Mixtape

15

15

If Richie Tozier were asked if he had a second home, the boy would first respond with; yeah, I spend a lot of time in detention. Then, moments after the question was asked, he would want to change his answer. He would consider saying it for a few minutes, analyzing the words and trying to decide if they're worth leaving his mouth. Then, upon coming to his conclusion, he would say with a vindictive tone; Beverly Marsh is my second home.
She hasn't said a word to Richie about his week of silence, and maybe that's why he loves her so much. She doesn't talk about feelings ("What are we, a couple of girls?") and therefore Richie never has to explain why he acts this way. He thinks it would be hard to explain that... he just does.
"Okay, you got your pencil?" Beverly asks, holding up one finger.
Richie nods, pointing to the wooden utensil tucked behind his ear.
"Paper?" She holds up a second finger.
Richie pats his coat pocket, the material crinkling with the three sheets of folded up notebook paper that he stole from Bill Denbrough at lunch.
"Charm?" The third and final finger raises in the air.
"Never leave home without it," Richie smirks, giving Beverly the look down.
She giggles, pushes Richie's shoulders, and says "Good thing you won't need it, then. I'm not sure you've got much to begin with."
"I'll see you on the other side, Beverly," Richie ignores her comment and instead pulls on the door handle to the isolated classroom located across the hall from the main office. The corridors have cleared out for the most part, everyone eager to begin their weekends. Richie wishes he could join them, but instead, he is saying farewell to his freedom for the next hour and a half.
"Detention ends at 4:30, so I'll meet you at the library at five o'clock, okay?" She says. Richie lingers in the doorway, watching the way that she sends him off like a lover saying farewell to a soldier leaving for war.
"Alright, Beaverly. Better get goin', Big Ben will be waiting for you," he says.
"Godspeed, Richie Tozier. May you find the strength to survive," she says much too seriously, adding a dorky little salute that makes Richie wonder exactly why he's friends with her.
Deciding not to drag it out any longer, Richie heads in and takes his usual desk closest to the window. On the wooden surface, his initials are scratched in. His property.
"You're late, Tozier," Mautz drones.
"Oh, do forgive me, sir," Richie rolls his eyes, using his sweetest kiss-ass voice. It sounds eerily similar to the one Henry Bowers will use any time he gets caught terrorizing a helpless kid. "I had to stop by my locker and gather supplies. You wouldn't want me coming unprepared, would you?"
Two desks over, Henry scoffs in annoyance and returns to writing on his paper. Richie is mildly surprised that Henry is even doing the letter in the first place, especially when it's in the boy's nature to pay someone else when it comes to tasks like this. Either way, he's writing with a sort of passion that makes Richie wonder how many times someone can write synonyms for the word "faggot" before running out of steam.
Either way, he takes the three sheets (bare minimum, as he recalls) from his pocket and slides the pencil out from behind his ear. He stares at the blank paper, the mocking lines, and he tries to figure out how to stretch an apology he shouldn't be giving into three pages.
bowers.
hey. sorry i fucked your face up (sorry mr. principal but im not going 2 watch my language. i don't care.) but im not sorry that we fought.
it was a damn good fight, i'll give you that. not like when we were kids and would play cops and robbers and we would always end up turning into sumowrestlers that beat each other up until one of our parents said something. your dad was... he was different back then, but i guess mine was too. whatever.
im sorry that you got dragged into it in the first place. it was originally a stupid spat with one of your idiotic lackeys, i never meant for you to be the one i ended up spitting on. whatever. what's done is done, i guess. sorry that you have to be friends with them, but i suppose you made that fucking choice. i told you that we could ignore it, but you said no. you punched me until i bled that night, and i remember it only took three punches for me to realize you weren't playing cops and robbers. you were angry. god, how old were we? i must have been 9, maybe 10. fuck.
now you're stuck with such fucking idiots. i think that's the worst part of it all, considering how smart you are. does it get boring when you're constantly pretending to be stupid? let me know. either way, sorry you got stuck with them. dickheads.
sorry i chose bev, too. she's badass and fearless and she isn't afraid to hit me when i fuck up. confident, daring, brave. shes so brave, and that's what makes her the exact opposite of you. im a lot happier now than i think i ever was being your friend, but we did have our moments. i don't know. maybe i idolized you too much as a kid and realized you're actually a piece of fucking shit once i grew up to have my own conscious thoughts and opinions.
im sorry that you hate yourself so much that you feel the need to take it out on everybody that looks at you wrongly just to prove that you're a piece of shit before they can come to the conclusion themselves. maybe you're trying to hide the fact that you're weak, because you are. you're fucking weak. can't you just accept it? aren't you tired of causing pain? don't you feel bad enough as it is?
im sorry that i don't like you anymore- actually, no im not. i just licked my lip and felt blood, so fuck you. you're an asshole, and im glad that i don't associate with you anymore. you've turned into a real fucking dick, you know? i heard what you did to ben hanscom. a knife, hen? a fucking knife? you could have killed the kid. what the fuck is wrong with you?
im sorry that you have to wake up every morning and deal with the person that you've become. if you had just... if you listened to me when i said we should stop picking on people, maybe you wouldn't be in detention right now. maybe we would still be friends. maybe i would like you. it's hard to tell. either way, you're a cock and you're psychotic, so im sorry that you have to look in the mirror and carry the knowledge that you are the reason kids are afraid to come to school (a safe place) or hate the way they look. ben hanscom once told me that he's afraid to wear anything but sweaters now because you'll make fun of his tits. god. what is wrong with you? where did you go wrong?
lastly, im sorry that your dad makes you feel the way that you do. it must suck having an old man that thinks you're a pussy, but you know, you don't have to stab fat kids just to compensate for your lack of masculinity. sometimes, i think you would be a lot different if you grew up with a mother. maybe you'd be a little nicer. either way, im sorry you hate yourself so much that you think you need to become what your old man expects of you. must suck. good luck with it, hen. just stop being a piece of shit for fucks sake.
apologies,
rich.
PS: i shouldn't add this, but i feel like it needs to be said anyway.
sorry for not kissing you back.
Richie sets his pencil down and stares at the words on the page, feeling conflicted about whether or not he wants to admit such honesty to Henry Bowers. He has to, however; he reminds himself that he will only dig his grave even deeper if he were to blow off the assignment given by the principal.
Richie sighs, folding the three sheets as if he's preparing to fit them into an envelope, but sets them in the corner of his desk. With a quick glance at the clock, he sees he still has thirty five minutes left. Henry Bowers continues scribbling with passion.
At 4:25, the principal comes in and reads over each of the letters that the boys wrote. Richie watches his disapproving face, the face of a man who accidentally stumbled upon information he shouldn't be reading, and then Richie notices the way that Henry tries to hide his face in his hands out of embarrassment. Richie has never seen such an emotion on Henry, not even after Richie rejected him on New Years. Henry responded to the rejection with a fist to Richie's face. The flustered expression looks good on Henry, makes him look more naive and innocent than he is. Not as despicable.
The only comment that the principal makes on either of the letters is "Nice job on your honesty, gentlemen. Though, I am not pleased about your language. You may want to work on that. You're both free to go."
He hands the opposite letter to each boy, so as Richie tucks Henry's letter into the inside of his coat, he watches how Henry folds up Richie's papers and stick them inside his pocket. He handled them with delicate care, making Richie feel guilty with the knowledge that the words written down are unkind.
Either way, neither say a word as they leave. They both part and go separate ways, but Richie can't help but wonder if that only happened because Henry couldn't stand to be around Richie any longer.
The walk to the library is short, but chilly. Richie notices that he may need to begin layering his clothes, trying to remember if Bill actually made off with his favorite flannel or not. Doesn't matter. Richie can always get a new flannel, but to see Bill smile is a bit more rare.
Ben and Beverly are waiting on the steps of the library, but with a quick glance to his watch, he sees that he's not late, they're just early. Ben stands up when he sees Richie coming down the street, and Beverly follows suit soon after.
"Hey, Richie!" Ben welcomes him brightly, smiling through the chubby cheeks.
Richie finds himself returning the fond look, even without hesitation. Ben has that effect on people, which only makes Richie question even more how Henry could be so sociopathic that he would take a knife to this poor boy.
"Hey, buddy," Richie pulls him in to ruffle his hair, trapping Ben in a headlock. "How you been?"
Beverly watches with the biggest, fondest eyes that he's ever seen pass her features. He feels good, no, better, than he did before. He doesn't care about the detention or punishment or the black eyes, he gets to be in the presence of two of Derry's brightest souls. For a flash of a second, Richie pities Henry Bowers for never getting to experience this the way that he does.
Beverly and Ben fill him in on how their plans changed, and now they're going down to the Barrens to meet Mike. Eddie was going to come as well, but when he heard that their destination was the sewers, he quickly backed out. Richie feels a little disappointed, but he doesn't say a word. Just walks behind the two silently, following them through Derry and listening to their fond conversations. Ben's hand never leaves Beverly's, not even for a moment. Not even when they're crossing the street and Bev moves faster than him. Especially not when they're descending the grassy undergrowth to reach the lush wildlife that inhabits the thick woods. Richie watches this with a sort of... longing, one that craves for Eddie Kaspbrak to be weeding through branches and tall grass with them.
Mike is there, excited to see Richie, and congratulates him on serving his prison sentence. Richie smiles, doesn't say much, and then retires to a patch of dry land near the water. He sits beneath a tree, the shade only amplifying the cold, and he watches as Ben and Mike carry logs across the stream to stack against one side. He's not sure what they're doing, but Bev is directing logs and branches like the natural director that she is.
As if boiling his skin through the fabric, Richie becomes eerily conscious of the letter burning a hole in his chest pocket. He reaches inside, feels the thin layers of confessions, and carefully pulls the letter out to give it a good read. Richie glances at the others, making damn sure that they're distracted, and then unfolds the papers that Henry Bowers had worked on so intensely.
my apology 2 richie tozier:
im sorry i hit ur face, & im sorry that i cracked ur glasses 2. I just remembered that you know me better than that, and I don't have to pretend to be illiterate. Isn't it funny? I'm willingly suppressing my intelligence to play the role of fuck-up that everyone has cast me as. Ironic, really. I suppose I've always been one for being a people-pleaser. (That is sarcasm.)
Ah, it feels weird to talk like a normal human being again. It's draining to act stupid all the time, but I've got to. My boys don't understand me when I use words like "apprehensive" or "lexicon." Can you believe it? Such simple words. You've always been the smarter one, but I know it's because of how adamantly you studied. You worked for it, why don't you own up to it? I guess I could say the same about myself. I'm sure you have your reasons for not being a mathlete.
God, this is horribly off topic. I kind of had an idea of what I wanted to say, but I'm not sure how well the message will convey in print. I've thought about it for years... and then I didn't think about it all, and then when I punched you for that first time... I thought of it again. Oh well. You have always been understanding, so fucking understanding. How are you so patient, Richie Tozier? It drives me crazy, I can't figure out how you take things in stride the way that you do. I envy your virtues.
I don't know if you think about that day that I ruined things, but I wish that you would. I hope that you do. You see, I didn't mean to ruin anything, I just let my temper get the best of me because I had freaked out. I'm not going to apologize for the fight we had over your geek friend, but I am going to apologize for the one in fifth grade. The one I never said a word about after it happened.
When I think about that day, my memory has blacked it all out like a redacted sheet of information. What I do remember is fuzzy, though, and I don't like thinking about it much. I remember you pulling away and saying "Hen, no." I remember the way I stepped back, and you stepped forward. The way you reached out and said "Hey, it's okay. Let's forget it ever happened. It was an accident." And then I remember hitting you until you bled because I couldn't stand to look at your stubbornly patient, wonderfully beautiful face and think that I would never get to kiss it again because you thought it was just an accident.
It wasn't. It still isn't. I meant that with every bit of courage I had managed to muster that night, and you just shot me down, brushed it off, and wanted to forget. I couldn't forget, dickhead. I tried to forget about the way you look when you smile, or how you felt against me when we would roughhouse, or how you listen to your cassettes, and the moon that turns your hair purple. I tried to forget so that it wouldn't ruin the friendship, but when I couldn't urge the memories to leave, I kissed you. And it wasn't an accident.
I really hate you, Richie Tozier. I really do. You were my best friend, the only stable source of sanity I had to cling onto when my life went to shit. When my dad went crazy, you were my rock. When he got worse, you kept me grounded. Do you realize that? I know I never told you, but you were my anchor in the hurricane my life had become. And on top of that, I was a fucking faggot? God, just take me out of my misery now, thanks. Fuck. Even writing the words makes me want to puke, but you already know. There's no point in pretending I'm not. You already know.
Even now, that idea scares me, but it's oddly comforting in a way. We aren't friends anymore, but you still know and keep this huge colossal disgusting secret about me like you remember the pinky promise we made each other when we were eight. I don't know if you remember that, but we promised to never tell anybody about our darkest secrets. You never had secrets, but you still kept mine. Thank you.
That doesn't change the fact that I hate you. Going back two paragraphs, you were the only constant in my life that felt safe. And you know what you did when I decided to share my soul with you? Never fucking spoke to me again. I thought it would pass, that you would get tired of hanging out with Beverly Marsh and you would knock on my bedroom window and ask to arm wrestle, but you never did. You were done with me. You were done. I miss it, but I don't think I want it back. It will never be the same, no matter how hard we try.
I take it back- we did speak once after the kiss. You saw me picking on some pip squeak with a Bozo the Clown lunchbox, and you had said 'Do you have to be such an asshole, Hen?' You never liked picking on kids, but I suppose you have no reason to enjoy it in the first place. You don't need to feel tough, or masculine, or strong. You feel all those things on your own because you aren't a queer like me. I told you to mind your own business, and you said 'I'm just not going to sit back and pretend like this is fun to watch. I'm not going to be around you anymore if this is how you act.'
That was the last time we spoke.
I left you alone in the halls, and in return, you forgot about me. I could tell. You didn't look up when we brushed shoulders, and when you walked through an alley my gang and I were smoking in, you barely even lifted your head. I stopped existing to you, and I don't think I've ever felt a more gut wrenching feeling before in my life. My own best friend. Disgusted with me. Because I'm a fag.
Now, you can imagine my absolute blind rage when I found out that you've been slutting around with the stuttering freak's group. Belch told me all about how you walked Wheezy to class like a god damn girlfriend, and how he kissed your cheek and everything. I was infuriated. He didn't want to actually fight you, but after telling me this, I itched to beat your face in like I did the night we kissed, just to get revenge for all the fucking hurt you've caused me over the past years. Fuck you, Tozier. I wanted to kill you.
But as soon as I heard pipsqueak screaming for me to get off, and I saw the way that you smiled at him through all that blood, and the way you promised to see him later, I just grew... very glum.
Why did it have to be Eddie Kaspbrak? You barely know him, Richie. He doesn't understand you the way that I did, and he doesn't know what subjects to avoid, or what to say when you get in your pissy moods. Why him? What is so special about a walking asthma attack?
I guess I just can't wrap my head around it. You've never spoken to them before, but when you do, you're suddenly head over heels for Wheezy? What is so fucking great about a fannypack wearing queer? What does he have that makes him so special in your eyes? What about him isn't an accident, but our kiss is? We were best friends, Richie. Can Wheezy say the same? Can he?
Why him? Why him? Of all the boys in our grade, why did you have to go and be gay with Eddie Kaspbrak? What's so special? What does he have that I don't? Why him?
Why wasn't it me?
Henry Bowers.
sorry, meant Hen.
Richie sets the letter on his lap, staring up at Mike and Ben struggling to pick up a particularly heavy water-logged tree trunk. Beverly watches, her hand held up to her forehead to protect her light eyes from the sun. Just then, as if she feels Richie's eyes on her, she looks over her shoulder and shoots him a sweet smile. Richie returns her wave, then looks back down at the letter on his lap.
Out of everything that Henry Bowers has just confessed, the most Richie took away from it is the fact that he is accusing Richie of loving Eddie Kaspbrak.
And the thing is, Richie doesn't think he's wrong.