Chapter Text
Nobody ever comes up to the Standpipe. Marge isn’t sure why. But if anyone climbed those steps for maintenance or emergency, they’d see clear evidence of uninvited guests, and that would surely invite trouble.
Though the group (sans Will) tidied up after the fire, nothing but trash had been taken away. Comic books, action figures, sports equipment, cards, checkers, Fizz-A-La, Cracker Jacks—all of it stayed scattered around the balcony. There was even a hammock (which was probably installed by a laid-back worker rather than an uninvited guest), and a tent! None of these items were removed. No signs were posted. No chains blocked the stairwell.
While remnants of Phill, Teddy, and Matty remained, the Standpipe had become a sanctuary for Marge and her freaky friends. A clubhouse, of sorts. The view from such a great height was beautiful, making small-town Derry seem sprawling and serenel. It was a strange sensation, knowing what horror lurked in the depths beneath these supposedly safe streets, yet having to continue living day-to-day life as if everything they endured was a figment of their imaginations.
Marge knew better. The skin of her forearm was still wrinkly. A leather patch remained a near-constant accessory. It was harder to catch her breath once she lost it, and her dreams were haunted by death and destruction.
But Lilly promised Marge she wouldn’t be alone and, so far, that rang true. It made things a lot easier—even if the group was splintering.
Three days after Rich’s birthday party, they met up as a quintet for the final time. They played games, took pictures, laughed, and reminisced. Despite not knowing each other for long (and despite many of their shared memories being acutely unpleasant), there were quite a few golden nuggets to discuss and cherish. They did that for as long as they could, not wanting to accept the change that was coming until they absolutely had to.
Not a single one of them left the Standpipe with a dry eye that Friday afternoon.
Marge had trouble keeping her emotions in check the next morning, even as she stepped out to run errands for her mother. She hadn’t expected to see Lilly or Rich for at least a few days—they all needed space to wallow and mourn—so she’d been particularly surprised to hear them shouting her name as they cruised down Main Street. The biggest shock was spotting William Hanlon riding between them, cheeks damp with tears but plump with a smile. They’d begun babbling before their bikes even hit the pavement, telling her about how Ronnie’s family had driven away, and how Will was seconds from following suit until his mom had a sudden change of heart. They’d been offered Rose’s farm on the outskirts of Derry and decided to take it.
On the surface, it hadn’t seemed logical. The Hanlons knew everything. Why wouldn’t they want to get as far away from this nightmare as they possibly could? The farther they went, the easier it’d be to forget. But she supposed… perhaps not everyone wanted that. Perhaps it was better to stay where you knew you were needed, to remind yourself of what you could do to the world and what the world could do to you. Perhaps it was easier to repair the rotting structure instead of tearing down the house and building anew
Perhaps Maturin Ka Derry had plans for the Hanlons, just as it did for Marge.
Whatever the case, she wasn’t going to question such a clear blessing.
“I’m staying!” Will exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air.
Marge screamed. Lilly screamed. So did Rich and Will.
They hopped around together, waving off honking cars and ignoring the upset mutterings of passersby. Ronnie’s departure made the moment bittersweet, but their little group becoming four instead of three was very welcome news, indeed.
Marge had gotten quite the tongue-lashing from her mother upon returning home over two hours late. It was worth it.
They’d met up a handful of times since, always congregating at the Standpipe before heading out for a day of fun. Chasing Mr. Phillbert’s ice cream truck, splashing through Willow Creek, rolling around in the grass at Bassey Park—all of that and more had occupied those early days of June.
But nothing could stay peachy keen forever. In between those beautiful bright spots were hidden shadows that morphed and lingered. She’d wake up sweating some nights and crying others. Her lungs felt uncomfortably tight if she overexerted herself. The eye scab was no longer oozing, but it’d become so itchy that she nearly clawed the skin off in a moment of desperation. One evening, while she was walking home, she came across a bonfire in Edison Park. Vomit spewed from her like water from a hose.
On a few occasions of distress, Marge was tempted to ask Lilly to sneak her some more Mommy’s Little Helpers, but the logical part of her brain knew better. A voice in the back of her head told her that would be a slippery slope.
If only she knew what was in that damn Air Force Coke.
Writing helped far more than she thought it would. Memories, thoughts, feelings; good or bad or in between, it didn’t matter. Getting them out of her brain eased the slow process of healing. She had yet to thank Rich for his wonderful advice.
It’s late in the month now. Marge, after filling her belly with a ham sandwich, is on her way to the Standpipe with Lilly by her side, the two walking at a leisurely pace. To pass the time, they discuss the new Paul Anka album releasing in just a few short weeks—or, more accurately, Marge discusses the album while her best friend listens and nods. She prattles on for almost the whole way, until Lilly finally interrupts.
“I saw Joey Navinsky on my way to your house.”
Marge glances sideways with a furrowed brow.
“Oh yeah?”
“Mhm. He asked me about you.”
“Me?” That’s certainly a surprise. “Why?”
“I don’t know. He just asked how you were doing and where you liked to hang out. I think he’s trying to bump into you.”
“Huh. You really think so?”
Lilly shrugs.
“Why else would he want to know?”
“Well, he’s friendly with The Patty Cakes.” She wraps her arms around her middle. Thinking about them makes her feel a variety of emotions: sadness, discomfort, embarrassment, anger, shame. Marge doesn’t have to imagine what kind of scheme they might’ve cooked up; she’d been in on one of them, not too long ago. It still makes her sick. “Maybe they’re trying to prank me.”
“I suppose that’s possible. He seemed pretty sincere, though.”
“Did you tell him anything?”
“I said we go to the diner a lot.”
Marge winces. Scoffs.
“Gee, Lills. Out of all the places…”
“I only told him that because we’re hardly ever there.”
“But now he probably thinks I’m a slob.”
Lilly shoots Marge a searching glance.
“I thought you didn’t like him anymore.”
“I don’t.”
It’s the truth. She hadn’t thought about Joey Navinsky in quite a while. In fact, if she were to meet him now, she’s certain she wouldn’t bat an eye. What did she ever see in him, anyhow? He’d be a Freshman come September, but was already too tall. A track star in the making. His blond hair was always styled in a crewcut, his gray eyes always narrow and a little cold. He probably only knew her name because everyone had been whispering it after the Eye Incident. So typical.
“Then why does it matter?”
That question is a little more complicated. When you spend so much time worrying over each flaw and searching hopelessly for any possible way to fit in, completely shutting down those instincts isn’t such an easy feat. But she’s got friends now. People who want to be with her as much as she wants to be with them. It’s a work-in-progress.
“It doesn’t matter,” she says. And that’s true, too. What a liberating notion! An odd idea hits her then, intrusive and unyielding. She tries to bite it back. Fails. “Do you think Rich would’ve been jealous? If he heard you tell me that?” Lilly’s bug-eyed stare prompts her to hastily add: “I mean, that’s why you did it now, right?”
“Not really. It just felt private,” Lilly replies, shaking her head with a breathy chuckle. “Do you want Rich to know?”
“Not necessarily! I was just curious.”
“I don’t really think Rich is the jealous type. Not in the usual way. He’d put on a brave face, then go home and cry himself to sleep.”
“Oh, hush, you!” Marge hisses, slapping a hand against Lilly’s dainty shoulder.
But she’s probably right. Not about the crying, about the jealousy. Marge couldn’t imagine someone as sweet and vibrant as Rich feeling such an ugly emotion. If the roles were reversed and Marge found out some other girl was asking after Rich… well, she’d turn as green as a pickle. That thought, she keeps to herself. For more than one reason.
Upon ascending the stairwell, they’re met with Rich swaying in the hammock, a book held above his face in both hands. The cover is immediately recognizable. Rich had been reading her gift to him slowly, on and off in the midst of chores, hangouts, and band practices. School might be out for the summer, but he returned to the halls of Derry High at least three times a week for parade preparation.
He sets the book on his chest when he hears footsteps, his relaxed expression bursting to life at the sight of both girls. He’s wearing blue shoes instead of his usual Chucks and a matching collared shirt, which is tucked neatly into khaki pants.
There’s a mark on his right cheek that shouldn’t be there. Red and raw, like a scrape or scratch.
“What happened to your face?” Marge blurts before he can even push a greeting past his parted lips.
His smile falters, though just barely.
“Oh, I smacked myself.” He shrugs. “I’m fine! What about you guys?”
“We’re fine, too,” Lilly replies, glancing at Marge with mild concern. “How was Band?”
“Good. Real good.” He fumbles with his book, setting it on an empty fruit crate being used as a side table. He swings his legs over the side of the hammock to sit up. “What’re we doin’ today?”
“I was thinking we could stay here,” Marge suggests, striding toward a nearby chair to sink into. “I had to help my mom wash windows all morning. I’m exhausted.”
“That’s fine with me!” Rich chirps, though he pauses to glance at Lilly. “What do you think?”
“Sounds good,” she agrees. “But Will might have a better idea. Have you heard from him?”
“Nah. Mr. Hanlon’s probably got him doing a bunch of farm work. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”
Rich is more than likely correct. All week, they’d been hearing about the sheep farm that was now in the Hanlon family’s possession, much to Marge’s dismay. She didn’t like thinking about those poor animals being slaughtered. For someone as kindhearted as Will had proven to be, she was surprised by how resigned he was to the whole ordeal. It’s not a topic she likes to dwell on.
They chat to pass the time, listening to every murmured word with open ears and memorizing every minor detail for future recollection. Lilly and Rich play marbles while Marge flips through a superhero comic. She prefers Archie, but this isn’t a bad way to unwind. She’s more focused on the joyous laughter tickling her ears, anyway.
A gust of wind blows through the balcony, rustling the pages and whipping Marge’s hair. She glances up, a figurative lightbulb flickering above her head.
“Hey, Rich.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you have any more planes?”
He looks at her curiously—first with furrowed brows, then with widened eyes—before hopping to his feet and jogging over to one of the many crates holding a variety of goods. He pulls the balsa pieces from their paper sheath and jams them together in record time.
Marge and Lilly rise to their feet to get a better view as he takes a deep breath, blows it out through puckered lips, and races forward. His arm goes back and then forward, wrist flicking with a strong release before he knocks into the ledge. Marge and Lilly close in, squinting at the plane that glides smoothly through the air. All three wait for it to wobble, waver, fall. Nothing like that happens. The wooden toy soars, in fact, going the distance as they gasp and gawk.
They don’t see when it lands or even where.
“Do you think I made it?” Rich asks, rocking onto his toes as if the extra height will help him.
“Maybe,” Lilly replies, squeezing Rich’s shoulder. “It went pretty far that time!”
“Should we go check?” Marge wonders.
Before Rich can decide, a startling slap-slap-slap-slap bangs through the stairwell. They jump at the noise and huddle instinctively, sighing in relief as Will stumbles into view. He’s finally graced them with his presence, sweaty and out of breath, clutching a folded letter in his fist and waving it excitedly above his head.
“It’s Ronnie!” he declares, grinning like he’s won a golden trophy. “They’ve already got an apartment, can you believe it? Now we have her address, so we can write whenever we want! And she’s already asking for more pictures!”
His excitement is sweet—and very much shared, though perhaps to a slightly lesser degree. Marge had seen the way they looked at each other. Lilly had, too. And she could only imagine what secrets Rich was privy to. It’s such a shame that Ronnie and Will had to part when they’d just found each other, especially now that they’re far too aware of what happens after you left Derry, but Willis optimistic about keeping in touch. Marge doesn’t want squash his hope. She’d like to share it.
The three move to crowd around Will, peering down at the letter he holds out for all to read. It’s short, yet informative.
No border officers had hassled them, thanks to Rose’s family, and they’d found a place in Halifax to call home. Not much exploring had been done yet, as the Grogans (who were going by new names now, though it was better if no one knew) were focused on sorting the next chapter of their lives, but she was relieved to have her dad close again. Happy and safe.
Mostly, Ronnie had questions she hoped they’d answer; an entire list of queries she hoped to be kept in the loop on. There was no reason not to start now. So just like that, their potentially lazy afternoon erupted with a flurry of motion.
They spent the next couple of hours writing individual replies to Ronnie with supplies Will had enough forethought to bring along. Not much happened since she left, but nothing felt too insignificant to include. And Marge had questions of her own, mostly about Halifax. What did it look like? How was the weather? Would Hank find another theater to work at?
More importantly, did she think there was a monster there, too? Hiding in the depths, poisoning the soil, feeding off flesh and fear? She could only pray there wasn’t another Pennywise somewhere else in the world.
Never before had she been so understanding of the phrase ‘ignorance is bliss.’
Will is eager to get home as soon as they finish. Ready to shove everything into a large envelope and cover it in stamps, then hand-deliver it to the Post Office for extra peace of mind. Lilly offers to go with him, wanting to stop at her house first to pick out a few newer pictures she thinks Ronnie might find interesting. Marge looks to Rich, who looks back at her with soft eyes and a questioning brow, both silently wondering whether or not they should tag along. Neither says a word.
The decision is made for them a few minutes later, when Lilly and Will gather their things and shout their goodbyes. They disappear into the stairwell, excited chatter growing quieter with each step, leaving Marge and Rich alone yet again. It’s becoming quite the common occurrence.
The two stand beside each other at the ledge, glancing over the unusually bustle of Derry in peaceful silence. There’s a group of young children kicking a ball back and forth in the middle of the nearest street, rushing out of the way whenever a car rolls by. They can see Lilly and Will mount their bikes once they reach the ground level, pedaling away soon after.
“Do you still wanna hang out?” Rich asks, turning to look up at Marge with an earnest expression. “Or should we try another day?”
“I don’t mind sticking around,” she says with a shrug. “If I go home now, there’s no telling what my mom will have me clean next. She’s on a rampage.”
Rich smiles and nods, striding back over to the hammock. He stops short of climbing in.
“Did you want a turn?” he wonders, gesturing to the knotted mess of netting nailed to the wall.
“Oh, uh…” she trails, scratching her head. It doesn’t look very stable. “I don’t know. It seems…”
“Scary?”
“Of course not,” Marge huffs, eyeing some of the larger holes. What if her ankle got caught or one of her arms fell through? What if she ended up so tangled that Rich would have to find a way to cut her out? What if she flipped over and landed on her face? She’d die of embarrassment! “I just don’t want to fall out.”
“I can hold it steady for you.”
“How?”
“Like this!”
Rich plops down on the edge of the hammock, leaning back into its sinking center to swing his legs swiftly over and in. The net sways dangerously, then steadies beneath Rich’s weight, until he’s lying relaxedly across the expanse the way he was earlier.
Marge furrows her brows.
“Now what? Am I supposed to get on top of you?”
“No!” Rich squeaks, voice cracking on the uptick. Her face flushes at her own suggestion. Oh, geez. Why did she say that? Rich clears his throat and sits up, wiggling back as far as possible, legs spreading over the sides so his feet can land flat on the ground. He gestures to all the empty space in front of him. “See? Wanna try?”
Marge sighs. She can’t say no to Rich, not when he’s being so kind and looking so hopeful. Maybe it won’t be so bad. The hammock does seem rather calm and relaxing; she’s due for both of those feelings right about now.
Luckily, she wore capris today.
Having made up her mind, Marge walks over slowly, wondering exactly how she should approach this task.
“Just do it like I did,” Rich instructs, easily reading her consternation. “You’ll be okay, I swear."
Marge nods, takes a breath, then turns around. She gently sits at the edge, the hammock sinking beneath her weight, pushing Rich up ever so slightly. Then she swings her legs over, tucking her knees to her chest and shrieking when she falls backward.
“Oh shit oh God of fu—ack!”
She heaves a sigh of relief when the ropes catch her without snapping.
Through a wide eye, Marge sees Rich’s mouth flatten into a straight, albeit wobbly line. His nose crinkles and his shoulders shake. She narrows her gaze and scrambles to prop herself up, blowing a breath through puckered lips.
“Are you laughing at me?”
“No, no, I’m—I’m not laughing,” he says in an obviously shaking tone.
Stretching her legs out toward him, she pokes the toe of a shoe into his chest. He rocks away with an oof. Swats at her calf.
“Yes, you are!”
“Am not!”
She nudges him again, this time with her other foot, poking her tongue between her teeth. He chuckles and grabs her bare ankles, holding them firmly in his warm grasp. Goosebumps prickle her skin in a shivery wave.
“Well, you’re laughing at something,” she insists, trying to bite back a smile of her own. “What’s so funny, huh?”
“You!”
“Oh, am I? Maybe I should really give you something to laugh about.”
“Marge, don’t—”
Rich chokes on his words, releasing her feet and rearing back when she lunges, fingers poised to attack his defenseless sides. She’s not certain he’s even ticklish, but the way he howls when she digs in is immediate proof of her suspicions.
He shoves at her shoulders, squirming from the sudden assault. Her hoarse cackles are accompanied by Rich’s squeaky giggles, both quickly turning to wheezy coughs. His feet, which had been keeping the hammock fairly steady beneath their combined weight, suddenly slip. They both lurch.
Marge, who feels as though she’s been knocked sideways, shrieks again, grabbing onto the nearest thing with all her might. Of course, that ‘nearest thing’ happens to be Rich himself. She holds his shirt in a vice-like grip, attempting to maintain balance. He flings his arms around her back at the same time, momentum kicking his legs up. His instinct is to drop them down against her hips to lock their bodies against each other, turning himself into a shield should they tumble.
Pain shoots through her nose as it smashes into the crook of his neck. That familiar scent of citrus and spice washes away all discomfort on the first inhale. It’s a combination that can soothe and excite her nerves in one fell swoop.
The hammock swings wildly, but doesn’t tip. Somehow, they remain safely tucked inside. Rich’s heart pumps rapidly beneath her palm. Pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat. The fluttery beat perfectly matches hers.
She can feel the vibration in his throat when he gasps. Heat blooms through her body, starting at her scalp and spreading down to her curled toes. She lifts herself onto wobbly arms, peering down at Rich’s face through crooked lenses. His temples are damp and his cheeks are dark. She imagines hers to be the same.
“I-I’m sorry—” she stutters.
“No, yeah, me too,” he rattles. “I’m sorry—”
“It’s my fault—”
“You don’t have to—”
“I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s okay!”
Marge wheezes, struggling to sit up. Rich drops his short legs away from her hips, slapping his feet flat on the ground again, offering a decent amount of stability. Marge smiles sheepishly as she rises off his chest, her shaking hands flying to flatten mussed hair. With her legs sprawled uncomfortably between them, she scoots a few inches so Rich can sit up. He does so with a dazed expression.
Even with some space between them now, they’re tipping forward, still a little too close. She doesn’t mind. Something tells her Rich doesn’t either. The smile that stretches her mouth is fond, and perhaps a little proud.
Rich coughs and rubs at his cheek. Her joy dims at the reminder of the scrape on his face. It looks worse from here. Angry and raw. His tender skin doesn’t deserve such treatment.
“Rich, what happened?” she asks, boldly brushing a finger beneath the cluster of thin scratches. His lashes flutter at her touch. She swallows hard, but keeps her gaze trained on his wavering expression.
A tongue darts out to wet dry lips.
“We’re not the only ones at school, you know? Band, I mean. Summer classes are going, too. And some of the older kids hang around outside. Today, when I went over to get my bike, this one guy was like, ‘Hey, looks like Ritchie Valens survived the plane crash!’ I didn’t even know he was talking to me, ‘til I got shoved into the rack. I told him I wasn’t Mexican, and he said, ‘You speak Spanish,’ like that made him right!”
“Oh, Rich…”
“So I said, ‘Lots of countries speak Spanish, you should look it up.’ I guess that made him really mad ‘cause then he got all red and started yelling how it didn’t matter what I was, I just didn’t belong in Derry.”
“What a shithead,” Marge grumbles through gritted teeth.
“Tell me about it! Then he picked me up and pushed me against the wall. That’s where this came from.” He gestures to his face, offering another shrug. This one is much weaker. “But I’m okay. It doesn’t even hurt.”
“Whatever you say, tough guy.” She shakes her head, smiling softly. It probably doesn’t do much to mask the sadness squeezing her heart. “But you’re allowed to be upset, okay? No one should talk to you like that.”
“I don’t know him, and I don’t want to know, so why should I care? He’s a sapingo.”
Marge would like to take a moment to admire Rich’s resilience and his spirited outlook on life (she certainly envies him for it), but his final word gives her pause. She simply can’t resist asking:
“What’s that mean?”
“Oh, it’s just a way to call someone stupid. My dad says it all the time about one of the guys he works with. Don’t tell him I told you.”
Marge chuckles warmly. Rich grins, hazel eyes shining with mirth.
“I should’ve kept my First Aid Kit up here.”
“It’s just a little scratch. I’ll be fine, really. How’s your eye?”
He’s changing the subject, and she has no choice but to let him. What else can be said, anyway? As unbothered as he seems, she can’t imagine Rich wants to harp on the matter. Neither does she.
“It’s healing. Not as gross anymore. Probably not as cool either.”
“Nah. I bet it’s still super cool. Can I see?”
Marge tenses for a split-second, breath hitching in her throat, but relaxes just as quickly. This is Rich. He’s seen the worst of it already, the worst of her, and never judged or recoiled. Never left.
She lifts the glasses from her face, setting them on her thigh, then tugs the patch down. She can see a slit of color through her droopy lid, and nothing but blurry outlines through the other. The midday light is harsh, so she tilts her head down just enough for her hair to slip off her shoulder and act as a curtain.
Rich, who is already too close, leans even further into her space. Her palms grow clammy, stomach twisting when their noses briefly brush, but she doesn’t flinch.
“Whoa, it’s looking good! Not slimy or anything.” She snorts at the unbridled enthusiasm he always shows for such a disgusting wound. “It’s gonna leave a boss scar, don’t ya think?”
His use of the word boss is new and amusing. Quite charming, as well. She wishes there was something of his she could pick up on, but it wouldn’t sound right tumbling off her nervous tongue.
“I just hope it’s not too big and ugly.”
“Nothing could ever be ugly on you, Marge.”
She freezes at his admission, nearly choking on her own saliva. Delightful heat tickles her skin, enveloping her self-conscious form in a gentle wave. She ducks her head even lower, trying to hide her burning cheeks and pathetic smile as she pulls the patch over her eye and settles the glasses back onto her nose.
“Thanks, Rich,” she murmurs, peeking up at his sweet expression. The tenderness he bestows upon her would be enough to melt the hardest of hearts—and hers is fairly gooey to begin with. “You really are the ginchiest.”
He straightens, chest puffing out, and shimmies in his spot like the simple compliment is too much for his body to contain. Though the hammock swings gently, their feet keep them secure.
“Hey, do you want some gum? I got Juicy Fruit.”
“Oh, yeah! That’s my favorite.”
Rich nods and pulls a wrinkled yellow rectangle from his pocket, tapping two foil sticks into his palm and handing one over to Marge. She unwraps it eagerly. Pops it in her mouth. Rich does the same. They scrunch their wrappers into tiny balls and decide to see who can throw them farthest. Marge gives an exaggerated groan of disappointment when she falls short, flopping back dramatically with raised arms.
“Best two out of three?”
“That’s such a waste of gum.”
“I’ll get more,” Rich replies, already dumping the rest of the sticks into his palm.
Marge grins. They pop two more pieces into their mouths, stuffing their cheeks with juicy sweetness, a fine powder coating their damp lips. She wins the second wrapper toss but loses the third, thus crowning Rich the winner of this silly little game. She’s not upset by the loss. His scrinkled nose is too cute to be mad at.
“Here, put your legs up,” he says once their laughter dies down, leaning back so Marge can lift her feet off the ground and set them against the net, knees pointed toward the ceiling. “And you might want to hold on. You’ll feel like you’re gonna fall, but you won’t.”
“Wait, why? What’re you doing?” she asks, fingers automatically looping around the ropes.
“Getting up. It’s not really your turn if I’m here too.”
“You don’t have to,” she blurts as Rich starts moving. He stops immediately, looking at her with a tilted head. “I—I mean, I don’t mind sharing. It’s just us.”
“Oh...” Rich’s teeth scrape his bottom lip. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, but you don’t have to. It’s fine if you—”
“I’ll stay,” Rich whispers, cutting her off and swiveling to the middle. Once he realizes they’d be resting on top of Marge, however, he keeps them raised in midair. “Uh, how should we…”
“How about we both go to the left? Like this.”
Hooking her ankles together, she shifts at the hip to tuck her legs out of the way, slotting them against Rich’s side. He does the same to her. Both try to keep their filthy shoes out of each other’s faces.
They’re sinking so low this way, Marge is surprised her butt isn’t touching the ground, but the hammock holds strong enough to keep them softly swaying. And despite the snug fit, or perhaps because of it, she feels safe and comfortable next to Rich. She always does.
“Oh! I was gonna tell you guys something earlier, but when Will showed up with Ronnie’s letter, I got distracted.”
“Will you tell me now? Or do you want to wait until we see Lilly and Will again?”
“I’ll tell you. It’s nothing important, but…” He fiddles with the prong in the center of his belt buckle, absently flicking it back and forth with a clink-clink as he takes a breath. “I think I’m gonna get a job.”
Marge’s brows shoot up her forehead. A barking laugh spills from her throat. Out of all the things she could’ve guessed, that wouldn’t have been one of them.
“Rich, you just turned thirteen, not thirty.”
“Hey, you’re never too young to make money! And it’s just a paper route, kids younger than me have ‘em! I already talked to Mr. Denbrough at the newspaper office. He gave me a slip my parents have to sign, but they’re still thinking it over.”
“I hope you’ve thought about what’ll happen once summer’s over.” Marge doesn’t mean to be a party pooper, but they have to face facts. She holds up a hand, ticking off fingers as she continues: “Paper route, band practice, homework, family time, and hanging out with your friends. How could you possibly manage all that?”
“That’s everything I’ve been doing anyway, except the job. And papers only get delivered in the morning,” Rich counters.
“Super early in the morning!” Marge retorts. “Yuck.”
“El que madruga, Dios lo ayuda. That’s what my dad always says. God helps the early riser, basically. So it’s a good thing I’m a morning person.”
“I’m not,” Marge snorts. She brushes her hair back dramatically, lifting her nose to the ceiling with a snobbish air. “I need my beauty sleep.”
“You’ve had plenty already.”
His reply nearly causes Marge to choke again. She glances at his sincere expression, though not for long. It’s too much. Her chest expands. Her blood rushes. She grabs the collar of her cardigan and pulls it up over her face. It’s a ridiculous move to hide her ridiculous expression, though the way her body melts into the netting might take the cake for ridiculousness.
“You’re so full of it,” she mumbles, feeling flattered and slightly sheepish.
“No. Just being honest,” he says softly.
He’s such a sap, and she loves it. Maybe that’s the most embarrassing thing—all the new and amazing emotions he can inspire. Marge is caught between laughing and sobbing. Both involve a river of tears.
“Thank you, Rich. You’re sweet.”
She sniffs. Swallows. Once the cardigan falls away, she hopes her face has become less of a tomato. Regardless, Rich seems charmed by her humiliating reaction. She’s not used to being complimented so thoroughly. So frequently. And it doesn’t feel like a show or a way to ingratiate himself with her. It feels real. He means what he says, and she can believe that fully.
“The parade’s coming fast.” She clears her throat, eager to move on despite her fluttering heart. “Are you excited?”
“Yeah, but I guess I’m kinda nervous, too. I can play at games and stuff, no problem, but going down Main Street? I’ve never been in front of that many people before!”
“What’s it like?” Not the crowds; she’d been in front of those before, thanks to countless elementary school plays. It’s always scary at first, until you hit your groove. She’s sure Rich would have no problem in that regard. “Marching band seems intense. I can’t really imagine.”
“It’s pretty rough. I have a snare. It’s not the heaviest instrument, but holding anything when you’re standing for a really long time, and moving your legs a certain way, and trying to keep in sync with everyone, and staying on beat—it’s a lot. I have to get in the tub after practice sometimes ‘cause everything hurts, especially my brain.”
Marge winces.
“That sounds like torture.”
“Yeah, but it’s fun.”
“Which part?”
“All of it!” Rich answers, not even pausing to think. “It’s like… when I play the drums, there are lots of pieces, right? And I have to pay attention to each one, even if I’m only hitting a few. Marching band’s kinda the same. Every person’s important, and every piece matters. If a song doesn’t give snares a lot to do, that doesn’t make us useless. We’re still with the band. We still get to march. See, when I play the drums, I can do my own thing. I don’t have to follow other instruments. I don’t have to follow any music. I can do whatever I want. And that’s really cool. But sometimes… I like being part of something bigger, with other people. A team doesn’t work unless everyone on it works. Being part of that makes me feel good.”
Huh. Marge hadn’t thought about it like that, the whole team aspect. She assumed he only joined because he liked music, and what other options were there? None at Derry High. But as she’s gotten to know Rich and his personality, she can see the connection. Not only is he talented, he’s also a people-person who likes to help and share.
“That makes sense,” she says after a beat, nodding as his words are neatly filed away. “You’re a lot faster and stronger than you look. I guess that helps, huh?”
Rich chuckles. With his head tilted back against the netting, he looks at her from over his small nose, through hooded yet piercing eyes.
“It’s definitely good exercise.”
“You play in concert band too, right? Don’t they go together?”
He makes a noise at the back of his throat, causing Marge to raise a brow. He rolls his eyes.
“Yeah. If you join marching, you join concert. And you can’t quit one without quitting both. Believe me, I tried.”
Marge laughs.
“Why?”
“It’s boring. You have to sit still—stand still, in my case. Which I don’t mind doing if I’m on a full set, but just the snare? It’s annoying. And the music’s a lot slower. And you don’t even get a uniform! But that’s only for late winter and early spring.”
“Hold on, I’m confused. How does this all work, exactly?”
Rich smiles, his ears turning a shade darker. Seemingly pleased by her interest in his interests.
“We do day-camps in August, which is like… running around the football field every day for a couple weeks, doing drills and working on team stuff. It’s all about technique and preparation. And once school comes back, we have class and practice. In class, we learn a bunch of technical stuff about music. But in practice, we go over songs for football games. When winter comes, we go from marching band to concert band, and it’s stupid.”
“But you get to dress up all fancy!”
“Yeah, and that’s the only good thing about it! We do concert ‘til April, then we go back to marching, thank God. That’s when parade prep starts. But I wasn’t in it last time. Sixth graders don’t get to perform that much. So this has actually been my first full year.”
Marge finds it bizarre—the fact that she’d seen Rich in the crowd without paying him any mind. Of course, she hadn’t known him. Not his face or his name. Out of the handful of football games she’d witnessed since attending Derry High, and the concerts she’d watched during seasonal assemblies, he would have been in many of them. This year, at least. She’s only been friends with Rich for a few months, but it’s nearly impossible to wrap her head around the knowledge that he hadn’t existed to her before then.
He’s burrowed himself—so quickly, so effortlessly—into her heart and refuses to leave. She refuses to let him.
“I saw you,” she murmurs, watching the way his expression shifts into something a little more serious, “and I didn’t even realize.”
“It’s okay. We didn’t know each other.”
“I wish we did.”
Perhaps it’s selfish, wishing Rich had been there all along to save her from herself. It might not have changed anything; it’s just how she feels. Knowing Rich longer could only ever be a good thing.
“Me too,” he says, swallowing thickly. “But I think things happened the way they were supposed to.”
Marge glances away. The idea of fate turns her stomach all topsy-turvy. What would normally be a romantic notion has been twisted into an anxiety-inducing expectation. The clown’s venomous words skitter up her spine like a spider.
(The only thing that changed is who you’ll spread your legs for. Tozier’s gone—who’s next on the wheel? Why, how about Robbie Mueller? Or Joey Navinsky? How about… Rich Santos? Oh, ho, ho. You like that one, don’t ya?)
She shifts. Takes a deep breath.
“You okay?” Rich asks, noticing her sudden discomfort.
“Yeah, I just… had a thought.”
She doesn’t need to explain, nor does he ask her to. Instead, he gives her a comforting smile.
“Hey, what kind of stuff do you do for fun? Got any hobbies? I don’t think I know that yet.”
“Oh, um, I… don’t? Not really.” Marge cringes at her own lame response. Rich blinks at her, still open and curious. Waiting. “I watch TV, and spend time with Lilly, and read, and do chores. Sometimes I knit, but it’s pretty awful. I’m trying to get better, but I always end up with bloody fingers. I really liked Home Ec this year! The cooking part, mostly. I help my mom in the kitchen, but we always make the same foods. It’s way more fun at school. I really wanted to take Shop, but they never let girls in. And after what happened,” she gestures to her face, “It’s probably best I never set foot in that classroom again.” She gasps then, recalling a sudden important detail. “I started writing, like you said. Thanks for that, by the way. It’s been helping, and it’s actually kind of fun.”
“When summer’s over, you should think about joining the school newspaper,” Rich suggests. Her expression contorts, but he pushes on before she can object. “I’m serious! You’d be really good, Marge! You’d get to interview people and learn all their secrets. And you’re funny, so it’d never be a boring read.”
“What’s up with you and newspapers?”
“Don’t you ever read them? There’s some juicy stuff in there.”
“Oh, Rich,” she snorts, shaking her head. Although she can’t help thinking he’s made some good points. Her interest has definitely been piqued. “You’re very convincing.”
“Good! Let me convince you!”
“I’ll think about it.”
It’s not a simple placation; it’s practically a promise. Marge rarely even reads the school newspaper (which is called The Woodchopper, thanks to Derry’s history with Paul Bunyan and beaver trapping), yet here Rich is, urging her to write for it. And here she is, actually considering it.
“Wait a minute, you’ve never even seen my writing! It could be horrible for all you know.”
“You got an A in English.”
“So? You got a B, but you’re a better writer than I am.”
Rich’s lips part, a retort at the tip of his tongue. His mouth snaps shut without any words tumbling forth. He glances away, clearly understanding what she’s referencing and feeling awkward about it. Despite having only caught a glimpse of that mysterious poem inside his shoe (which may or may not be for her; she still doesn’t know), she’d been impressed. She’s hopeful that one day she’ll see more.
“Poems aren’t the same as articles. It’s personal.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry, I wasn’t—”
“It’s okay! I just mean, they’re different. I hate writing essays, but—”
“You like writing poetry.”
“Sometimes. I like reading it more. And listening to music. Songs are poetry, too.”
“Oh, I know. Paul Anka writes incredible poetry.” Rich rolls his eyes, the pout of his mouth telling her it’s playful rather than annoyed. “He sings it even better.”
“Uh huh.”
“What do you mean ‘uh huh’? He deserves higher praise than that.”
“Eh. He’s alright.”
“Alright?” she yelps, fighting to hold back a smile when she catches sight of his smirk. In a haughty tone, and with a slightly British lilt, she says: “Why, I never! How dare you speak of my future husband in such a horrid manner!”
“Husband?!” It’s Rich’s turn to yelp. He struggles to sit upright in the hammock. “He’s way too old for you!”
“That’s not true.”
“He’s ancient!”
“He’s twenty.”
“Ancient!”
“Are you jealous, Rich?” she jokes, cackling when he scrunches his nose. His cheeks are aflame.
Earlier, Marge had wondered what this would look like. If Lilly mentioned Joey Navinsky in front of him, Marge likely would’ve had to admit her past crush. And right now—sitting alone, pressed together, chatting and blushing and teasing (flirting?)—it seems clear to her that Lilly was right. Rich would have been hurt.
Because whatever’s going on between them is clearly something more than friendship, whether they acknowledge it or not. A seed was planted when they met, and it’s been sprouting in the garden of the friendship they’d forged. Here, an unknown flower is beginning to bloom. And while only time will tell what kind it is, the shape reminds her of a beautifully striking rose.
This is all she wants to see from Rich: happiness and humor.
“I’m not jealous.”
“No?”
“Nope. No jealousy here.”
“Aw, that’s too bad. It’d be kind of cute if you were.”
“Oh.” Rich blurts, blinking at Marge as if he’d just been slapped. “Really?”
“Mhm.”
“Okay, then I’m really jealous.”
She clicks her tongue and nudges her shoe into his shoulder. They burst into giggles.
“Come on. Isn’t there an actress or singer you’d want to be with, if you could?”
Rich hums, slapping his hands against his thighs in a beat only he can hear. Part of her doesn’t want to know the answer, but she’s too nosy not to ask. This is valuable insight!
“Doris Day,” he says after a rather drawn-out couple of minutes.
“No,” Marge breathes, narrowing her eye.
Did he really like Doris Day? He hadn’t said anything of the sort when he asked about the picture in her locker. Or was he trying to make her jealous now?
“Why not? She’s really pretty, funny, and talented.” His mischievous smile softens. Becomes vulnerable. His gaze flicks away, but bravely returns when he speaks again. “You remind me of her.”
Marge blinks—once, twice. Her jaw drops. Something swoops from her chest down to her tummy.
She told Rich he reminded her of Paul Anka, the fantastical love of her life. Now Rich is lounging across from her and saying the same thing about Doris Day—a woman he knew she admired greatly. A woman he called really pretty, funny, and talented. In fact, he had already called Marge herself two of those three things, on more than one occasion.
Rich had such a strange way of being both incredibly obvious and absurdly mysterious in the same breath. Marge supposed he could say the same about her. What a pair they made.
“Do I? Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
Her cheeks burn pleasantly as she fiddles with her glasses. It’s easier to deflect with humor than it is to settle completely within the gravity of the moment.
“I hate to say it, Rich, but Doris is too old for you. She’s double Paul’s age.”
“Aw, shoot.” He snaps his fingers, mouth pulled to the side in faux disappointment. “Guess we’re out of luck then.”
“Guess so.”
“At least we have each other.”
Marge leans forward and holds out a hand for him to slap. He closes the distance enthusiastically. But rather than pull away right after, he lingers, keeping their palms pressed tight. His hands are small, yes, but so are hers; both the same size, actually, despite the difference in height. She hadn’t noticed that before. Has always been too distracted by the warmth and softness of his skin. Even now, it’s enthralling.
Marge, a girl of thirteen years, is nearly done growing. She’ll have one final growth spurt, if she’s lucky, before reaching her final height. Rich has a much larger window. She wondered if he’d end up taller than her, like her parents. Or if they’d be the same height, like his. Perhaps he wouldn’t grow much at all, and she’d always have to bend to reach his shoulder.
There aren’t any bad options.
“I think that’s even better.”
“I think so, too,” Rich agrees, curling his fingers around hers for a quick squeeze. Marge has to stop herself from grabbing his hand when he lets go.
The wad of gum in her cheek is getting a little too thick and flavorless. She spits it into her palm, then freezes. They’d tossed all the wrappers away, and she’s feeling far too content to get up in search of them.
Without needing to say a word, Rich picks up the crumpled yellow pack and rips it, holding it for her to deposit the wrinkly white gob onto. Rich does the same with his own gum, rolling the pack into a ball, then reaching for his pocket.
“Don’t do that!” Marge scolds. “It’ll squeeze out and get stuck in the cloth, and then who has to clean it? Your mom.”
“Oh. Right.” He looks at the piece of sticky trash for a moment, blinks, then tosses it over his shoulder. “I’ll get it later.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Yeah, probably not.”
“You know what? Forget me. I think you’re the funny one,” she says with a fond shake of her head.
“We can both be funny. It’s good to have things in common.”
He says that last part with his head tilted and his mouth twisted to the side, as if he’s parting with a great bit of secret wisdom. She adores his silliness, and it seems as if he shares that sentiment about her. It’s not something she takes lightly.
“What about differences?” Marge asks, playing along. “We have plenty of those.”
“That’s good, too. You gotta have a balance.”
“Do we have a good balance? You and me?”
He drops his head against the net and grins.
“The best! We make a good team, don’t we?”
“Definitely.”
Rich drops one of his legs down, planting a foot against the floor to rock them back and forth in a gentle sway. No wonder he’s in this thing all the time. It’s relaxing! She can’t help but yawn.
“Sleepy?”
“A little.”
“You could take a nap.”
“I can’t do that!”
“I’ll be quiet, I swear,” Rich says, reaching for the book he’d put on the crate when she first arrived. “I’ll go back to reading.”
“It’s not that,” Marge assures. She likes it when he talks. Quite a lot. “I just—ugh.” This isn’t something she wants to admit, but it’d be worse if he found out for himself, without warning. She sighs. “Lilly says I snore.”
His face screws up in a mix of confusion and amusement.
“What’s wrong with that? My dad snores.”
“Oh my God,” she croaks, slapping a hand against her forehead. “That’s not helpful, Rich!”
“Sorry! I’m just saying, it’s not a big deal.”
“It is to me.”
“How come?”
His question is honest rather than needling. Marge fights back another yawn and answers slowly.
“It’s embarrassing. I mean, would you really not care if you started snoring in front of me?”
Rich looks up, fingers tapping against his stomach. He hums thoughtfully.
“I dunno. Maybe? I’d probably be more embarrassed if you saw me drool.” Marge bites her lip. She decides not to tell him she’d witnessed that exact thing at the end-of-year assembly. “But I’d get over it.”
All Marge can muster is a grunt of a laugh. The lulling motion, their shared warmth, Rich’s low voice—it’s a perfect balm for her exhaustion. This morning’s vigorous window washing hadn’t been the only issue. She had quite a fitful night as well, waking up multiple times for a variety of reasons—a few of which resulted in additional scribbles within her notebook.
She closes her eye for just a moment, another gust of wind caressing her face. Her lips part to reply to Rich, but no sound escapes her.
Specks of dust float through beams of light slotting through thin cracks. The spotty overhead lamps are dim and gold, sweeping over shadows. Nothing lurks within. Giggles and whispers blend into a slow, jazzy tune that vibrates in her feet and rumbles up to her chest. Glass cups shine like brilliant diamonds, a rich liquid sloshing rim to rim without spilling.
Flames flicker to a slow beat in the blurry distance, shuffling forward in a slow crawl, its popping crackles consuming unbridled revelry.
A steady weight drapes around her floating form, an iridescent bubble of safety expanding through the barren room. The embrace is as soft as cotton and as strong as steel; a lifeboat to freedom and an anchor to reality. It pops like a balloon, the salty mist ripping through the fire like bullets through glass, bathing her in a heat that rivals the blaze. But it doesn’t burn. Smoke rises from the ground in thick billows, rolling toward her in a cooling wave. Black to gray to white—cleansing, not choking.
Silence. Stillness. The golden lights remain, bright and bewitching. Feet to the ground. Thrumming in her veins. A honeyed voice tickles her ear, bleeding into the breadth of her soul.
Marge.
Marge?
“Marge!”
She jolts, blue eye flying open to stare through a smudged lens.
No darkness. No flames. But that presence…
“Huh?” She rips the spectacles from her face and uses the hem of her shirt to wipe them clean as a yawn stretches her jaw. Shoving them back on reveals Rich leaning forward. They’re still on the hammock up on the Standpipe. They’d been talking before— “Hey!”
“Hi.”
She swats at his chest, but is leaning too far back to make meaningful contact. Her fingertips barely graze his chest.
“I fell asleep? For how long?”
“Half an hour, maybe. I wasn’t counting.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“You were tired.” He shrugs, sitting up straighter with a faint smile. His fingers fidget with the front of his shirt. “Plus, you looked like an angel. I couldn’t mess with that.”
She isn’t awake enough to blush. Her stomach swoops again.
“Yeah, well, I bet I sounded like a demon.”
“Nobody’s perfect.”
A stinging snort tears through her nose before she can stop it.
“You knucklehead.”
She lunges for him again, though his hands catch her wrists before those dastardly wiggling fingers can meet their target.
“No!” he squawks. “You can’t tickle me again, I gotta whiz!”
“Ew, get away!” she laughs, trying to escape him now.
“And I heard the ice cream truck!” Marge ceases her squirming at once. “It couldn’t have gone far. Should we get some?”
Marge’s dry mouth all but sings her resounding answer of: “Yes!”
Rich swings his legs over the side of the hammock, plants his feet on the ground, and pushes up. Before Marge can feel a shred of worry about rolling off, he tugs at her arms. His fingers slide from her wrists to her hands, holding tight to help her stand.
She feels energized now. Ready to face the rest of the day, whatever it might entail. Maybe they can meet up with Lilly and Will again; surely they’ve put Ronnie’s letter in the mail by now. In fact, Marge is surprised neither of them returned after completing their task. Perhaps it was by design. Perhaps they chose to leave them here on purpose. Marge chews a dry spot on her lip.
But it doesn’t matter, does it? She had a good time with Rich. No matter what they’re doing, she always does.
As they stomp down the staircase, exiting the little world they’d built on the Standpipe to rejoin the rest of society, she realizes something delightful.
They’re still holding hands. And they don’t let go.