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Valentine’s in Derry, Maine is like Easter in hell. Counterproductive, and a little too on the nose to be funny. So far, Richie Tozier’s been gifted a passionate pre-lunch swirlie, a tender post-calculus knuckle sandwich, and right now she’s in for the grandest, most romantic gesture of her life. Richie tries to duck, cover, and run - but it’s too late. DING DING DING.
From the dark, grueling corner emerges almost six-foot, one hundred and eighty pounds of America’s homegrown, corn-fed Henry Fucking Bowers. And in the opposite corner, cowering at a generous five-foot-ten (courtesy of an ill timed growth spurt that left her bell-bottoms riding mid calf) one hundred and forty pounds of Derry’s finest sperm backwash: the unfortunate product of Margaret and Wentworth Tozier’s long ill advised night of love making. Thanks, Dad. I’m so glad you stuck the landing so I could get my ass beat.
Bowers advances on his prey, like a lion to a bunny. If the lion was dumb as rocks and the bunny had a pad that was uncomfortably sticking to her—
“Pussy!” Bowers says intelligently, as he sashays over, and in one quick, fatal, thick biceped swoop, knocks the air out of Richie Trashmouth Tozier.
But what’s this? Oh folks, oh friends and neighbors, Trashmouth has still got it! It’s a Valentine's Day miracle! The underdog— the little pup— the wounded pooch— still has a little fight left in her! Richie winds up. The audience holds its breath. Richie is— Richie is—
“Go suck your girlfriend's cock!” Henry adds (brilliant, really), punctuating it with a big shove to Richie’s forehead that sends her stumbling straight into said girlfriend. Not her girlfriend, but, you know.
“Eddie actually has a vagina!” Richie shoots back, successfully getting back at Henry and saving her dignity. (Sarcasm)
“Seriously, Richie?” Eddie groans, sandwiched between a locker covered in gum and Richie who smells vaguely medical and minty, coated in acne cream and roll on deodorant her mom insisted she try out.
“Move, dykes!”
Eddie and Richie are shoved around some more until they spill out of the front doors of Derry High. Just the cherry on top of the never-ending Valentine’s day from Holy Old Hell.
“My hair is getting all messed up, and it took me thirty fucking minutes to use the rollers— do you know how difficult this shit is? No. You don’t, cause you’re such a fucking boy—”
And really that’s the cherry on top. Eddie Kaspbrak and her ridiculous, big-ass updo, all primped for a date with her ridiculous, big-ass boyfriend. Thank you, Saint Valentine. Truly. What a gift!
Fortunately, Richie had tuned her out somewhere between my and hair. She swings a long leg over her bike, and doesn’t start peddling till a familiar weight settles in behind her, thin arms circling her pudgy middle.
Eddie and Richie always ride double.
Richie peddles violently, trying to shake off all the stupid, hung-up red lace and ribbons, the Burt-the-Turtle-Valetines-O-Grams, and all the dumb, fat, naked babies with wings, which apparently she’s the only one to find deeply disturbing. Richie hits a pebble and nearly sends Eddie flying.
“Seriously, Richie?” Eddie hisses, for the second time.
“Oh, because I saw that pebble and thought,” She uses her hands for emphasis (not ideal when steering a bike) “let me ride over this fuck-ass tiny pebble so Eddie Pissy Kaspbrak can piss in my ear some more’”
Eddie digs a poky, fork-tongued finger into Richie’s side, making her squirm and wobble harder on the bike.
“Are you still coming over to help me get ready for my date?” Eddie asks after a moment, almost polite. Richie can practically hear her batting her eyelashes. As if Richie would have anything better to do than shoot the shit with Eddie on Valentine's.
Richie pretends to think about it anyway.
“I just don’t get Marty’s whole thing-”
“Martin. And he doesn’t have a thing” Eddie pulls one hand away to do air quotes, another terrible choice while in motion.
“Never took him for a romantic, and now he’s doing the whole Valentines biz? What a spasmoid.” Richie bitches, because her hatred of Valentine’s Day and Eddie's ugly boyfriend are going head-to-head and the winner isn’t as clear as the Tozier-Bowers showdown.
“He is romantic. He’s just shy.”
“Total fagula.” Richie decides, because obviously the whole shy guy act just means lifelong queer-induced virginity. Or something.
Eddie bends down to untie her shoes, and then, Richie’s too. Not because Richie can’t do it herself— she can— but because Eddie just does this kind of stupid motherly shit without thinking. Probably stems from the whole not actually having a mother.
“Dad’s not home. Something about wanting to visit his sister before the Valentine's rush.”
Eddie says this while digging through the dirt like a chicken about to bury its own head. Alas, no head shoving and silence yet, just frantic scratching for the house key, because, for some reason, Eddie isn’t allowed to have her own copy.
After a few more chicken-like movements, Eddie finally strikes gold. She straightens up, holding the key with a dorky little smile and waggy weenie dog eyebrows.
“Fuck, If your dads not home then who's gonna do me? Marty?” Richie quips, with an aggressively vulgar two-hand motion.
Any jab at Martin’s expense vaguely pisses Eddie off. But anything remotely sexual? Phew. Good luck. The words do me and Marty aren’t allowed within a five-foot radius of each other on Planet Kaspbrak.
Eddie unlocks the front door, and immediately slams it behind her. Richie hears the lock click. Eddie waits a good three minutes (which, in Tozier time, is roughly a bazillion) before she finally opens the door.
“I wouldn’t neva steal yaw limp-peen boyfrien’, S’ghetti!” Richie trills in her Belle of the Ball Voice. The door slams and she’s locked out again.
When Richie is finally allowed in, she bolts straight to the fridge. She needs the protein and all. She says as much, as she’s yanked away from Mister K’s beautifully stocked kitchen, to the devils nest (Eddie’s room).
“I need the protein and all!”
“Fuck. No. My dads gonna come home and ask who ate all the Ding Dongs and he knows i’m watching my figure so he’ll-“
Richie trips over her own big feet, nearly face planting into the doorframe. Stupid Kaspbraks and their house made for five-feet-and-under elves. She scrambles upright and plants a giant paw right in front of Eddie. “Watching your figure?”
Eddie flushes, and without further defense mechanisms, punches Rich in the boob.
“Ow! Eds, What the fuck?” Richie groans, groping dramatically at her chest, “I’m just confused! You weigh as much as my left thigh— and Marty is breaching wheelchair-user territory—“
Eddie shoves past Richie, stomps into her bedroom, and throws open the closet door. She starts angrily pulling out what she calls blouses and Richie calls itchy.
“It’s not for Martin, okay?! Daddy says I'm becoming a young lady and have to start-“ Eddie stops mid-sentence. One glance at Richie and she knows better than to finish. Richie’s about to rip Eddie’s dad a new one.
“Whatever! Be fat for the rest of your life and never get a boyfriend!” Eddie yells instead, which would probably offend anyone else on the planet. Richie just flops onto the bed, kicking a couple teddy bears off in the process.
“Fine. But when Marty gives you one of those big hearts full of chocolate, I call dibs. Because you’re watching your figure,” Richie says, pursing her lips and sucking in her stomach for dramatic effect. A hilarious spectacle, however Eddie is far too busy tearing through her closet to notice.
Richie reaches for a comic, but unfortunately catches a glimpse of Eddie's crumbling Sindy-Sad-Doll face, and has to intervene.
“Just wear the boob dress,” Rich sighs, stretching her long arms over her head. Total nonchalance.
Eddie’s head whips around, her now very messed up curls adding to the drama. “Gross!” Then, a half second later, “What boob dress? What the fuck are you talking about!?”
Richie tries to rise smoothly, but her ankle catches in a bed sheet. She flails just enough to keep Eddie in suspense. “You know. Last year's winter formal? When you were totally shitting yourself because you couldn't find a dress that matches the theme, Star War’s lollapalooza or whatever-”
“Night in the stars” Eddie mutters absently, correcting her.
“-So Bill lent you that blue dress. With the sparkles. And the cleavage.”
Eddie’s nose scrunches, offended, naturally. Leave it up to Prudy to find the word cleavage offensive. Eddie throws her hands up in the air. “Yeah, well, idiot, that was Bill’s dress. I don’t have it.”
“Tsk tsk tsk”, Richie tuts, delighted, “You’re a fucking liar because Big Bill said the dress didn’t fit her ever duh-duh-developing buh-buh-body anymore,” she mimics, and does a strange curvy silhouette motion with her hands (Eddie makes another face) “And she let you keep it. So, hah!”
“Hah what?” Eddie demands, dropping another prudish blouse. Probably something her dad bought her after telling her to Watch Her Figure. Whatever the fuck that means. Richie feels herself getting angry, but she stays focused. She’s winning right now.
“Hah! Because Marty’s a fucking gaybo and you don’t want to show him your tits!” Richie declares triumphantly. She considers standing on the bed to emphasize her victory. Reconsiders when she sees Eddie’s furious face, mushed together like sat on putty. And does it anyway.
“Your boyfriends a f-” Richie starts, so incredibly close to the finish line, until Eddie magically apparates from her spot next to the closet, to the bed, and uses her entire body weight (probably half of Richie’s) to tackle her.
Richie falls backward, slamming her head against Eddie's flowery, twirly-shit headboard. Her glasses knock off her face and when she reaches for them,Eddie snatches them up (kindly placing them on the bedside drawer to prevent further damage) before using her free hand to (less kindly) shove Richie’s face into the comforter, her boney knees digging into Richie’s sides.
“My boyfriend's a what, huh?” Eddie asks, smushing Richie down. Richie manages to shout faggot through the near-soundproof muffling. Eddie just shoves her head down harder.
“Say that a-fucking-gain!”
“Faggotfaggotfaggot”
“I’m gonna fucking kill you!”
Eddie brushes a hand through her bangs, and then reaches for the Aqua Net. She shakes the can hard and then coats her entire head. The motion is almost cinematic, paralleling a younger version of herself shaking her aspirator while clutching her chest. Richie can’t decide if she misses that Eddie. This Eddie is pretty great, too.
“Are you sure the dress isn’t too much?” She asks, shifting side to side in the mirror.
“No. And if Martin says any dumb shit about it then he really is a f…” Richie thinks for a moment, “idiot.” she finishes.
It’s not like Eddie looks super totally alien all dressed up. Most of the losers get zipped up into tulle and sequined dresses and let their moms do their makeup for the lame-o school dances they go to to make fun of everyone. It’s just that Eddie’s not getting dressed up to sit on the bleachers and point out bra straps and bad dancing. She’s dressing up for Marty.
“You know, when you start going steady with a boy we can totally go on double dates and crap.” Eddie says, sounding scarily close to hopeful.
“Yeah and then we can all go neck in the parking lot and trade bee jay tips. Feminism!”
Eddie shoots her a look that conveys something like I will crush you again and make you cry and I'm probably going to actually kill you one of these days (capital T trademark Eddie expression), “You are the furthest woman from feminism I've ever met. You’re like feminist's Hitler.”
“Hey— I’m Jewish!”
“Fucking barely!”
“Hitler would disagree!”
And Eddie does something beyond stupid. She smiles and giggles and Richie feels something uber awful. Eddie is going to marry some boy some day and be happy crappy and he’s going to see her smile and listen to her giggle every fucking second and Rich is gonna do crack on the street probably.
“Do my makeup, yeah?” Eddie asks, after her giggles die down, gesturing for Richie to come over and stand by the oh-so-sacred vanity. This is Eddie’s way of apologizing, Richie thinks. Apologizing for smushing Richie, or for suggesting Richie get a boyfriend, or for leaving Richie to do crack on the sidewalk? Who knows. But an apology nonetheless, because Richie really sucks at makeup and anytime she’s ever tried it has just upset her acne and turned her neck pink.
Richie begrudgingly slides over, and awkwardly hovers. “M’not good at makeup.” She huffs. Eddie laughs again. Laughs in her stupid blue dress that isn’t even hers and god why did Richie say boob dress is she five fucking years old?
“You’re staring.”
“Shut up.”
Eddie sits down in her little doll chair, smooths her/Bill’s dress, and hands Richie a big fluffy makeup brush thing. Richie isn’t really sure how to approach this. She’s handled wedgies more delicately than she’s handled the apples of Eddie’s cheeks. Richie reaches out and clumsily holds Eddie’s face still with a sweaty hand.
Eddie looks like she wants to say something mean. But she doesn’t. God bless—
“Rich your acne’s really fucking bad up close. Like I don’t think you should be allowed near my bed sheets. There’s probably a smear of grease where your face was.”
Richie abruptly drops the makeup brush, and flattens her acne riddled, pus infected, irritated from frantic face picking, cheek against Eddie’s dumb baby smooth skin.
“Gahh!!!” Eddie shrieks.
It’s not the best fuck you Richie Tozier’s ever done. Because after a glorified moment of Eddie terrified of slime-skin-transfer, it’s just Richie rubbing her face on Eddie’s, like a dog, hunched over the vanity with her ass knocking shit over. Still a pretty good fuck you though.
“You’re so fucking weird— genuinely what the fuck is wrong with you—”
There’s a knock at the front door and Richie jumps a billion feet in the air as if Mr. K has just appeared in Eddie’s bedroom and witnessed the first ever face-to-face motorboating.
Eddie, now Richie-free, takes the opportunity to puff out her feathers and hiss at her, “You know, you’re lucky Jews don’t do open caskets ‘cause I bet your fucking corpse is gonna have nasty ass monster zits!”
Richie ignores her. No one is gonna care if her dead body has pimples all over if she also has, like, heroin-herpes-cold-sores (death by sidewalk crack overdose). “Is that your dad at the front door? Is he gonna yell at you for breathing my fat air?”
Eddie blinks. “What? No! I told you my dad was- he wouldn’t yell at you for- Richie do you seriously think you’re fat?”
Richie’s eyes bug out comically, from behind her finger-smudged glasses lenses, “Well if you’re a fucking elephant who needs to be watching her figure, what the hell does that make me? A whale? Are my big fat lungs stealing oxygen from the masses?”
Soft little raps at the door start up again.
Geez, whoever’s knocking is a real yellow-bellied scaredy-pants... Hey someone let Hubert the Happy Homo in— It’s Marty, isn’t it?
“Is Marty at the door? Please tell me Marty isn’t at the door! We’re not done with our conversation about how huge and ginormous I am, or how gross my skin is!”
Eddie shakes her head like there’s water in her ears. “Jeez do you ever shut up? I need to go— Martin’s got a very strict curfew..”
WEE OOO WEE OO WEE OO. Richie’s internal system blares. It’s not very logical, but for some reason Richie suddenly strongly feels that she can’t let Eddie leave the house. With Marty. If she decided later that she wanted to leave the house with Richie then that would be fine.
“Earth to Trashmouth!! How do I look?” Eddie says, waving her little girl-hands in front of Richie’s face.
“Awful. Horrible. Ugly. Fat.”
But Eddie’s already fishing for her satchel (An actual horrible decision, something Bev would call a fashion crime)
“I’m serious, Kaspbrak! I didn’t even do your brush shit! How can you go out without your brush shit!”
Eddie’s not listening. She’s flung her satchel over her shoulder, cross body style. And now she’s spraying perfume.
“That smells disgusting, Spaghetti, really truly disgusting. You’ve got to go in the bathroom and shower that off! I say that as a friend!”
Now Eddie looks a little upset. But her upsetness now is no match for her upsetness when Richie side steps, and blocks the bedroom door.
Marty knocks again. Like a pussy.
“Richie..” Eddie warns.
“Marty’s a sleaze bag! He just wants to get in your pants!” (This doesn’t work)
“Marty’s really really ugly, and he’ll make your kids all deformed!” (Nope, not this either.)
“Marty’s gay! Genuinely, actually, honest-to-god gay! He’s going to see your boobs and go running for the hills!” (This has to do the trick.)
Eddie is now gripping onto the knob and shaking it violently.
“You’re fucking gay! Move!!” She screams, looking terrifyingly like a goat about to head butt its opponent.
“Girls can’t be gay!” Richie screams back, for lack of anything better to say. And because when she gets frustrated she gets nonsensical.
Eddie stops. Finally, phew. Let’s pack up boys, we’re heading home.
“What are you talking about? Of course girls can be gay! What do you think lesbo means? It’s written all over your locker, Richie! Literally everyone calls us dykes!”
Richie’s dumbstuck, embarrassed in front of Eddie for the first time since she was, like, six and shat herself at Deb Jeanie’s Birthday Bash (the day Maggie Tozier learned Rich was lactose intolerant, and also the last day Richie ever ate ice cream cake). Not embarrassed because of the lesbo thing (okay, that too) but because she’s being irrational and dumb and—
Eddie stops violently shaking the door knob. She sighs, and her shoulders relax slightly. “Richie. Would you like to walk me out?”
No. Absolutely not. I don’t want to see Marty’s ugly, gay face.
“…Fine.”
Eddie slips on her mousy brown flats, checks that she’s got everything in her satchel, and looks up at Rich.
Richie opens the bedroom door and lets Eddie slip her grubby little fingers into Richie’s big hand. They walk hand-in-hand to the front, looking like a stressed mom and her big dumb toddler baby (Richie’s the big dumb baby).
Eddie smiles at her, unlinks their hands, and then unlocks the front door.
Faggatron Marty is standing on the other side, looking particularly mouselike and sweaty. His hair is combed over and he’s missed a button on his shirt. And he’s holding a bouquet of Freese's Valentine's Day discount roses. 50% Off! 100% Beautiful! Treat Your Special Gal On a Budget! Eddie was right— he is a romantic.
“Wow, you look pretty.” (Gag)
“Thanks! You do too! I mean— handsome!” (Double gag)
Eddie turns back to Richie and gets on her tippy toes, Richie gets her undivided attention for one last time.
“Happy Valentines." she says, and then plants a tiny squirrel peck on Rich’s face. Somewhere between the corner of her mouth and her cheek.
Richie sits on the Kaspbrak porch for a while, even after watching Marty and Eddie awkwardly loop arms and drive away in Marty’s mom’s car. Richie rubs her hand aggressively on her face, scrubbing away Eddie’s kiss and the perfectly festive cherub-sized tears.