now and then

II. Of Splinters, Cigarettes, and Jackie Wilson

then

"Didn't know what time it was, the lights were low, I leaned back on my radio, some cat was layin' down some rock'n—"

There's a cigarette in front of his face. So, naturally, Richie reaches up and pulls off the headphones, passing them to his right as he grabs the cigarette in his left hand.

"Vermont's got a real underground music scene," Bevvie is saying. "Hair bands. Garage bands. Lot of local stuff. Could be really cool."

"M-hmm," Richie has been saying.

"I can't wait to get invited to real parties. Music shows. House parties where college kids get high and talk philosophy. Not like the shit people do here, just 'cause they're bored out of their minds and wanna get drunk just to feel something."

"Yeah," Richie says, but it's a 'yeah' that he means. In fact, this whole conversation has served, if nothing else, to make him long for Vermont, of all places. And that tiny spark of jealousy—which first showed up when Bev had announced she was moving away at the end of the summer—was now no longer so tiny.

Bev, breaking the magical bubble of the moment, turns on her side to face him and takes off her headphones, discarding them on the bed. She props her head up—to really look at him—resting an elbow on the mattress.

"You know, I talk a lot about Vermont, Richie, I know I do. But thanks for listening, anyway."

"Yeah, no problem. I don't mind."

"I know. But...look, the reason I talk about it so much..."

"You're excited."

"I'm nervous," she says, and Richie blinks in surprise.

"Terrified, actually," Bev continues. "Richie, I...I'm going to miss you all so much, sometimes it kills me. Really kills me. Running my mouth about Vermont is the only thing that distracts me. It keeps me sane. I know everyone must be real sick of it, though. I think I would be."

It's moments like these where he thinks he really understands Bev on a very deep level. Deeper than he understands Ben or Mike or Bill, or even Stan. Maybe even Eddie.

Bev reconfirms that when she says: "Nobody else gets it. None of the others—certainly not Ben or Bill. Whenever I say anything to them about it they look like they're gonna start crying."

Richie rolls his eyes, and takes a drag. "That's because those two think you hung the moon, Bev."

She blushes. "Yeah, maybe. I didn't, though."

"You're tellin' me. You can't even hang your damn posters right."

Richie is looking—pointedly—at the depressingly crooked Siouxsie and the Banshees poster on the opposite wall.

Bev laughs, and it's not exactly groundbreaking that the sound is pretty and makes him feel good.

"You don't look at me like that," she says, and it's not a question.

"Aw, sure I do, Bevvie. It's just different. I don't wanna get in your pants."

"No, you don't," she says, and that's not a question, either.

There's a pause.

"I used to, I think. Maybe. For like, two seconds."

She raises one eyebrow in his direction.

"Quarry. Underwear. 'Bust a Move' on your boombox."

"Ah. Right."

It was true. He'd been so enamored with her, then. But he'd looked at the way the others were looking at her that day, eyes raking up and down her body, and he knew it was different. He liked girls, he thought. He did. Quite a bit. And if Bevvie were anyone else, he knew he'd be head-over-heels in love with her. But Bevvie was Bevvie. It was hard to think of her as anything else. That day, at the quarry, she'd looked good. Really good. But all Richie had felt for her was admiration. She was so cool—so effortlessly cool, and free-spirited, and reckless and wild and kind and wonderful, and Richie'd wished he was half the person she was.