#kassiewrites

DEAR LOSERS' CLUB,

No, that wasn't personal enough. You wanted each of them to know what they meant to you. Each of them.

DEAREST BEVERLY,

Why must your thoughts always drift to her first? Why can't she be third or fifth?

TO RICHIE,

You huff dramatically and crumple the notebook paper, attempting to toss it into the waste bin a few feet away.

A detached sigh tumbles from the wide desk across from you, and your history teacher slowly retracts his novel from in front of him to reveal an unamused expression.

He rolls his tongue against his cheek, and waits. When he is met with silence, he shifts in his seat. "... Aren't you, uh... Against wasting trees or whatever?"

You blink. "Yeah, obviously."

"Yeah, obviously!" Mr. Ellis laughs bitterly, and rolls his eyes. "Well, can you waste them a bit quieter?"

Before you can respond, he puts up a finger like he's suddenly been enlightened. "Or, better yet— Leave."

You tap your fingertips against your thighs, and kick your feet up onto your desk. "You know, if I didn't know better, Mr. Ellis, I'd think you didn't like me or something."

He stares at you blankly. "And where on Earth did you come up with that idea?"

You shrug, "No clue. Mr. Ellis, can I confide in your honest feedback on something?"

"I imagine you will anyway—"

"—So, listen... I'm going on a personal journey when summer break is over and I'm afraid I won't ever see you again," You explain, curving your brows inward. Your teacher uses his index finger to trace a single tear gliding down his cheek. "And, um, I don't— I don't know how to.. How do I tell the only true friends I've ever had?"

He pretends to think it over long and hard. "Let me see..."

"I don't care," He finishes, picking up his novel where he left off.

You scowl, and drop your forehead against the surface of your desk, the echo reverberating throughout the empty classroom, save for two people.

Mr. Ellis unwraps a cookie and takes a large bite, and glances at you intermediately between pages. He sighs again. "Will you leave if I tell you what to do?"

"Faster than when the lunch bell rings," You chirp, grinning brightly and leaning forward eagerly on your desk.

He rolls his eyes and puts his feet up on his desk, and pressing his back into his chair. "Go have some fun. Get high. Jump off roofs and ding-dong ditch. Just go be a kid, and tell them when the time is right. Okay?"

   A light breeze rushes through the windows propped open with history textbooks, rustling the papers stacked on Mr. Ellis's large desk. Outside, the faint echo of laughter and summer jitters resounds within the four walls surrounding you.

You nod firmly, and skip to an open window.

Tossing him a grin, you give some finger guns. You crawl up onto the large sill, and before you hop out, Mr. Ellis calls your name.

He has the softest expression you've ever seen on him. "Listen— It's been a pleasure having you. Even if you were the loudest, most persistent, and possibly the worst student I've ever had. Just, uh— Be honest with your friends, okay? Don't wait 'til the last minute. They'll never forgive you if you do."

You give him a two-finger salute before hopping out the window.

You found out you were moving away from Derry in early April, due to an accident involving your grandfather's motorcycle obsession, but there was never really a good time to tell the people you've been slumming it with since you were eleven. The first time you tried, Richard Tozier pushed you off a cliff (a story for another time), and the second time, Ben burned himself on Beverly's flat iron (also a long story). The third time, the words fell dead on your lips when Stanley Uris told you you were the closest thing to a best friend he had.

You swear he was on the verge of tears.

So, you postponed. Now, it's late May, and you haven't said a word to them.

You know you have to tell them— You know this, you do, but the timing is never right. At least, that's what you keep telling yourself— Because somehow the words "you're a coward" are far too intimidating to admit.

Especially to yourself.

Heat swells across your cheeks, the massive, and rowdy, kitchen bustling with voices and feet. Your apron hugs your waist and you peer over your shoulder at Beverly, whose red hair is vibrant against the pale walls. Her blue eyes glance up to meet yours, and they are gentle. Bristling, you face Stanley on your right, who is speaking softly with an elderly woman on the other side of the counter.

The soup kitchen is a bit vacant in terms of people to serve, as it's the first few minutes before the dinner crowd pools in at seven. This time is the most peaceful— Pots and pans full of nutritional foods are filling up quick, and you're all anxious to help anybody who walks in the doors.

In Derry, there isn't much funding for volunteer work, so you do what you can— The local church offered up lodging for the soup kitchen, so you're all pretty thankful for the church leaders.

You study Stanley silently, his eyes focused and mild as he speaks with the woman. He's grown quite a bit since last summer, and he let his hair grow out a bit, so now it's a wild mess of curls. You like that he's eased up on the product, so he's all-natural. In order to catch what the woman is saying, he leans forward, in all his 5'8" glory.

He glances at you and places a hand on the woman's shoulder. "Thank you for telling me, Louanne. I'll see what I can do."

She smiles. "Bless you, Stephen."

You snort while she waddles off, and Stanley leans on the counter with his attention locked on you. There's a hint of amusement in his eyes.

"She seems sweet," You say, "How you liking volunteering, Stephen?"

He tries to prevent himself from laughing. "Stop! That's so mean, she's sick."

"What ever do you mean?" You quip, leaning on the counter next to him. Stan rubs your hair into a frizzy mess and stands tall.

"Uris, I need you over here on dishes," Willow, your team leader, shouts from across the kitchen. You can only briefly catch her curvy figure before she disappears behind the doorway.

"Nah, Willow, I got it! Stan's good with the old ladies. Real player, this one," You respond, poking Stan's stomach, "Maybe you'll get lucky."

"That's gross! Go away."

You laugh maniacally.

The dinner rush is heavy once seven hits, but it fades out at about 7:45. People are ecstatic that's it stew night because they are allowed to take a styrofoam bowl on the go. A few stragglers are permitted to camp the night out in the main hall, as the homeless aren't taken to kindly in Derry. Mayor claims it's 'bad' for traffic and tourism, but you know that Derry is the last place anyone would want to tour in. You're pretty sure it's been wiped off the maps, but that's a conspiracy theory for another time, one that Richie had so kindly coined.

Most of the kids who volunteer at the soup kitchen in the church are hoping to capture some hours for the college applications, but you volunteered because you felt like it was the right thing to do; It was simply convenient that it looked good on apps.

There's light shuffling and clanging as volunteers work to clear up the church for Sunday mass. You balance a tray of plates and glasses pressed against your chest with one arm, while you wipe down a table. There's a hand on your shoulder that suddenly startles you, causing you to drop the tray on instinct.

Glass shatters everywhere, then silence.

"Fuck!" You whisper violently, and you drop to your knees, frantically trying to pick up as many shards as possible before Willow comes screaming.

Beverly is beside you, as is Stanley, and all three of your try to clean the mess.

"God, I'm so sorry," Beverly says, "I didn't mean to freak you out."

"Uh, no, no, it's okay," You reply quickly, looking up at her. She smiles softly.

You flush and revert your attention back to the problem at hand. Your cheeks burn a bit, so you try to ignore it— But it leads to carelessness, and you give yourself a clean cut across your forefinger.

Hissing, you retract your hand and examine the damage. The minute you notice red, you become uneasy. Beverly and Stanley both take a sharp inhale.

"Oh, God— Uh, Stan, you got this? I'm gonna go get her cleaned up," Beverly says.

"Yeah, I got it."

"Thanks. C'mon, let's go," Beverly tells you, but you shake your head.

"I'm fine! S'just a cut. I can slap a bandaid on it later," You reassure her, but she's not having it.

"Now," She warns, gripping your arm softly.

Bottom line, Beverly Marsh can make you do anything she wants you to.

You kick your legs out in a steady beat, seated on a counter, while Bev digs around the first aid kit in the storage room. Her back is facing you, so you have a chance to study the freckles up the top of her spine and into her hairline.

You hold your right hand with your wrist, squeezing harder each time your wound throbs.

"Got it," Bev whispers, and she turns quickly. Positioning herself between your knees, she takes a hold of your finger and wipes it briefly with a wet cotton ball. Next, she uses a clean one to wipe disinfectant across the slit. "How bad does it hurt?"

You lie. "Not much."

Her blue eyes look at you with amusement. "Please."

"Okaaay. A bit more than 'not much'."

"Hm," Beverly applies a bit of cream on your cut. "What kind of bandaid do you want?"

She holds up plain, princess, and car bandaids.

"What the fuck are those? Gender-specific bandages?"

She says your name sternly.

You sigh. "Princess, please."

Beverly smiles and opens the package.

The room is quiet for all except the rustling of the paper, and you pop your mouth awkwardly.

"Hey," Bev says slowly, "Um, listen... You do realize that Stan—"

The door is cracked open and the curly head of Stanley peeks through. "Hey... The cut isn't bad, is it?"

You and Bev glance at each other, and Bev shakes her head.

"No, not at all. Just finishing up," She replies, sticking the pink bandaid on your wound. You hop down and wiggle your finger at Stanley with a grin.

"Good as new!"

He smiles softly. "Glad you're okay. I cleaned up all the glass, so don't worry about it."

"Okay! Thanks, Stan," You say, hooking your arm around his neck. He prickles a bit but relaxes immediately.

Beverly unties her apron and lays it on her forearm while she walks on your free side. "M' still upset Ben couldn't make it."

"Me too," You agree, "He was really looking forward to it."

"He can always go without us," Stan adds.

"It's not the same, though!" You say.

Stan shrugs.

It's humid outside the church, but that's to be expected during the summer. The sky is a deep cloudy sapphire, with the buzz of bugs filling the air. The older volunteers disappear into their cars while you, Stanley, and Beverly talk amongst yourselves. Bulbs above the entrance are the only source of light within a few yards.

Beverly puts her weight on her left foot, the gravel beneath her crackling while she recites a story Bill told her about local legends.

Just as she reaches the climax, the church doors creak open and Willow appears. She keeps her back to you while she locks the entrance, and once she turns, she eyes the three of you.

"Y'all need a ride?"

All of you glance at each other, and Stanley checks his watch.

"We'd love one!" You chirp, giving him a light shove.

"If it's alright with you, of course," Bev adds.

"I wouldn't have asked if it wasn't!" Willow says sharply, but without venom. "Hop in."

Somehow, you end up squeezed in the middle, with Stanley and Beverly on each of your sides. You scowl, eyeing the passenger seat with a purse in it.

Stan's clearly uncomfortable, his shoulders curved inward while he anxiously taps his kneecaps. He seems to be looking everywhere but at you and Bev.

"Everything okay?" You whisper.

He shrugs. "Yeah, just, uh— My mom isn't big on me getting home so late from the kitchen; She wants me to quit."

"That's fucked," You say.

"Hey!" Willow barks, glaring at you through the rearview mirror. "I may your super cool team leader, but I still don't appreciate you using a dirty mouth in my car."

You snicker, and she bursts into laughter.

Beverly pokes your shoulder. "Hey, um— Would... Would it be cool if I stayed with you tonight? My dad, he, um... He went out drinking when I woke up, so—"

"Of course," You interrupt. "Stay however long you need."

"Thanks..." Bev says quietly, and she leans against the window of the car.

Willow pulls up into your driveway within five minutes, and Bev steps out. You make an effort to give Stan a brief hug before you go, and he gives you a little wave as Willow leaves.

You and Bev remain quiet when you sneak into the house through the front door, in fear you might wake your mother. When you enter the living room and see the woman's knocked out cold with the television on, you wave Beverly upstairs. She obliges.

You creep up to your mother and crouch next to her head. She's got a bit of drool pooling on the cushion, and you crinkle your nose.

Retrieving a pillow from a loveseat, you tuck it gently beneath her head and pull a blanket over her. Giving her a quick kiss on the forehead, you leave a glass of water and ibuprofen on the coffee table.

"Does she always do that?" Is the first thing Bev says when you reach your bedroom. You're a bit taken aback, but you regroup swiftly.

"Yeah. She gets these really bad migraines," You explain, leaving your bag on the floor and kicking off your sneakers. "And, um, they can sometimes turn into seizures, so we try to let her sleep as comfortably as possible."

"Oh," Bev says, "Can I borrow some pajamas?"

"Yeah!" You reply, "Just grab something from the closet or my drawers."

"'Kay," She snags a blank tank while you pick out a yellow nightgown. You're facing the mirror when Beverly pulls off her t-shirt, and you nearly choke. You can't seem to take your eyes off her back, even when you know you've been staring for too long. "Is your little brother asleep?"

You drop your attention to the floor and quickly pull off your shirt. "Yeah, should be. I'll kill the little shithead if he's not."

Bev smiles. "He's a good kid; If he's awake, he's probably reading. He likes to read, right?"

"Yup," You pop the 'p', "He's into numbers and all that. I'll never understand it."

"He probably thinks the same thing about your art, you know."

You hum and pull the nightgown over your head. "Everybody thinks that way about art, Bev. If you're not dedicated to a nine to five office job, then you're somehow a deadbeat, leaching off the productive middle class."

Bev laughs gently, and it's airy and elegant and perfect. "You're always opinionated, you know that?"

When you toss her a quizzical look, she elaborates and walks over to face you. "Not in a negative way; It's like... It's like you must have all these thoughts swimming around in that pretty head of yours."

Pretty?

Beverly continues. "I mean, you're just so... I don't know? Most people don't care about anything, let alone the world or society. You're bound to make a difference."

You blink at her, your fairy lights hanging loosely from your window and spreading a gold light. Her ocean eyes are iridescent. She's iridescent. Her pink lips curve into a smile, and she glances at the floor.

"What?" She whispers.

You sputter. "N-Nothing. Just, um— Thanks. Thank you, really. I— I just, nobody's taken me that seriously before," You explain, tucking a thick strand of hair behind your ear. "I've always just been Loudmouth."

Bev's face melts into one of sympathy and curiosity, her long eyelashes brushing her cheeks. Gingerly, she places a hand on your shoulder, one that shoots electricity throughout your skin. Her grip tightens. "Listen. Quiet people don't do shit, okay? People who keep their opinions to themselves don't make history."

You shrug a shoulder and give her a lopsided smile. "I can't even make a difference in backwater Derry. How the hell am I supposed to change the world?"

Outside, rain begins to patter restlessly against your windowsill, keeping the stars awake. Inside, Beverly looks at you like she just might think you're a goddess.

"You've already changed mine."

Your entire life, people have told you how the world has to be: Simple, honest, and conservative. They've told you who to be, who to love, what to do. It's always been "you'll meet someone who makes you feel like the world is glowing", followed by, "don't rush, you'll find him soon". What if you don't want to find him? What if you want to find her?

What if you already have?

Beverly Marsh is incomparably the prettiest girl you've ever seen when she's jumping from the cliff into the lake below.

Scratch that, she's incomparably the prettiest girl you've ever seen, and she makes your universe glow.

She's a flash of red, shimmering, shining, iridescent; A ruby tossed into the sky like a plain penny into a wishing well.

   She's radiant, tomboyish, and beautiful.

Beverly, in all her elegance, has learned to tame your chaotic hair, your wild eyes, and the crooked pair of overalls that swallowed your thighs. Her, that gentle smile, rendered you speechless daily. You, notoriously nicknamed Loudmouth or Mouth, were silent for her.

You've already changed mine.

"Hey, Mouth! The hell are you gawking at?"

Richie Tozier waves a hand in front of you and you crank your eyes up to his squinting face. His freckles surround the massive pair of glasses on the bridge of his nose, and his black hair nearly blinds him.

You throw up a palm to block the sun, but his giant head is doing most of the work. "Your mother over there in her Sunday best."

If he swung his body around any quicker, his head might have popped off like a Barbie doll. He gazes off into the woods across the quarry, his lips upturned in an unattractive flytrap.

Beverly slips her cream-colored gown off her pale shoulders, drawing all eyes to her. The sun beats down on her chopped red locks, accenting the constellation of freckles along her nose, and warming your flesh under its rays.

Catching the way they all gaze at her, as starstruck as yourself, it hits you like a freight train— you weren't looking at her like you should have been.

Under the intensity of her icy blue gaze, you feel so small; so homely. Your chest aches, but that girl doesn't give you time to grieve. She is in the air in a split second, high like an angel, falling towards the murky waters below.

  The boys crowd around the cliff's edge, mouths gaping, eyes bright. It strikes you from the heavens, like a harsh cacophony: These aren't your boys anymore.

  You had slipped out of the world briefly, and before long, you are alone at the edge.

Sandy curls appear in front of your face, tilting to reveal the kind eyes of Stanley Uris. His mouth forms a firm line. He seems to be at war with himself as he stares out into the blue sky, dotted with white clouds.

  He stays silent for a moment, searching for the right words. "I want to go last," He finally breathes, seemingly triumphed in his verbiage, "I don't want them to see me cross my fingers behind my back before I go."

  The vulnerability he expresses warms your heart, and you grin up at him, having gained your confidence back. You are grateful he didn't pry into your dilemma. You didn't expect otherwise, but it was still nice. Stanley is a boy of few words, but the word 'shy' doesn't fit right, as it implies bashfulness or a sweet innocence.

   Rather, he prefers the quality of speech over quantity, believing that the chattiest voices aren't always the loudest. A respectable notion, sure, but you tend to believe it in theory rather than in practice.

   Stanley's thin frame makes no unnecessary movements, but rather awaits yours. One of his hands cuffs the other in front of his hips. The cool breeze had only an inch to squeeze between within the crevice of your shoulders.

You pull your yellow scrunchie from your hair, and wrap it around your wrist, as Stanley speaks, "Promise not to tell?"

“Pinky promise,” You insist, holding up the smallest finger on your right hand. When his wraps around yours, you toss him a childlike grin. “I never break them.”

   You're gone, cascading down towards the green waters, each wave crystallizing in your descent.

     "I know."

Stanley crosses his fingers behind his back and steps off the cliff's rocky edge.

Stan’s dive is a flash of gold: Like a bird, graceful in its dip, his curls like its wings.

  You find yourself wanting to ask him what it's like to fly.

The water is cool, luckily fizzling the heat out of your cheeks when Beverly appears beside you, grinning softly at—

Bill.

You swallow thickly and turn your head to Richie and Eddie arguing about something pointless. Richie's skin is set ablaze every time Eddie points a finger at him or moves closer.

Across from you, Ben's eyes are set on your face, and you nearly jump when yours land on them. He sputters silently and glances over to the boulders near the trees.

You tilt your head in question, "Ben, what is it?" It's too late now, but you realize you weren't very subtle. At all.

He facepalms. "Can we, uh...?"

Nodding in understanding, you doggy paddle through the lake and onto the shore. Ben is quickly beside you.

The boy leads you over to the boulders and sits on a large one. His hands are glued to his knees, and you can tell he's anxious.

You lean your elbows on your thighs and wait.

"U-U-Um— Can I..? Would you..?" He shakes his head suddenly and regroups. "I need— I need help with something..."

"...Okay..?" You gesture for him to elaborate.

"Can you help me write love notes to Beverly?" He spits out softly, and you choke on your own spit.

You stand up abruptly, like you sat on a pin, and cross your arms. Your brows curl inward in confusion, embarrassment, and anxiety. "W-What? Sorry, I don't— Why?"

"Because... You are a girl, you know? You know a lot more personal stuff about her, I think, right?" He asks, rubbing his clammy palms together.

"Uh," You run your fingers up your arm, "I guess? I don't think... That would be... She doesn't..."

He gives you an awkward crooked smile. "I mean, it's okay 'cause you're a girl. I wanted to ask Bill or someone else but since they're guys it might be different..."

"H-How so?"

"Well— You know. They might secretly like her or something," Ben says, staring at the dirt by his feet.

You swallow, and glance out to the water; To where she is. Beverly meets your eyes and smiles gently. Your stomach does a flip.

"Can I— Can I think about it?" You inquire softly, and Ben nods swiftly.

"Yes! Yes, of course. That's okay," He sounds a bit sad.

You reach out and rub his shoulder. "You're an amazing person, Ben, you know that? She'd love anything you wrote to her."

You smile crookedly, the corner of your mouth twitching.

Ben nods slowly and shakes his arms a bit to free himself of nerves. "You're right— I should just be more confident..."

He's obviously trying to convince himself more than you.

"Bev—" He shouts suddenly, and she looks over with a grin. One of her hands runs through her hair, and you can feel her eyes burning holes in your face just seconds before she focuses on him. "You look beautiful today!"

Beverly Marsh smiles ever so gently, her cheeks blossoming in a shade of scarlet. The freckles lining the bridge of her nose accent the brightness of her eyes, and you swallow thickly.

She really does.

Tapping a pen against a thick sheet of paper, you push your tongue against your cheek and read over the words again.

PROS:

♡ helping ben!

♡ practicing writing!

♡ practicing stationary!

♡ getting ben and bev together!

♡ making bev feel good!

♡ getting over the butterflies?

You scowl. The hell does that mean? You glance at the clock, which reads 8:37. You consider the pros to writing anonymous love letters to Beverly, which seems to be a lot— And the selfish part of you tells you that it would be beneficial to you— How so? You're not quite sure, as admitting to yourself that it even took nearly an hour.

Within your friend group, you've always been relatively open— Keeping up with honesty, kindness, and always wearing your heart on your sleeve. Stanley said it was naive to do so, but you feel that in a world that is so blatantly harsh and negative, being real with those around you is a heap of good. So why is it suddenly so difficult to be honest with yourself?

You concentrate your thoughts of Beverly, so that you might understand, or in the least identify, what exactly your true intentions with her are. Immediately, your stomach curls, and you feel your insides turn to mush. These sensations are familiar— You've had countless encounters with them.

You picture her in your head, memorize the features of her that always seem to stick when she's around. Her red hair, her freckles, those eyes... And her lips. The curve of them when she grins, or laughs— And briefly, ever so, you imagine what'd they'd be like pressed against yours—

"Hey," Your mom says, your door now swung open, and you scream, tipping out of your desk chair. You land flat against your back and groan.

Your heart beats painfully in your ribcage.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. Come do the dishes," She tells you, and you nod profusely.

You inhale through your nostrils and run your fingers through your hair, sighing. Once she's gone, you push your head into the crook of your elbow.

Tears unravel into your arm.

Why did it have to be Beverly Marsh?

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