slowly unlocks the door, delaying the inevitable. Sometimes his brain will throw the image of him busting the stall door open and jumping on whichever one is nearest; prove to them that he is capable of something terrible and truly sinister. Show them all just how simple it could be for him to get his arm around their neck: it'd be simple and almost easy, none of the people that fuck with Finney come even close to The Grabber's build. All of them just being lanky awkward teens with bad body odor and greasy foreheads. But those are just distant, barely in the background kind of thoughts. He steps out and sighs.
"Ya know, the sign," Matty jabs his thumb behind him, "says boys. Don't know how it's not stuck with you yet, fag."
His breathing comes out uneven as he tries to come up with an explanation that’s not even needed as to why he’s in the damn bathroom. The thoughts of how simple it really is to make someone’s own breaths stop getting bigger and louder in his head.
It takes almost everything in him to get out a low whisper of; "I- I was just tryna take a piss- I don't-'' When his voice catches up with his ears it embarrasses him, but only for a moment because then the memory of him tearing up when any one of these three bastards even so much as raised their voice at him ruefully pops into his mind. His dignity is basically non-existent when it comes to Matty, Matt, and Buzz. He thinks that maybe he should be a little more upset about this but he's not. As much as no one wants to say it out loud they all know they’ve grown up together and have no doubtedly seen each other at least piss their pants before.
"Yeah, but you're not a boy, you're a cocksucker," Matt sneers, grinning.
"I just- Maybe you can let me go today? I got a game.”
It comes out even lower, more raspy, his breath not fully coming to him yet.
It's a lie. There is no game. Matty knows this, all three of them know this. Everyone in Northwest High School knows this, hell, everyone in town knows it. He quit last year a couple games after getting out. The rumors were too much. He’ll never admit it, and if he ever does he’ll blame it on being an emotional teenager—ya know. Hormones —but words do hurt. In the darkest hours of the night, when sleep can’t seem to find him, he’ll think of the rumors. The words being spread. The real Galesburg Grabber is still afoot, roaming the streets and walking the halls of Northwest High School with his head hung low. He’s waiting, they’ll say. Waiting for the right moment to grab another undeserving kid.
Even the adults talk about it from time to time. When he first quit Baseball was when he heard the most from the adults.
"Did you hear? The Blake kid got kicked out of Baseball. Coach said the other kids didn't feel comfortable ‘round ‘im."
"I mean, can you blame them? The kid killed someone."
"I heard he's basically a smaller version of his mom. You remember that nutcase? Kayla- Muh -kayla?"
"Mhm, Makayla. Crazy bitch on all them drugs. Makes sense, her kids bein’ crackhead babies an' all."
Finney hears it all, though it’d be hard not to since so one seems to care whether he hears or not, but. He can’t help it. Lying, that is. Lying seems to be second-nature to him nowadays. Sometimes, when his brain is working on auto-pilot—as it often is—he’ll find himself walking towards the back entrance of the school. To the sports fields. To the outside locker rooms, the Baseball field.
He then thinks about baseballs flying over his head and over the chain fence, just barely out of reach of the left out-fielder, grazes the glove. A hit that sends the batter all the way back to home plate, cheers from the winning team, a mantra of the batters name. Groans from his own team. ("Way to fuckin' go, Fag." "Did you see him starin' at ‘im, he probably let 'im have it to see him run.") A lineup, everyone slapping hands and repeating the phrase they were taught when they first started playing, Good Game. The feel of his arm cramping from excessive use, they never did have a back-up pitcher, something that made him happy when he first heard, Good, I can't be replaced. Someone's once white sneakers, but now stained a permanent brown from play pointing to his own stained Converse. The murmurs of kids he knows and doesn't know. ("What's he doing?" "Dunno." "He's such a suck up." "Mhm, thinks everything’s about him.") Dark mud brown eyes, a toothy grin with a canine sticking out. "You were dirty, almost had me," an outstretched hand, asking for something he wasn't sure he could give. "Good game."
Then he's being pulled out of his thoughts by a cry of pain that's come from himself because Matty's just punched him square in the nose. He officially comes to when he feels an odd tickle in his nose, a tell-tale sign that it’s bleeding. Matt and Buzz have him pinned to the wall. He muffles a groan when Matty punches him in the stomach.
Ouch, his brain stupidly supplies. He knows how to deal with this though. Pain is one of the many things Finney has been forced to get used to.
To get through it he lets his mind wander, lets himself get lost in it.
Flashing lights in a dark room, black carpet covered in random and intricate neon designs. A red screen looking at him with the words GAME OVER flashing in and out, causing a headache the more he stares, but he can't look away because those were his last quarters and he doesn't want to leave. ("Alright kids, Space Port's still gonna be here tomorrow. Go on home while you can still see, get your supper while it's still hot an' stay in groups of two or more!") Groans all around; no one else wants to leave either, he doesn't think any of them have the same reasoning as him, but he groans with them anyway because they don't know that and he doesn't want them to know. Chatter among other kids as they leave the theater next to the arcade, presumably also kicked out as the theater is usually open until at least 2 am. A kid with a group of five or more laughing loudly at something one of the others said, canine tooth sticking out. He still has a bag of popcorn, he throws a piece in the air and not so gracefully catches it in his mouth, earning cheers and whoops along with louder laughter from the group. He makes eye-contact with him right after he catches another piece with more control. Nods. Acknowledges him, and he nods back. Hello again. Then walls spring up on all sides of him, they're stained yellow with cigarette smoke. Yelling, it hurts, but not as bad when it's a memory. Then the walls are turning into chain fences. Papers, everywhere. New ones. It's like they just forgot about the others. All that was found was a shoe in the gutter of Circus Street. A sneaker. Yanked right out of his shoes. He doesn't go to the arcade anymore, doesn't feel like it. Not long after those papers a new one shows up, not quite as many as the latest one, not covering it up neither, as if saying this new paper is not as important as the other one. It hurts, a lot more when it's a memory.
Hurts more than any punch, kick, or belt ever could. Hurts more than the punches he’s getting right now. It’s stupid to be causing himself more pain, so he goes back to focusing on just how hard Matty hits him each time. Buzz kicks Finney’s heel hard, sending him to his knees.
"- one ,” someone says from far away and right in front of him.
What? Matty grabs his shoulders and knees him in the stomach. An aborted gasp leaves his mouth as he tries to curl up to protect himself. Buzz and Matt keep him steady in their hold.
"- fast step back. "
A kick to the stomach this time and his arms jerk with the desperate need to cover it. He breathes jaggedly through his nose. Each exhale more harsh than the last, splattering blood everywhere. Matty makes a disgusted noise and says something about it being gross and then slaps him as if that’ll make it stop. Buzz and Matt's grip on his wrists turn to bruising ones.
"And swing," the voice says clear as day in his haze, and then it clicks: Robin. Robin is talking to Finney. Matt and Buzz let go of him, the abrupt loss of support makes him fall completely to the floor. He frantically tries to get up, but is put back down as a muddy fucking cowboy boot is shoving his face onto the cold bathroom floor. A metallic taste coats his tongue and he spits lazily and closes his eyes, still trying to catch his breath.
“Ew. What the fuck, dude?” one of them says, not trying to hide the rising amusement in their tone at all.
"That's the most fight you've put up in forever, Blake," a different one sneers out.
"Raise the phone," says Robin Arellano from somewhere far away yet so close. He tries to lift his head, tries to find where this Voice of Robin Arellano is coming from. He gets kicked in the ribs, and then curls up in a ball to finally protect himself—except his face, which is still being smushed into the concrete. He gets kicked a couple more times then Matty moves his boot away and Finney tucks his head in too.
"S'no fuckin' fun when you ball up like that, pussy," he spits.
Footsteps retreat, Finney hears the bathroom door open and close. He doesn't move for a while. Still catching his breath. It rattles for a moment then eases back to normal. He gets up and stumbles over to the mirror to assess the damage done; the bridge of his nose is slowly turning into ugly purples and yellows, he's got blood dribbling down the corner of his mouth, and his left eye hurts like a bitch. Finney can already tell it’s gonna swell and fuck his vision up for a hot minute. He squints at the mirror, and then yells and whips around to the stalls to be met with nothing. He breathes heavily then takes slow, deep breaths. Probably, he’s also concussed.
"Killed a man three times his size, and yet he can't punch a kid half his size," The Ghost of Pinball Vance Hopper comments dryly.
Finney whips his head back to the mirror to find Vance leaning against the bathroom stall door with his arms crossed, glaring right at him. He looks back to the stall and still, no one is there.
"What-"
"Finney the Fag Blake." Finney's head throbs as he turns to look back at the mirror. "Never heard of you before, but you seem popular." He makes it sound almost like a question, as if asking: So you're the school's punching bag?
"How're you here?" Finney asks, ignoring the comments and the insistent throb that's making his good eye twitch.
"Bet they call you Finney the Freak too," Vance says, ignoring Finney's question. "Maybe even... What else starts with f and is used in a derogitive way?" He rubs his chin and looks up as if he's thinking. "Oh, how about failure?" He smiles at Finney; one devoid of any kindness or sympathy. "Finney the Failure. Fiasco Finney, Finney the Fizzle," he taunts, smile turning into a sneer, "The Flimsy, Fragile, Fraud that is Finney Fucking Blake." He crashes his fist against the stall door, Finney flinches and squints his eyes shut then flinches again when no sound comes from it.
When he opens his eyes again Vance is gone.
Finney breathes deep and slow for a while.
Pinball Vance Hopper is haunting him. No big deal.
The top right corner of the mirror cracks, almost as if it’s saying this is not No Big Deal. He stares at the crack and thinks of all the things that have happened in the span of, at the very most, 8 hours.
- The Ghost of Pinball Vance Hopper was in his room last night and this morning, and now has followed him to his school into the bathroom, he is Not Free. The Ghost of Pinball Vance Hopper has come to haunt Finney the Freak Blake for whatever reason. He thinks that maybe it has something to do with the fact Finney the Freak Blake killed The Galesburg Grabber and not Pinball Vance Hopper, toughest kid in Northwest Junior High. Or maybe he’s just pissed Finney got out at all and he didn’t, Finney got help and he didn’t, Finney heard the calls and he didn’t, couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything.
A person has to stay here a while, before you learn to hear it.
He wonders how long Vance lasted.
Maybe a business week.
Maybe five days.
Probably less.
- He just got the shit beat out of him and while- no. He just got the shit beat out of him by Matty and his goons. To be honest, this isn't really all that surprising or worrying. If it's not Matty then it's Moose and if not Moose then some other fucker that thinks they're cool for being able to beat up the kid that killed a man—even though Finney's never even fought back before.
This beating was a little more gruesome than normal, though. Finney thinks it has something to do with the rumor about noise complaints and an embarrassing hand mark on Matty's face. He gets it. He hates that he gets it, but he does.
- While getting the shit beat out of him he heard Robin. Robin Arellano. Who has been dead for a year—well, a year, two months and fourteen days, but who’s counting, right?
Finney glares at himself in the mirror, head pounding, eye twitching, he watches blood slowly drip off his chin. It makes a soft plink sound in the basin of the sink. Illogically, he thinks that maybe Robin was telling him to fight back, then his rational side comes in and stomps that incredibly stupid thought to the ground.
Robin was not talking to you, you're just having auditory hallucinations and that just happened to be what the hallucination said because that was one of the last things Robin said to you. We've been through this Finney, you're fucked in the head. It's. Not. Real.
But.
The mirror is cracked, and it wasn't like that when he first came in. His little yellow rocket is missing; it was there yesterday morning. But it couldn't've been Robin because Robin is dead. Dead people don’t come back. The mirror's crack deepens as if to call Finney out on his stupidness. He sighs. He knows better now. Dead people can't come back, yes, but they can stay. He's seen it, continues to see it.
Finney decides that thinking sucks and is making the headache-slash-maybe-concussion infinitely worse, so he snatches some paper towels out of the dispenser and pours cold water on them before roughly wiping his face down. The pain it causes is enough to make his mind numb. When he's about half-way through the bathroom door bursts open, he freezes, waits, no one comes in, and the door slowly closes. He wipes harder and faster, and then bolts like he just committed a crime. He snorts at the thought. He has committed a crime.
____________________________
The rest of the day continues as any other day; miserable and completely normal.
‘Till something is thrown at the top of Finney’s head in the middle of seventh period. He doesn’t give any reaction other than digging his face further into his arms. Then it happens again. And again. And again, and again. And- He whips his head up finally to glare at this- this person.
Finney's used to seeing things no one else can see, things they shouldn't see, but in this moment, brown eyes staring into glazed over blue ones, dead ones, he flinches, hard. Hard enough that the teacher gives him a funny look from her desk and the person sitting next to him not so subtly leans away from him.
These eyes have haunted him for a year now. Not just these ones, other ones. Brown ones, browns varying in all sorts of shades; from a dark dirt brown to a light amber brown. Usually they all had that same look, as if they were not really looking at anything. Dead eyes open and unaware, looking, but not seeing. Now though, as Finney stares into these once vibrant ocean blue eyes, he can tell that they're seeing regardless of the thick white glaze over them that's making them a light, almost smokey sky blue. He stares at this Ghost. This Ghost of Pinball Vance Hopper, blinks, breathes, stares. The Ghost of Pinball Vance Hopper stares back blankly. He's not glaring, his brows are slightly raised, terribly Not Alive eyes half-lidded, mouth not the slightest bit downturned but not the slightest upturned either.
The funniest little thought pops into Finney’s mind then: This is probably what he looked like when he first died.
Vance jolts as if he’s just now realizing that he’s looking at Finney, then he throws a familiar yellow rocket at him. He doesn't flinch. Even when it hits him, and then Vance turns abruptly around in his seat. Finney doesn't look away. Occasionally he glances back at Finney, receiving a look that could send him to Hell and back each time. Vance Hopper in school. An odd sight, though they went to the same school and Vance was known by everyone there as the toughest kid in school, Finney never really saw him. Much less in a classroom, sitting at a desk. With his shoulders hunched, looking small and young even for a fourteen-year-old.
Vance gets up from his seat and Finney follows his every movement. He trudges slowly to Mrs. Myers’—math teacher, a terrible one, Finney should add—desk. He's got the rocket in his left hand, rotating it in circles, despite not having picked it back up. He grabs a pen from the desk. The lack of response from Mrs. Myers makes something in Finney's stomach churn and his breath become more shallow and he can't quite understand why. Something about a Ghost holding a Very Real and There object, or maybe the fact that if something goes wrong, no one would be able to stop it, something will go wrong and no one can stop it. The Ghost of Vance Hopper can and most likely will put his hands on Finney if or whenever he pleases.
Vance clicks the pen once, twice, looks towards Finney, scowls, clicks once more, angles himself in front of the chalkboard, clicks again, four times. Runs the unclicked pen down the board, hard. A loud screech comes from it, grating on Finney's ears, scratching the inside of his head to his brain, echoing through. His right eye twitches almost frantically. No one notices, they remain oblivious to the hell Vance seems adamant on putting Finney through.
After a few agonizing minutes later the bell rings. Everyone, eager to leave math class on a Friday, crowds the door, blocking Finney’s view of Vance. The scratching continues and Finney remains in his seat. After everyone’s out of the room—save Mrs. Myers, who asks Finney if he needs anything twice before sighing loudly and going back to her papers—Finney gets a good look at the chalkboard. Vance is nowhere in sight, but this doesn’t really bother him as it seems this will be happening often. It’s a drawing. Such a bad one that it makes something in Finney’s chest ache painfully.
A pinball machine and right above it: 8120.
____________________________
He walks home alone in the rain, just a slight drizzle, but he’ll be soaked by the time he gets to the house. He forgot his coat despite Gwen telling him he’ll need it. She didn’t notice anyway. They didn’t walk to school together nor are they walking back together now. There was a time—right after the kidnapping—when Gwen wouldn’t even so much as step out of any building without him by her side, but as the days turned to weeks then months, it dwindled until it went back to normal, but a little less than normal. She’ll meet him at the school gates like they’ve always done, she’ll ask him if he’ll be ok on his own. Yes. The answer always being yes, yeah, mhm, don’t know why I wouldn’t be. Then she’d go wherever it is she goes these days. Finney used to know all of Gwen’s friends—or at least their names—nowadays though, he can hardly remember who her best friend is.
Something in him wants to say Amy Yamada, but as soon as the thought appears he knows it isn’t so.
Finney’s not stupid, he knows there is a drift between him and Gwen, that it’s only growing as time goes on and he refuses to talk. He’s not stupid. He knows it’s his fault they’re not as close as they used to be. He doesn’t blame Gwen for not wanting to be around him much anymore. It used to only be Fridays because a weekend with their dad was too much. Now it’s Fridays and any other day she can get someone’s parents to say yes. Finney’s not upset or offended by this. No, of course not, he loves his sister. And. He gets it. He wouldn’t want to be around Gwen much either if she started to act like a ghost. He’d miss her too much to be able to sit in front of her at the dinner table and have her not really be there.
So, he walks home in the cold and rainy February weather without a coat and a strong sense of not actually being alone.
That wasn’t me, that was someone else.
Out of a stupid serge of bravery or maybe stupidity, or maybe just an urge to self-destruct no matter what, he continues walking, maybe a bit slower.
He makes it to his house just fine, maybe a slight sniffle from the rain, but fine.
When he gets into his room without so much as a hi from his dad, his eyes well with tears and he can’t tell if it’s out of relief or the sheer devastation he feels of still Being .
____________________________
“So this is everyday for you? Go to school, get beat up, walk home alone, and then cry?”
“Pretty much.”
He laughs a little at this. “That’s fucking sad.” He’s not sympathizing; he just thinks Finney’s life is sad, pathetic even.
“Story of my life.” It is pathetic, even sad.
Finney sniffs once more before sitting up in his bed to look at Vance. He’s sitting in the same spot he was this morning.
“Why are you here?” Vance stiffens at the question and begins to fiddle with that plastic rocket he seems to like so much.
“Why should I know?” he snaps.
Finney considers this for a moment.
“He’s dead, you know,” he mumbles.
Vance’s hands freeze as he takes a shuddering breath, looking down at the rocket in his lap.
“Think I don’t remember?” His tone is harsh and barbed, but his breathing is shallow and uneven. Once again Finney is left wondering how the dead breathes. “It was literally the day before fuckin’ yesterday,” he mumbles like an afterthought.
“Yester- That was last year.” Vance snaps his head up, accidentally making eye-contact with Finney that makes both of them flinch.
“Did you- Have you been here all year?” Finney asks, feeling his heart drop to his stomach. He’s been here all year and Finney only noticed yesterday. Vance Hopper, who died a terrible and unjust death, had to watch Finney the Freak live his life as if it wasn’t his. Had to watch Finney give up time and time again, because- Because he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want his life and Vance Hopper died at the age of fourteen and never got to beat his pinball score like he said he would. Vance Hopper had to watch Finney throw away the life he so desperately deserved to have over and over.
“Think I’d remember your girly ass crying,” he responds gruffly. Which, fair. Finney has the tendency to sound like a girl when he’s doing his embarrassing self-pity breakdowns. He supposes he has been kinda girly on the days the world doesn’t feel right to him. The days where everything is just a bit off-kilter. Like maybe everything has been moved an inch to the left and he’s the only one to notice.
“So what-”
“I think,” Vance interrupts slowly, “that time is different here.”
“Here?”
“Bein’ a ghost is weird,” he says as if that helps at all. “I was there when you killed that fucker, but. It went black, then I was here. Fuckin’ space.” He throws the rocket into the air and catches it smoothly.
Finney just hms , nodding his head a bit, then it’s silent for a while.
He spaces out, looking at the wall and thinking of nothing in particular. Vance makes a noise, something like a cough turned sob and Finney looks at him slowly. He’s looking at the rocket in his lap again, so Finney can’t tell if he actually is crying.
“I’ve- A year?” A pause, then a low rasp of a whisper, “Fuck, three years.”
It’s silent for so long, Finney wants to throw something, or cry, or both. Definitely both. Then Vance looks up, meeting Finney’s eyes—his terribly blue eyes, that aren’t so blue anymore—and says, sounding like a begging kid more than a demanding teen, “Take me to the Grab ‘N Go.” And then he’s gone. Just like that.
Who is Finney to deny such a request? He sounded so. Sad.
So Finney puts on his jacket and grabs whatever money he has—he is going to a store—and quietly slips out his door, making his way to the front door.
“Finney? What are you doing still up?” his dad asks from the kitchen doorway. Finney eyes him warely for a moment, straining his eyes to take in every detail because for some reason the kitchen light is out.
“What are you doing with that?” Finney nods to the glass cup in his dad’s hand and he noticeably stiffens.
“It’s water,” he says.
“Sure.” He slips on his shoes and unlocks the door.
“You’re not going out.” He probably means to sound more demanding and in-charge, but he just sounds. Defeated, sad, scared. It makes Finney stop for a moment.
“Is it really water?”
“What-”
“The cup. It’s not-” Beer, vodka, tequila, alcohol?
“No. Pr- You can smell it.” He comes out of the doorway and holds the cup out to Finney, just a few feet away. Finney doesn’t need to get any closer. If it was alcohol he would be able to smell it from where he stands. He nods and opens the door.
His dad sighs tiredly. “Please be careful.” He slips out the door without answering.
The walk is completely silent besides the rustling of the trees in the wind and the sound of two pairs of shoes on the pavement.
____________________________
The bell dings overhead, a woman sits at the front desk, reading a thick book. Without so much as a glance to Finney she turns her page slowly and yawns. Finney beelines to the slushie machine. Vance doesn’t follow.
He grabs one of the small cups there and pours a little of each flavor into it. It turns brown and he takes a sip. Disgusting. He pours the rest down the drain. He pulls the lever for the cherry flavor and fills it half-way before filling the rest with blueberry.
“Who the fucks that?” Vance asks very loudly, making Finney almost spit his drink out. When he turns around he can see Vance glaring daggers at the lady behind the counter.
“Dunno,” he mumbles.
“What?” the lady asks, still looking at her book.
“Nothing- Just. Talkin’ to myself,'' Finney chokes out. The lady’s either not paying attention or just doesn’t give a shit because she makes a mhmm noise, like Sure, Whatever You Say Kid. He looks back at Vance with raised eye-brows, Vance doesn’t look back.
“What happened to Gladys?” This time it comes out much quieter. Finney goes back to drinking his slushie and shrugs. He’s never talked to the cashiers beyond a thanks, or, yeah, that’s it. Vance doesn’t seem satisfied with the answer, but that’s all Finney’s got, so he turns back to the slushie machine and throws the now empty cup away and grabs one of the large cups. When he turns to ask Vance if he wants one he finds him staring at the newest addition to the Grab ‘N Go, the lotto ticket machine. The pinball machine replacement.
"They took the pinball machine out sometime last year." He glances at Vance and pulls the lever to the grape flavor.
It's quiet for a moment.
"Why?" he finally asks.
Finney doesn't say anything for a long while, just focuses on the purple slush filling his cup. He doesn't know what to say. Well, he does. He just doesn't know how to say it.
Doesn't know how to say; You died and everyone is terribly mean and said it was cursed by The Spirit of Pinball Vance Hopper so no one played it. The high-score remained the same for almost two years and all of a sudden it was gone because, whether people played it or not, you were the only one endlessly giving it money. And that's all the store owner ever really cared about anyway. Money.
Doesn't know how to say; The store owner was glad to get rid of it because she thought it was ugly anyway and the only one that actually liked the thing was that blond. That Blond. That was all she knew you as, and for some reason I can't stand to think of it, let alone say it.
So he doesn't.
He grabs a lid and straw, walks up the candy aisle, pauses for a moment, grabs a bag of gummy sharks, walks back to the counter and slides a dollar to the cashier and leaves before she can even ring him up. The lady probably didn’t even notice he approached her, honestly. Vance is right behind him when he gets to the curb.
“Why?”
“Because-” He takes a long drink from his slushie. It has an odd metallic aftertaste that he never noticed until just now. Kinda gross. “I don’t know,” he’s lies. Vance grunts at this.
“Did anyone beat my high-score?” he asks, each word laced with apathy and a strong undertone of desperate curiosity.
“No.”
He sounds smug when he says, “Course no one did. Don’t even know why I asked,” but Finney feels as if there’s some deeper meaning behind his words. He isn't sure what, but he knows it’s there. For now though, he chugs the Kinda Gross Grape Slushie to see how fast he can get a brain freeze. It works beautifully as a distraction from the fact that he’s talking to a Ghost.
It also makes him feel his age, which is something he rarely gets to do. He likes being a kid that does dumb stuff like getting brainfreezes on purpose.
Within the first couple drinks he gets a brain freeze, he groans in exaggerated pain and absent-mindedly hands the rest of the slushie to Vance, their fingers brush and Finney is quickly sobered by the coldness that sends a shiver down his spine. Reminding him that Vance has been dead for three years. That he too had spent enough time in that basement to make his fingers turn blue with cold and then some with death. Vance doesn’t notice Finney’s deeply unsettled state as he takes the lid off the cup and chugs it without so much as a glance to Finney. When he’s done he burps loudly and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He throws the styrofoam cup behind his back and Finney quickly goes to retrieve it.
“That tasted like stale water.”
“What does stale water taste like?”
“Gross.”
“Oh…”
Makes sense.
____________________________
He stays with Finney for a while. Each day Finney wakes and Vance is usually already there. He asked if he sleeps once and Vance had told him to fuck himself, which, yeah, sounds about right coming from Vance Hopper.
He’s never too far from Finney, never strays. When Finney asks why he stays around him Vance only says he can’t go anywhere else. Then Finney feels bad and asks if that means he’s stuck because of Finney. Like how it was with The Grabber. Of course, he doesn’t say that directly, just insinuates it. Vance understands and gets a look of childish anger on his face, faux anger to hide the fear evident in the way he goes stiff and glances around every few seconds. Finney doesn’t continue talking about it, instead changing the subject to Geometry. Vance asks why Finney’s doing Geometry because isn’t that for Sophomores? And Finney says yeah, it is, but he did Algebra 1 last year and Vance calls him a snobby show-off and Finney doesn’t say anything more. Like how being smart really isn’t how everyone makes it out to be. Especially when you have to have your classes in the small, blue-tiled room. He’d rather be a snobby show-off than a retarded freak any day.
Vance was notably very tense for the first couple days. It took Finney hardly a second to come to the conclusion that Vance is seriously not an emotional person, though hardly any boy is, right? Either that or he’s insecure, but again, what boy isn’t? So for him to ease up just a little, Finney just acted like anything Vance did or said was no big deal, it was all normal. Finney is fine with this. Vance isn’t as tense as he was, yet he still keeps up with his tough-guy persona. It’s a win-win honestly.
Finney learns things about Vance and it seems Vance learns things about himself as well. Vance never ate breakfast past the age of seven, and upon Finney’s suspicious look Vance elaborates that his mom stopped making breakfast so he just never ate in the morning. He then goes to tell Finney that maybe not eating The Most Important Meal of The Day did something to him because whenever he did try to eat later on he usually got sick to his stomach. Finney thinks about all the days he and Gwen wouldn’t eat breakfast and he’d go the rest of the day with a stomach ache and a strong hatred for the entire world. Gwen never really minded, she’s always been one of those people that could eat anything, anywhere at any time.
Vance has never gotten his hair cut before. Finney tells him that he’s never gotten his hair cut by a professional before. Then the conversation gets serious when Vance says he wants to cut his hair then and there and grabs a pair of child scissors with the curvy blades. Finney reasons that his hair probably won’t grow back if he does cut it. Vance stares at the small scissors that don’t fit his hand for what feels like forever before he sighs and mutters something about it being his hair and no one else's. Finney nods and takes the scissors from him, wondering how a dead person can sigh.
Vance learns that he can’t see certain colors when Finney is coloring fireworks for some extra credit project in science that he doesn’t need. Finney wonders aloud if maybe it has something to do with being a Ghost and Vance says he doesn’t remember seeing the colors as anything other than gray Before. Then he goes stiff and harsh and doesn’t talk for the rest of the day and doesn’t show up the next day until past midnight.
They don’t go back to the Grab ‘N Go, Vance doesn’t ask-slash-demand, so Finney doesn’t go. When they’re walking to the house though, Vance will sometimes linger at the road that leads to it. Finney doesn’t ask and he thinks Vance doesn’t want him to.
Finney learns that Vance hates rain and anything equivalent to it, but does actually like snow. Finney figured this out when Vance threw a snowball at him on his way to school. He laughed and called Finney some names before throwing another one. They got into a snowball fight and everyone around—which was only two kids, but still—surely thought he’d done something before leaving the house. When he got to school that morning he was covered in wet spots and almost an hour late.
Vance tells him that the old man down the street is a real nut because he calls the stray cat Finney’s silently named Peanut “Cheeze.” Even went out of his way to tell Vance it’s spelled with a Z. Apparently Vance is very serious about naming animals. Finney finds it funny, and then Vance reveals that he had a snake he named Mr. Greyson. He laughs and Vance tells him to shut the fuck up because he looked like he had a tie on. Mr. Greyson was also a random snake nine-year-old Vance found in the town Junkyard, which, yeah. Finney can only imagine how chaotic elementary school Vance was. He says he had the snake until he was eleven and Finney doesn’t believe a word he says after that.
There are a couple days where Vance doesn’t want to talk at all and Finney lets him. Though he doesn’t quite understand why, nor does he think he will ever understand, he does understand when someone wants to be alone or just doesn’t want to do anything right then and there. He’s had plenty of days like that. Vance’s bad days usually are filled with an odd mix of emotions, sometimes it feels tense and strained, like at any given moment a bomb could go off and destroy everything. These are the days Vance is his meanest—reminding Finney that Vance was and still is an asshole even if it isn’t all the time—with every other word being an insult to him, ranging from his looks to his homelife. Vance makes sure Finney knows how stupid he and everything else around him is.
The other bad days are quiet and awkward. Vance doesn’t do anything on those days. He wanders around aimlessly, looking but not seeing. He mutters things to himself with such softness and hope. Not far off from sounding like a prayer. Over and over again he chants the words. Something along the lines of, S’my hair, my clothes, my name, my score. Mine, mine, mine. Not- Mine. And so on and so forth.
Finney doesn’t like the bad days, but no one likes bad days, right?
____________________________
It’s sometime around the fifth week since Vance first appeared when he asks one of the questions Finney realizes at that moment that he’s been practicing answering since he first got here.
“Did I have a funeral?” He’s acting nonchalant about it, but his movements are jagged as he almost fails to catch his yellow rocket he’s been throwing for maybe the past hour.
Such an out-of-pocket question for 2:34 in the morning, yet Finney isn’t surprised or shocked in the least. He continues to look at the ceiling. He’s come to realize very quickly that Vance doesn’t like to make eye-contact with him.
“Yeah.”
“Was my mom there?” Finney couldn’t imagine ever having to ask if Gwen was at his funeral. He says he might believe asking if his dad was there, but he knows it’s a lie and that his dad would definitely be at his funeral. He knows his dad loves him and would mourn him if he died before him.
He blanks out for a long while, lets his mind do what it does best when a question he isn’t sure how to answer or doesn’t want to is asked; take him to another place, whether it’s a better place is always up for discussion.
He remembers wearing an itchy rented suit. Cheapest one at the store. (“There’s no point buying one. You’re never gonna wear it again after this.” “What the hell is wrong with you?” “Do not speak to your father like that, young lady.”) Loud, so very loud. Wailing mothers begging for something they could never have again. A weeping sister that insists on staying just outside the gate, but they don’t let her—they’re scared of what could happen, they’ll forever be terrified of leaving her alone. A mother muffling her cries into her hand as she clasps onto a leash with an old dog at the end. Its tail wags so fast it blurs and it has its head in the mothers lap, it looks like it’s trying to cheer her up. It doesn’t understand what is happening, but wants to help. He thinks that maybe it understands that someone else should be holding its leash, though. Alongside her is a sniffling father who is too afraid to cry aloud and one that isn’t. The unafraid one cries just as much as his wife and daughter for the loss of his son. They hold their daughter as they cry. A drunk woman whose looks resemble the oldest one so much it hurts to look at her. Possibly one of the only reminders that he was here, and that he isn’t anymore. She curses and yells at anyone and everyone, harsh and barbed, but her eyes are wet and red and she leaves when they begin talking about the one that has her ocean blue eyes and curly blonde hair. The one that looks just like her, only younger. A mother cries and wails in Spanish for her only child, she’s lost so much. Her brother cries silently, holding her hand firmly and doesn’t speak a word the entire time. Another mother cries much more softly than the others, but harder, as if to make up for her quiet state. She is completely alone as she cries and gasps for air, rocking herself back and forth in her chair. Looking like a child, or a mother who’s lost her entire world. She repeats his name over and over between gut wrenching sobs that must make her heart hurt, a mantra. She apologizes. They all do. They apologize for something they did not do. His sister clings to him the entire time, she cries for the five children that will never be home again and for the families that will never welcome them home again. His father lingers in the back, he does not approach anyone and he is thankful that his father has enough sense to leave these people alone. It is only immediate family, but his family is there with them. He was invited, he knew someone here once. His mother was kind to him, so was his uncle. They don’t say anything to him when he arrives, only when he’s leaving does the mother come up to him, straightens his collar and tie. (“You look very handsome, like a true gentleman… He hated wearing ties, you know. I always told him he ever looked his best in them, though.”) He can tell she’s trying to laugh, but all that comes out is a choked sob. He tries to say something, but words fail him as he finally begins to cry. She cries more and hugs him, never once does she shush him or tell him it will all be alright and for some reason it only makes it hurt worse. A harsh reminder that she only ever had one son. That she liked him as much as a mother could like her kid’s weird friend. He sobs and tries to tell her he’s sorry and nothing comes out.
Vance exhales slowly and grumbles, “So she wasn’t.” He doesn’t sound all that upset. Though, lately Vance has been having trouble properly displaying his emotions.
All Finney sees is a woman so utterly broken by a loss she clearly never thought would happen. Her terribly blue eyes, red rimmed and teary, blonde curly hair in knots, as if it hasn’t been brushed in a long time, thick brows furrowed, mouth in a snarl, teeth gnashed, ready to ruin anyone’s day. And she has the right to. She’s got the right to yell at anyone because her kid is gone and will never be coming back. Because in her drunken state she had confessed that it was her fault he disappeared. She thinks, most likely still to this day— three years later, that her son is dead because of her. Finney has never disliked someone for hating themselves more.
He looks just like her, only younger.
“Why would you think that?”
“I just-”
A beat.
“I don’t know.”
A question of his own comes to the front of his mind when Vance coughs loudly to hide the sound of a sob.
The question that’s been in the back of his brain ever since The Ghost of Pinball Vance Hopper appeared in his room. The question that was there when he got his first call from the dead. The question that’s always in the back of his head no matter what.
“How did you die?”
He stiffens at the question and Finney doesn’t regret asking. Something about Vance is off these days. He doesn’t seem quite There anymore, his eyes are cloudier, he seems to be forgetting more, he’s angrier, meaner, and louder. Sometimes Finney can’t even see him but he knows he’s there. A move of something that shouldn’t move on its own. Yesterday Finney asked where he goes when he disappears so suddenly. Vance had been staring at the blue model rocket again and without missing a beat he said: Fuck you. Last thing I need is some fuckin’ faggy freak knowin’ where I spend my time. Finney didn’t know what to say to that so he just let it be, nodding slightly, he excused himself to go pee. Which got a nasty bark of laughter followed by a nastier comment.
So Finney doesn’t expect Vance to stop throwing the rocket and say, “Was stabbed in the stomach. Twice- One for each side he said.”
Finney stares with wide eyes at Vance and Vance shifts uncomfortably.
“He had fun,” he continues, the words coming out choppy, as if he’s uncertain in them, “Had a lot of fun. Said- He liked me? I was-” He stops to breathe, his chest stuttering with his uneven breaths.
“You don’t-”
“I want to,” he almost yells, sounding the farthest from anger. “I want you to know… I want someone to know. What did the date on my poster say?” he asks suddenly.
“What-”
“The missing poster, my missin’ poster. The date.”
“Oh, uhm- October 6th, uhm ninetee-”
“Shut up,” he snaps. A pause. “It happened on the first.” Finney’s mouth goes dry and the rock that’s been growing in his throat all week has finally become too big.
It comes out breathless when he asks; “What?”
Vance sniffles and turns it into a cough. He doesn’t look like he’s crying. He looks bloody and pale, completely devoid of emotion. Like a Ghost.
“The- It was October 1st when-” He nods firmly; When he was grabbed. “I was at the Junkyard.”
“He- He was. In the Junkyard?”
“In- On my way home, dumbass.” A long pause. “It was- I wasn’t having the best day, alright?” Finney nods. “Somethin’... My mom, she-” He huffs in frustration and throws the rocket at the wall opposite him. It makes a loud snap sound and Finney wonders if Gwen heard in the room just across from his and shrugged it off, thinking Finney’s throwing a fit like he does after having a dream he doesn’t like, or if their dad in the den heard and turned the volume up on the TV to pretend Finney isn’t going crazy like his wife did. They’re probably sleeping, actually. So Finney guesses it doesn’t really matter anyway. Vance takes a long breath in then exhales slowly as if to calm himself.
“Ma said she was gonna kick me out. It was right after that Grab ‘N Go thing,” he sounds distant, as if the words aren’t his own and he’s simply re-telling a story he heard. “We fought and she said I was a lost cause, that I was just gonna end up like Dad and I told her she was a drunk bitch that couldn’t even keep a job for longer than a week, so she should get off my fucking ass and worry about herself.” He’s quiet for a long time and Finney assumes the conversation is over. He’s staring off into space, eyes looking cloudier than ever, expression something Finney can’t identify, though most things to do with Vance Hopper he can’t identify.
“She slapped me,” he begins again, looking a little more coherent. “It wasn’t even that hard of a slap, just- I was getting closer to her, I had her against the fuckin’ wall. She was… scared. She thought-” He takes a shaky breath. “I hit her back… Like- Like how I fight with other kids. We stood there for a while then she slid down to the floor and started cryin’. I didn’t even know I did it until she started yellin’ at me again.” He sniffles and wipes his nose. It’s not red how you’d think it’d be when crying. His eyes aren’t red, he is pale and still covered in blood. The blood is smudged after wiping his nose. He isn’t crying, but he is at the same time.
“She told me to get out, even called me my dad’s name. So I went to the Junkyard. The next day I- I was goin’ to say sorry then The- It happened.” Vance is also afraid of saying such a name. The thought doesn’t surprise Finney, he doesn’t think about how unusual it is for Pinball Vance Hopper to be scared of something. No matter how long it’s been, Finney doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to say his name either.
Finney is at a complete loss for words. There’s nothing he can say to make this better. He wants to tell Vance it isn’t his fault, that his mom loves him. But. He’s never heard of a situation like this before. A kid hitting their mom. He knows it’s definitely happened before in this town. He feels odd, somewhat uncomfortable. His mom hit him too, though. That’s also wrong, no matter how many people say it’s just what’s needed for punishment. Finney could never imagine hitting his dad back, no matter how much he’s wanted to or felt that he should. Kids aren’t supposed to fight back and he knows Vance is genuinely sorry and that he didn’t actually mean to hurt her.
He knows that.
Maybe Finney is still too young to understand some things though.
“Do you want to see her?” It feels like the right thing to say. Vance loves his mom and misses her. If he’s stuck with Finney for the rest of Finney’s pathetic little life then this is the very least he can do for him.
A beat. Then Vance nods, looking at his lap. They make their way to the front door and Finney slips on his shoe and ties the laces.
Before he gets his other shoe on he hears the creak of floorboards.
“It’s almost three in the morning on a school night.”
He ignores this and puts on his other shoe, tugging on the already tied laces to make sure they won't come undone anytime soon.
“Where are you even going?”
“Nowhere Gwen, just go back to bed.” He double knots them just in case.
“Did you have another nightmare? I heard-”
“Gwen. It doesn’t matter, I have to go somewhere.”
“You just said you were going nowhere.”
He grabs his coat and unlocks the door.
“I’ll get Daddy if you don’t tell me,” she says hurriedly. It’s a bluff, he knows, but she sounds worried and Finney isn’t particularly fond of making Gwen worry. She hasn’t called their dad daddy in a while. One of her friends said something about how only babies called their parents mommy and daddy. Gwen, eleven and now standing a little straighter and talking clearer and louder than she did at age ten, is decidedly not a baby.
“To the Grab ‘N Go,” he lies.
“You’re lying.”
“No I’m not.” How did she know?
“You stand straighter when you lie.” Oh.
He pulls the door open and Gwen crosses her arms, as if she’s going to scold him. They stare at each other.
“What the fuck is this? Let’s go, fuckwad,” Vance snaps and Gwen gasps loudly and stumbles back.
It’s silent as Gwen and Vance stare at each other in shock. She’s really looking at him.
“You see him?” Finney asks breathlessly.
“Where did he go?” Vance is still standing in front of the door.
“He’s-” A pause. “I don’t know, actually.” Vance scoffs and rolls his eyes, very much Still There.
“What is- Finney you saw him? Pinball Vance- he was- What was he doing in our house? Wait. Wait, wait, wait.” She closes her eyes and takes a couple steadying breaths. “You saw him too? How- Have you been seeing him?” She sounds small and betrayed. Her eyes seem to shine from the small amount of light the opened door provides.
“I’m leaving.” And he slips out the door before Gwen can say anything more. She won’t tell their dad, that he’s certain of. But she will be waiting for him at the door when he comes back. As Vance tells him how to get to his house Finney finds that the thought of Gwen waiting for him, worried or mad, doesn’t bother him as much as it might have a month or so ago. He’s kinda missed having a sister—though he knows it’s his fault he lost her in the beginning.
____________________________
Vance’s house is an old metal trailer and beyond that Finney can’t really tell in the dark. He didn’t bring a flashlight, stupidly assuming that there’d be street lights even though Vance mentioned the Junkyard, and there are no street lights near the Junkyard. Vance’s house is maybe five to ten minutes away from it, the smell of the garbage lingers in the air. There is no porch light on and when the clouds finally move away from the moon Finney can see that there isn’t really even a porch, just a couple bricks working as stairs. All the lights are out. It’s dark and quiet.
The house is completely still, if Vance hadn’t turned into its overgrown driveway Finney would have assumed it to be abandoned. A lump forms in his throat as he watches Vance make his way up the driveway and down the small dirt path like second nature. He doesn’t move from the side of the street. It’d be trespassing to go on someone else’s property.
Plus, Finney doesn’t need to be smart to know when a moment isn’t meant for him. Vance opens the front door with ease, as if he’s done so a million times before. He probably has. And when the door shuts with an audible click Finney takes a seat on the curb, waits.
After a while the sun begins to come up, leaving the sky a light and airy sort of orange. He’s tired and the thought of Gwen snoring slightly as she sleeps on the love-seat in the den waiting for the door to open again fills his sleep-deprived brain. He knows he should be upset—anxious maybe—that he won't be there in time for school. That Gwen will wake and the door will still be shut and Finney’s dirty sneakers will still be gone. That both Gwen and his dad will panic and assume the worst—he can’t even blame them. But his brain is moving slowly as he watches a dandelion across the street rustle in the wind.
Vance lives on the outskirts of town, there are no more houses after his, and the closest one before his is maybe a mile or so down the road. Just across his house there’s a wooden fence. Like the ones farmers keep their cows in, but there are no cows, only weeds as tall as Finney covering a field. Something moves behind the dandelion. Finney watches silently. Something small and black pops out of the weeds for a second before bolting back in. Finney watches. The thing comes back out and Finney sees that it’s a black rabbit. It’s small, a bunny. Or maybe just a baby rabbit, Finney isn’t sure if a bunny and a rabbit are two different things.
It looks at him and stills, Finney can imagine how fast its heart is beating. Maybe ninety beats a second. He blinks. It jolts.
Then it’s gone.
____________________________
“Wake up, dickface.”
He hums questioningly. When did he fall asleep?
“Get up. I wanna go,” Vance demands. Finney groans as he sits up.
“What time is it?” he asks, yawning.
Vance doesn’t answer. Finney takes his time to stretch out his numb limbs and dust all the pebbles and dirt off himself. After a minute or so of this Vance huffs in annoyance and plops down beside Finney. It still feels like morning, kind of wet and stuffy, but the sun is farther up in the sky than before. They sit in silence for a while as Finney slowly wakes up.
“Why you?”
Finney yawns again. “Hm?”
Vance huffs loudly, out of the corner of his eye Finney can see him fiddling with the rocket.
“It’s bullshit.”
A beat.
“You’re jus’ a fuckin’ nobody. No one- You got help.”
Finney drags a hand down his face and sighs, when he looks at Vance it’s to find he’s already looking. He looks off, less There. Like maybe if Finney were to put his hand on him it’d faze through him. He doesn’t look mad. He sounds mad, hurt even.
“It’s bullshit,” he says again, still looking at Finney. Finney nods.
“It’s bullshit,” he agrees.
“What’s so special about you, huh?” He sounds almost infuriated.
“I don’t know,” Finney says quietly. Vance isn’t satisfied with this answer.
“Fuck you. There isn’t anything special about you. You’re just some fuckin’ whimpy kid who gets beat up at school then roughed up at home by his dad. Big fucking whoop.”
“Don’t-”
“And that’s not even every day. It’s only fuckin’ sometimes!”
“Shut up,” Finney seethes, “You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t know what I’m talking about?” he laughs incredulously. “Trust me, Finney Blake, I know exactly what I’m talking about. This is bullshit! You don’t even have that sad of a fuckin’ life! It’s just you bein’ dramatic half the time!”
“Shut. Up.”
“Make me. Go on, do it. Hit me!” Vance opens his arms up wide, an invitation. Finney looks away, shaking his head, an expression of disgust makes its way on his face.
“You think you’re better than me? Huh? HUH!?” he yells, he’s getting closer to Finney, pushing into his space, Finney refuses to look at him. The dandelion has been smashed into the ground. He wonders how it’s possible to have slept through its death. It was fine when he closed his eyes.
“FUcking- ANSWER ME!” He’s shoving him now, each shove nearly sending Finney to the ground. How a Ghost can touch him isn’t even thought of.
“NO! ALRIGHT?! I DON’T THINK I’M BETTER THAN YOU!” he finally yells.
“THEN LOOK AT Me-” He gasps, like he’s drowning or like he’s coming up for air. “Fucking look at me! No one fucking LOOKS AT ME!” Finney does. He looks at Vance. He’s never been afraid to look at him. He thinks that maybe it’s been Vance who’s been afraid of looking this entire time.
He looks at him and takes it all in. The heavy rise and fall of his chest, his pale skin—so much so it’s almost translucent—the blood that seems to forever be flowing down his face—from the bridge of his nose to his chin—the deep gashes on both his sides that also seem to be bleeding for forever, his curly matted hair, a dirty blond—once used to be such a vibrant, metallic almost, blond, now ruined, tainted by blood and dirt and any other grime that comes with being buried in the coldness of someones basement—those dull blue eyes—ocean blue is how they described them in the missing posters—covered in a thick layer of death. He looks like a Ghost, but he also looks like Vance Hopper. He’s there. In the way his brows furrow, in a constant state of anger for unknown reasons, in the way he makes himself loom over Finney seemingly without even realizing. He’s there in the way his hands ball up in fists, in the way he clenches the little yellow rocket as if his life depended on it. As if that’ll bring him back, squeezing the life out of something else to give it to himself.
“Fuck you,” he says, his voice trembles, but he doesn’t waver. “Fuck. You. No one looks at me and when they do, it’s ‘cause they’re scared. You’re- You don’t get scared, do you?”
Finney’s terrified. “I do. I was scared when- in there.”
Vance exhales harshly, and then takes a stuttering breath in.
Ghosts can’t cry.
The thought is random and doesn’t sound like himself, but he believes it true nonetheless.
“I was…” Another stuttering intake of air, the exhale is much softer, “scared.” Finney feels nauseous with how quickly his heart drops at the reminder that Vance was a kid and will now forever be one. That he was never a legend nor a myth like everyone else said, still says. That The Spirit of Pinball Vance isn’t real and instead it’s just Vance Hopper: fourteen-year-old boy that got into a lot of trouble, maybe because his life sucked or just because he wanted to; no one’ll ever know, maybe even he himself doesn’t know.
“I still am.” Vance Hopper may have been the toughest kid in Northwest Junior High, but he was still that. A kid, and Finney doesn’t think he could ever understand what it’s like to die or to Be Vance Hopper.
The dandelion is still laying on the ground, Finney doesn’t think it’ll get back up.
“That’s- That’s OK. You’re- I’m scared everyday. At the very least, ten times a week.” Vance doesn’t laugh, it wasn’t really that funny anyways.
“If- If it-” He looks back to Vance, but Vance is no longer there. It’s quiet for a while. “I remember you,” he tells the biting wind. “I’ll remember.”
He sits there for a long time, staring at the dandelion that lays on the ground. There’s something poetic about it, really. Finney doesn’t understand poetry in the slightest, but he thinks if he showed a picture of this dead dandelion to his English teacher he’d have at least a dozen poems in just a couple minutes. Something about how Un-alive it is. Something about how Not Pretty it is, even though it’s a flower and flowers are known for being Pretty. That its death isn’t Pretty or Graceful, it’s squished into the ground, half of its petals are missing or broken. It is Ugly. The thought brings comfort to him for an unknown reason.
Death isn’t meant to be Pretty.
He thinks about death and flowers and dead flowers until the sky begins to turn that dark orange it does only when it’s setting, then he doesn’t think of much other than the uncomfortable tingle that runs through his entire body while he makes the walk back to his house.
When he gets there the sky is filled with stars, he spots the Big Dipper, a little away from it is the Little Dipper. He wonders if they’ll always be together and if they’re not if he’ll be there to see them separate. When he opens the door he’s met with a crushing hug and a slightly gentler one. Gwen cries and their dad sounds near tears when he tells him he’s not going to school tomorrow and that he’s grounded until he says so. He apologizes and tells them he went to the Grab ‘N Go and fell asleep in the parking lot with a slushie in hand. If he stands a bit straighter than usual Gwen doesn’t say anything.
When he sleeps that night he dreams of star-covered skies, copper tasting slushies and pinballs flying overhead, rabbits running in outfields and phone calls from the other side of the world.