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Melvin promised Maria he wouldn’t take long at the treehouse. “It’ll just be, like, half an hour, Mars, probably a lot less.” He’d told her, wringing his hands together. She had snickered and pinched his cheek.
“If you come back with puffy eyes I’ll know you’re still a cry baby, Melvin.” He batted her hand away and rolled his eyes before turning to trek to the treehouse.
Just the feel of being in Harvey Street again was enough to jostle him a bit. The park looked the same, the road still cracked and the sidewalk still oddly bumpy in certain areas due to being paved weirdly. It was imperfectly imperfect, it was Harvey Street. It was still the people he’d grown up with, who he spent his summers around, who had his back through everything.
Nobody knew about Melvin’s home-life except for Fredo and Pinkeye. Melvin stopped going to the same school as most kids on Harvey Street in fourth grade. That was the worst summer of his life. The one where his mom and dad split up, and he thought he would be moving. Of course, he hadn’t told anyone. Fredo found out on accident, but he had been there when Melvin needed somewhere to get forget about what was going on at home. When summer ended and he and Maria packed their things to spend the school year miles away, Melvin only said goodbye to Fredo and Pinkeye, who, when asked, dodged the questions about why Melvin wasn’t seen around school. What melvin was grateful for was summers with his only friends where he could be out of the house all day long.
Where he could be at this treehouse.
The structure looms over Melvin now at his ripe age of eighteen. Though, now that’s he’s older, taller, it doesn’t feel as giant. He circles the tree before stepping in front of the latter, looking at the grooves and insects covering its trunk. He remembers the times spent at this tree long ago, before Lotta moved. After she’d gone to Cincinnati, Audrey and Dot were… boring. Melvin grimaces at the word, though. It feels wrong, like it’s the right word but the wrong connotation. After Lotta’s departure, Dot and Audrey were gone all the time to visit her. And when they were here, they were subdued. Figures; a part of them had gone with Lotta to Ohio. Melvin thinks he’d feel the same way if Fredo or Pinkeye had left.
Slowly, Dot got more consumed with school work (she had tons of AP classes alongside dual enrollment). She was doing homework during summer. It baffled Melvin and most others on the block how she’d happily do work over summer to be due the first weeks of school. But to be accepted into Harvard, she convinced herself to work hard the second she stepped into high school.
Fredo started going out of town for days on end to attend conventions and fairs. He always came back with stories and souvenirs and tales of new friends, but then he would be due at the community theatre to help out stage work or be a part of plays.
And now Melvin stood in front of the old Bloogey Boys’ treehouse. The last few days of summer, and he wanted to spend one of them here where he spent so much of his time. He’d be starting his first semester of art school in the fall, in two weeks give or take (in exactly sixteen days—Melvin has a calendar where he marks off every day).
He almost doesn’t want to climb the ladder. He’s not sure why. When did he climb down this ladder for the last time? When he permanently left Harvey Street? Or had the treehouse lost it’s members much earlier. When Fredo started leaving? When Pinkeye started attending ballet classes over summer? When Melvin got tired of sitting in the treehouse alone, drawing the same things over and over?
Logistically, Melvin knows that upon climbing this ladder he’ll be greeted by left over art supplies, posters and drawings that were left taped to the wall that likely fell off. Dust covered floors and shelves, cobwebs and dead bugs in the corners.
Melvin knows nobody took care of the treehouse while he and the other Boogies were away. Maybe out of fear that the treehouse was infested with gross shit, or out of respect that the treehouse should be left just as the Bloogies had abandoned it.
Melvin remembers the day Richie had to leave Harvey Street. How Richie promised to visit and call all the time but he never did. Not for Melvin, at least, well, of all people. Richie would visit sometimes when he could in between… whatever it is he did. But he visited Dot and Audrey, and took them to Ohio to visit Lotta. Maybe Melvin and Richie weren’t that close, but at least a ‘hello’ in the past 5 years since he’d left would have been nice.
It wasn’t as if Melvin didn’t tell Richie that he would be leaving Harvey Street. Melvin remembers being sixteen and finally giving up hope on ever seeing Richie in person again. He’d seen him all over the internet, all his new projects and plans, and all he could think of was the oblivious boy who wanted to be his friend. Who was adamant about being around him. Who hadn’t even said goodbye.
Melvin felt young again climbing the ladder up to the treehouse. The wood creaked under his weight, not used to the feeling of people at all, probably. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the hit of nostalgia that would likely break through his wall and make him cry. His main goal today was to not cry. He’s an adult now, he’s going to college. One little treehouse shouldn’t be his undoing.
On the balcony of the house, Melvin paused, one knee up. All he had to do was haul himself up one more rung and he’s there. In the treehouse. Instead, Melvin sits at the ledge of the balcony, his legs dangling. He doesn’t want to look back, not at what he left behind.
He breathes slowly, evenly. He’s not going to cry. It’s just his old treehouse, it’s not even a huge deal.
Standing up, Melvin looks out over the park, at the climbing tree. The Harvey Girls’ camper van is gone now. It couldn’t stay forever. Nobody had been able to stay forever.
The late summer breeze brushes against Melvin’s face. It grounds him, calms him down long enough to zip up his dark green hoodie. He feels cold for summer. He looks down at his ragged shoes, at the leaf under his foot, already fallen from the tree above. Melvin kicks the leaf down from the house, watching it flutter to the ground below.
He can back down now, forget about the treehouse and go back to Maria, back miles away from here. And he almost does. However, Melvin Wisenheimer isn’t a quitter, and thus, he turns around and walks into that treehouse. Which for some reason is immaculate?
Confusedly, Melvin turns in a circle, checking the corners for cobwebs, spiders, roaches, ants, anything to show that this place hasn’t been touched in a while. The posters on the wall were pristine just like Melvin remembered them, the carpets washed and the shelves dusted. Who the fuck was up here? In Melvin’s treehouse? Cleaning it for god’s sake? Melvin flops down onto an old bean bag, scowling into thin air. Someone was in here, in his personal space. He isn’t even sure why he cares so much. He hasn’t been here in ages. The street fell apart, everyone left or went off and did their own thing. Clearly, someone—maybe a younger kid, maybe a new kid—moved in here and decided it was theirs.
The cleanliness of the space both impressed, angered, and satisfied Melvin. It looks… well, not different from when he was here last, but still new. Maybe it’s because he’s really looking at this place after about five years, maybe it’s because he’s all grown up. But this treehouse is bringing back memories Melvin thought he pushed down. He’s practically a man now, he shouldn’t be tearing up over a clean treehouse. Clearly, life has done a lot more than Melvin thought. Back when fighting over a couch with his friends was the highlight of his week, when he was cheating at games, running a gross “lemonade” stand, pranking his friends, stealing ice cream from the Harvey Girls. Everything changed now.
Melvin hadn’t heard the creek of the wooden ladder. He hadn’t heard the set down of a thermos or the small exhale just outside the treehouse. His thoughts were swimming in his head, running one million miles a second. His eyes hurt with the might he exerted to stop from crying, from getting emotional. It’s a treehouse. But he heard the voice. And his stomach dropped.
”Melvin?”
Melvin’s head shot up, eyes locked on the doorway.
“R— Richie?”
“I— wow! I am.. a lot more drunk than I thought, huh?” Richie chuckles in disbelief, kneeling down to grab his thermos.
Melvin doesn’t know how to react, how to process the fact that Richie fucking Rich is standing in font of him. Why the hell is Richie here? Has he been coming here for a while? He’s here.. like actually here? There’s so much going through Melvin’s mind that when he tries to speak, the only then that comes out is a trembling: “…the fuck?”
“Hm? Oh, don’t worry, I’m not actually drinking, Melvin, it’s just an expression I picked up from the business world.” Richie shrugs as he sits down by Melvin. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“…” Melvin’s mouth is dry, his eyes are watering, nothing feels real. He just repeats himself. “What the fuck?”
“Are you… feeling alright? Because I’d give you some of this but it’s vegetable juice, which.. if I remember, you’re not a fan of your greens.” How can Richie smile? How can he stay so composed as if this is just a conversation between old friends. Not a conversation with someone he left for dead.
”Melvin..?” Richie’s voice is awkward, confused, only slightly deeper than it used to be, but it’s still Richie’s voice. Still the kid Melvin remembers from five years ago, laughing and smiling. It pisses him off how Richie can disappear for five whole years, just so happen to stumble across Melvin and speak to him like nothing happened.
“You left.” Melvin mumbled.
“Huh?”
”You left!”
”Melvin, what are you—“
“You left Harvey Street, left me, and— and— what? We’re all good?” Melvin shouts, gesturing with his hands. He wipes his eyes, forcing himself to not show how upset—confused—he is. He’s missed Richie so much and he just shows up out of the blue when Melvin’s going to leave HArvey Street for the last time?
“What?”
”Yeah? Remember when you left and went on with all your business shit and forgot we all existed?”
“Mel—“
”Don’t even try, Rich, you never looked back. Had all your fun here then turned your back on Harvey Street, on all of us!” Melvin tried to breathe calmly, but he was emotional. He was emotional and upset and lost and confused. He was letting his built up frustrations out, everything he’d been holding in for the past five years. People asked, of course people asked. Maria wondered why Melvin kept keeping up with Richie, Pinkeye asked if Richie had reached out, and each time Melvin acted like it was no big deal. He hadn’t heard from Richie in years, and he didn’t mind at all! Half a decade and nothing from that boy he’d fallen so hard for in a matter of summers.
And now here he is, sitting across from Melvin like he hadn’t stolen his heart and run off with it, never to return.
“Did you ever once think about us?”
”Melvin.”
”Did you get bored of all those meetings and business executives?”
”Melvin!”
”Did you ever think of me?”
”Melvin, don’t you ever shut up?!” Richie had shouted back, louder than Melvin. He grabbed the front of Melvin’s hoodie, and tugged him in, pressing his lips to Melvin’s. It was impulse, it was desire, it was— Richie didn’t even know.
When Richie let go of Melvin, he reeled back and stared into Melvin’s wide eyes.
“Did.. you just—“
”No! I didn’t do anything!” Richie interrupted, laughing awkwardly.
Melvin caught his breath, looking away, out the window of the treehouse. “Okay.”
”Yeah.”
“Yup.”
Both boys sat in silence.
Melvin’s fingers drifted up to his lips, touching them in awe and confusion on why he’d been kissed. Even if just because Richie wanted him to shut up.
Richie felt his heart sink, looking down at the thermos in his hands. Why did he do that? Sure, he’d been thinking about Melvin for the past five years and he could’ve visited or called whenever he’d like, why would he? He was busy, growing up in his shoes left him being dragged around by the business world. And in hours of silence, when the quiet killed him, he wanted so badly to see Melvin, hear him. He asked about Melvin constantly, but he never reached out. What business would Melvin want with him?
He sighed, looking back over to Melvin, whose eyes were already on Richie. He felt his face burn.
“I’m…. Sorry. Melvin.” Richie mumbled, unaware of how to fix this.
“No, I’m sorry for, like, yelling. At you.” Melvin muttered, hiding his face in his hands.
Richie shook his head, bringing his knees up to his chest. “You’re fine. You’re.. mad.”
“You left, Richie. And you left me.”
“Sorry.”
Melvin eyed him.
“Don’t apologize. You’re a celebrity and whatever, so….”
“So I should’ve made time for… for you. My friend.”
Melvin took a deep breath and slumped in the bean bag. “Why are you here, Rich?”
“I— uh, well, I take care of your treehouse! Fredo said I could, you know, get rid of the cobwebs and make sure the posters stay up and deep clean the carpets, because, well, this place is special and—and, you know. You know?” Richie set his thermos down, wringing his hands together before crossing his arms over his chest, looking away. “Yeah.”
Melvin laughed, shockingly. “You haven’t changed.”
“Maybe. But, uh, what about you? What are you.. doing?”
“I’m going to art school in two weeks.” Melvin chewed on his bottom lip. “Guess those comics I used to draw were a sign that I was serious about art.”
“Fun! You’ll show me right? Which art school are you going to? Is it a good one?”
“Tons of questions after five years of nothing.” Melvin smirks, resting his chin on his hand.
“Sorry. I’ve missed you. A lot. Well, I’ve missed all of Harvey Street.” Richie frowned, his brown eyes locked with Melvin’s green ones, clearly suppressing a secret truth.
“You missed me.” Melvin grinned, leaning closer to Richie.
Richie blushed, chuckling. “E-Everyone! I missed my friends!”
Melvin’s grin softened into a gentle smile. He couldn’t bring himself to be upset. He loved Richie. Five years couldn’t take that away.
“I missed you, too.” Melvin confessed, setting his hand over Richie’s. Richie uncrossed his arms, nervously lacing his fingers with Melvin’s.
“You washed your hands, right?” Richie murmured out. Melvin giggled. Richie was still adorable.
“Nah.”
“That’s gross.”
“You’re not letting go.”
“I won’t ever be letting go again.”
“I won’t either, Ricky.”