summer camp

Six

On the fourth day of camp, Henry made it to page 26 of the book. It wasn't that he was having a difficult time reading or anything, he just wanted to take his time and cherish the one distraction he had available. Or, at least, that's what he told himself.

Henry didn't understand Charlie's character entirely at that point, but that was fine. He had another 198 pages for that. As he read, he was interrupted by someone coming into the cabin, and he wasn't sure who he would be most relieved to see- Richie, or a camp counselor, yelling at him to get out there and go canoeing with all of the other boys.

Richie came in before Henry decided who he wanted to see least, and he locked himself in the bathroom to take another shower. He glared at the closed door before returning to his book, and he suddenly found himself amazed at his own actions. Sure, he threatened Richie a time or two, but never laid a hand on him so far- and a book? The only book he'd laid a finger on before The Perks of Being a Wallflower was The Mouse and the Motorcycle, his favorite book as a kid. Not that he had any other options for his "favorite."

When Richie came back out, Henry made it to page 28. He looked up again and narrowed his eyes, watching Richie walk across the room and plop down on the bottom bunk with a miserable look on his face. Henry could make out Richie's hands shaking- maybe only slightly, but he could still notice it- and the thin paleness of his face. Was Richie that scared of him?

After Henry watched him curl onto his side and pull his blanket over his shoulders, he figured Richie was just sick. He wasn't sure how, but Richie fell asleep pretty quickly. Even Henry had trouble falling asleep when he knew his dad was in the living room, but here the two of them were, in the same exact room, right across from each other. No matter how much he thought about it, Richie slept on. Henry laid across from him, on his own bed, staring at him from a distance. Sure, they were pretty far apart, but all Henry had to do was sit up and lean forward with his arms stretched out and he could touch Richie. Not that he wanted to.

Henry put his book down next to his side and stared at Richie. It was abnormal, staring right across the room at someone who he used to torment, without feeling the need to get up and strangle him in his sleep. He began to notice things he never noticed before, like how lifeless Richie's face was when he wasn't cracking a joke or crying after having his nose bloodied. Richie was always just talking, or laughing, or doing something. He wondered why Richie was so hyperactive.

Richie didn't snore. He made a different type of noise, something so quiet and so soft it could barely be considered a snore. Henry couldn't describe the noise himself, even if he really, really wanted to. And Richie didn't look so bug-eyed without his glasses on, either. Henry couldn't remember if Richie took them off before he went to sleep or if he came out of the bathroom without them on, but it didn't matter.

Then, he really started thinking. Was Richie putting on an act? Was he truly as upset as Henry was? Henry didn't think someone could put on an act like that since they met- in second grade- but Henry didn't know what Richie went through.

And then another thought. What if he never beat up the Losers in the first place? Would he have ever talked to Richie? Would they still hate each other? Would they have never met?

Henry's train of thought was interrupted by Richie's movement. He was waking up. Henry wasn't sure how much time he spent staring at him while he was sleeping, but he was putting an end to that right away. He picked up his book and opened it, pretending he was reading the whole time.

If Richie noticed this, he didn't give any sign of it.