Interrupted
Richie watched as Stan slid his paperback bird book out of
the back pocket of his tightly-fitting jeans, still making their way through the rough Barrens. Stan was muttering to himself, "Are you sure it was a male
cardinal? They're rarely seen here in Derry." Memories of the Standpipe flashed
briefly in Stan's mind, and he shook his head forcefully.
"Hey, Stan my man, you alright?" Richie inquired as Stan was putting back his
trusty bird book. He knew not to try to use any of his voices. Stan was never
very stable when he was shooken up.
Stan looked over at Richie and shrugged. "I don't know," he mumbled. "Ever since the thing on Neibolt Street.. and now with Eddie's arm broken... it's crazy. Are you sure we're meant to stop it?" The slim 11-year-old's hand was trembling as he brushed the dirt off the cuff of his jeans. Stan hated to be dirty. Richie nodded.
As they reached the clearing, Richie stooped and pulled up the trapdoor,
revealing their underground clubhouse. He lowered himself into the darkness.
"None of the others are back from lunch yet," he informed Stan, who was
squatting near the entrance. Richie had to force himself not to whisper, for it
seemed necessary when his face was so close to Stan's. Richie retreated farther
down to the dirt floor. He saw first Stan's feet, then his knees, appear in the
opening. Stan dropped all the way in and fumbled around blindly.
"Richie? Where did you go? Don't tell me you think Jews can see in the dark,
too."
Richie grinned and announced, "Stan gets off a Good One!" He scooted closer to
the front of the dirt room, now inches away from Stan. "I'm here," he said, no
longer fighting the urge to whisper.
"Richie, I'm scared. All this stuff with the Standpipe.. and the Teenage
Werewolf... and don't even get me started on Henry Bowers. What are we going to
do?" The floor started vibrating slightly as Stan's shivers continued.
Richie thought for a moment. He was always careful about what he did around Bill because Bill was powerful. He was off-limits, somehow. But Stan... Stan was different. Richie slid over until he was sitting next to Stan, and slipped his arm around the other boy's shoulders. Stan settled into Richie's embrace. "We'll be okay, as long as we always stay together, and the rest of the Losers, too," Richie said, barely audibly, as goosebumps broke out on his arms from the physical contact.
Stan smiled slightly and rested his forehead on Richie's chin. "Guys can hug
when they're sad," he offered, although he knew they were both enjoying it.
Suddenly he felt very old.
"I kn-" Richie was cut off as sunlight flooded the small room. Stan and Richie
scrambled to opposite ends.
A struggling yet distinctive voice was heard from above. "W-wh-hen did y-you
guh-guh-guys get here?" Bill asked, landing on the ground with them.
"Oh, about ten minutes ago," Stan managed, after looking at Richie, who was
concentrating on examining his fingernails.
Bill looked closely at Richie, trying to decide if it was worth the trouble to
ask if something was wrong. He decided not. "W-wh-well, come on, th-th-hen,
wh-we're guh-going to puh-play Parcheesi wh-wi-ith Eddie." Bill sighed, cursing
his stutter, and pulled himself out of the pit. Richie went up next, grabbing
the hinges of the trapdoor and swinging his legs upward. He bent down again to
help Stan get out, and they shared one last look into each other's eyes before
the sunlight captured them.
