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THOUGH THEY WERE MUFFLED, she was certain of the boys' arrival due to the rowdy voices that approached with their socks pulled all the way up past their ankles. Beverly leaped down the stairs of the fire escape, treading on her cigarette and twisting it into the gravel. Romilda was relieved that Eddie had decided to take up her offer, and had even done her the favour of bringing the others, too. The boys were wheeling their technicolored bicycles down the main street, and the ginger beckoned them down the side alley that led to her apartment block with a wave of her hand.
They didn't seem too shocked by her miraculous appearance, nor the fact that she had materialised from an alley and that Romy was now watching them from overhead, from the second level of the fire escape, as they parked their bikes up against the wall (or on the floor, in Richie's case, as he was the less meticulous of the group). They noticed her, from the dark hair that cupped her face and a stripy mustard-coloured t-shirt, but Ben was the only one who waved.
She had to strain, but she could hear her voices, as it was quiet compared to the main street, where there was a light Sunday morning hustle and bustle in the farmer's market; her Uncle Ted used to take her there when he was well, and they'd comment on all the cheeses and the milk and the dairy product that was sold. He told her tall tales of the way they made these products, always in an attempt to convert the whole family to vegetarians.
Without a doubt, Megan and Romy were on board with the whole ordeal, but Patrick, not so much. He had always been controlled by an unheard of spite towards their Uncle Ted, and harboured even more distaste towards him than the next person. It seemed, he'd known something that Romy hadn't.
"I need to — I need to show you something," Beverly began, trying not to let the words lodge in her throat. She wrung her pale hands together uncertainly. For some reason or another, she seemed to be unsure on how to string together a sentence that was able to convey there's-blood-coating-every-surface-in-my-bathroom-and-I-don't-know-where-it-came-from.
"What is it?" Bill inquired, his light blue eyes alert and wide with curiosity. Romy hadn't known what the little missing Georgie had looked like, excepted his warped and vacant look on a MISSING poster, with all the Denbrough family details in a brazen, desperate font. She imagined that Bill and Georgie were very similar.
"More than what we saw at the quarry?" Richie quipped, and Romy watched him adjust the positioning of his glasses upon the ridge of his nose.
"Shut up! Just shut up, Richie."
Beverly hesitated. "My dad would kill me if he found out I had boys in the apartment," she said, toché, thought Romy — her aunt would make her ride shotgun on the Highway to Hell if she found out that her niece had snuck — what was it, five? — six? (she counted them quickly, five), five boys into their home. However, their definitions of being "killed" by their legal guardians were very different.
