[Beverly's eyes light up as Jenny guns for warrior.]
Ooh, okay! Howabout I be your evil archnemesis? [She says with a grin.] We'll see who bests who!
[Meanwhile Ben beams at the thank you. He has spent most of his first year in Derry quite alone, and it wasn't until this very summer he's found people who are happy to speak with him, let alone let him come along. Maybe, we are love?
Beverly finds herself a weapon too, which she declares is a mace but really is just a branch with a quarter of an old wasp's nest on it (vacated, thank you, as are the wasps), and Ben trundles over to help Del find a perfect horn.]
I like Boromir, too. They're all really good, but I think I like him and Aragorn the best.
[You play! Jenny might take the lion's share of the lead, but frankly Beverly's just happy she agreed to come along. They have a stupendous duel, in which the wicked Beverly is dramatically slain after several harrowing blows. Andy is a damsel both desirable and formidable, and Boromir and Aragon lay waste to all that stands in their way to rescue her.
After a time, the terrible call of chores and supper beckons. Ben and Beverly split, but thank you for coming, and note that you're welcome to come by again next week if you like? More of the gang will be here. See you later!
You three weary warriors and maidens take much the same path back home, at least for a ways. Striding along the canal as it bends into town, though you're cutting through the park behind Derry High School, staying close to the water. You chat about this and that, maybe one of you kept your weapon from the game.
And then you see something bump the reeds along the edge of the canal. A big something, from the looks of it. Perhaps you should investigate?]
[yes, she'll carry a rock that she claimed was a weapon but also tried to really hit someone with a few too many times. but she has fun fighting bev and will even defend damsel andy from peril, too.
the game was fun, but now, as they're leaving, she feels self-conscious again. it's starting to get late, and she really does have to get home. the curiosity over whatever that thing in the canal is fights with her worry about the curfew.]
[ andy will definitely be keeping his very good first place stick thank you very much, partially because jen likely hit him with that rock "on accident."
he should be getting home too, probably, but he hates the curfew. it makes him itchy just thinking about being locked in that house all night with no way out. the worst feeling in the world is being trapped with no where to go.
glancing over at the others, but he won't wait for them to make a call about it. ]
Someone come with me, I'm not going alone.
[ but already heading down to the edge of the canal. to poke the Something with his stick. ]
[ del's honestly not sure if the family he's staying with now would even notice if he didn't come home before curfew... but his brother would, and he doesn't want to worry him. (besides, it goes both ways — he can't know if bax is safe at home if he's out here.) ]
Probably just a stray dog or somethin'.
[ ...
but that sounds fun, actually, so. he'll go over too, with the hollow reed of gondor in his hand. ]
Jenny may hang back while the boys tromp forward. Or she can come join them if she likes.
There is quite a thicket of reeds in the way, so it may take a few swipes of a Good Stick to brush them aside. Whatever it was doesn't move, and so waits wedged amid the thick stalks until the view is cleared.
It's a bit hard to tell at first, but you know this boy. He was a seventh grader, lightyears ahead of you in the hierarchy of kids. He'd been born with a birthmark splashed over half his face and took a hefty heap of shit for it, to the point where his parents had moved him to the Neibolt Street Church School. But he still hung around. He was helpful to a fault, often taken advantage of but his optimism bounced him back like a rubber ball.
Had, because most of that earnest face is gone. Some skin has been ripped away and there's a puddling socket where the right eye should have been. There's holes in and around the damage. Almost like pecks. Trailing down over his chest were the red has stained his navy blue button-up near to black.
[no, the moment they were heading over that way, she would follow. she doesn't really want to walk home alone in the dark, and it's a long way. and besides, it was a fun day, at least so far. she still wants to join in on the game.
but then they see what's there. she knew him. he was always so kind, even when she pushed him away. she stumbles backwards, away from this, and screams.]
[ yeah, he'll definitely keep at it with the stick - poking and prodding until he can see what it is? surely if it takes this much work then it's worth seeing whatever is hidden under there. at first he just stares in shock.
yves had always been so nice. enough that he'd felt guilty when he'd looked at the birthmark too long, or noticed himself noticing it. but he can't exactly look away now. it takes jen screaming before he realizes what's happening - the sound shocking him out of rapt silence and sending him stumbling backwards as well. Falling onto his ass in the reeds and immediately getting soaked. ]
[ del wasn't really able to get a good look at what andy was poking from where he was standing, and it's only after the others stumble back that he's able to get close enough to get a good luck. which maybe isn't the smartest thing to do, approaching something two bigger kids just jumped away from, but he's always been pretty fearless.
...
he'd expected, like, a big snake or something, maybe. or some half-eaten dead animal. not an actual fucking dead body, and especially not the body of someone he knew. someone who'd always been kind to both him and bax, who'd never acted like they were anything less than full blood brothers, who'd helped him get his kite out of a hedge without being patronizing about it. ]
Oh, shit.
[ he backs away too, and turns to stare at the others with wide eyes. ]
What should— [ he swallows. ] We need to tell someone, right??
[i'm glad no one on this cyoa headcanoned that their 50s child actually hates yves.
she's in shock, just a little. this just isn't something that should be happening. not to another kid, not to yves. she scrubs at her face, embarrassed at tears welling up, but then, what can she do? she doesn't want to have to see this, she doesn't want to have to see him like that. he always had such a nice smile. who could think someone was ugly when they smiled at her like that? but now, he's - it's awful to look at, and she can't.
and then, horrible, selfish, another thought comes to her. she's going to be in trouble, isn't she? a mix of nasty feelings, the fear of the trouble she'll be in when some authority figure comes into the picture and asks why they were out here in the first place, and the miserable guilt at thinking that way when she should have been like del, immediately jumped to the right answer. to find someone, get them.]
[ no definitely not hate. in fact, probably a little of the opposite? i mean. that's a confusing feeling to think about, isn't it? that maybe just because a cool older boy is nice to you doesn't mean they actually like you.
picking himself up out of the soggy edge of the canal and trying to squeeze out his jacket, backing himself away from the corpse - glancing over in fear at del's suggestion too. it is ... probably the right thing. but if they tell, if someone finds this ... they'll never be allowed out again, will they? curfew will get tighter. guardians will get more strict. doors will shut that might never open again.
going to sort of pull jen over into a half-hold, half-hug. sorry that he's damp with what is probably corpse-water, but he's backing up. back to the path. gesturing at del to come too. ]
No--! No way. Maybe we just go home. What if ... [ what if someone blames them? ] Someone will find him.
[ he doesn't know what kind of family yves has, if he has any siblings who are waiting for him to come home and wondering where he is, but if anyone ever found his brother out here like this and just pretended not to see it— ]
You want to just leave him to the fuckin' vultures 'til then, and whatever did this gets to just—
[she honestly is not going to argue for one side or the other. despite any bossiness and bravado, she's not particularly brave in a situation like this. she's scared of what will happen if they tell, the consequences that might bring. she's also scared of what will happen if they leave. she also hates the idea of leaving yves to be eaten, devoured by vultures, or for someone else to find him. she thinks del is right about that, feels ashamed to be so cowardly and to care so little, wishes she was braver and more responsible like him.
in times like this, it's easier not to take a stand. to just go along with what the people who are more confident and forceful are telling you to do. wait for whatever is happening to pass and just get through to the other side. so it's up to yves and del to argue it out.
she'll take her damp half-hug, though. it's nice, thanks.]
[ he'll wait politely for del to finish arguing with a corpse an then chime in. ]
No, I don't want to just leave him-- [ his voice definitely cracks on this ] But we can't.
[ it is a sickening thought, isn't it? to be left alone, and cold, for whatever is out there to keep consuming. pulling jen in tighter, obviously to comfort her, and not for himself. not because he's suddenly cold and terrified too. del is right, but right isn't smart.
they can't be the kids that found a corpse. a target. ]
[ fuck. he hates this, but... he guesses it's true. if whatever did this finds out they told, it might come after them and their families, and then...
he grimaces, but finally nods. it still feels like shit, but at least yves won't end up being out here alone for days if they make sure someone finds him. ]
[That he won't. It's hard work, and messy too. All three end up soaking their pants as they work to haul the older boy loose, shoes muddied and palms slick with gritty canal water. As a thing both dead and waterlogged Yves gives them no quarter. They're sweating and panting by the time they haul him halfway, there's a hum of an engine in the distance.
The three decide that's close enough, and to depart for the day. Do they take their weapons with them? Maybe, maybe not. The mood is soured for certain.
Yves is found by a passing motorist not an hour after they leave him, and by 9pm the Derry grapevine all knows that another body has been found. It's not until two days later that the name is released, but that's a while aways yet.
All three of you make it home.
((Please respond to your respective top level below.))]
[Del, you arrive at your foster house. It's a squat and mean looking thing, even if it's two stories. Something about how the roof is built flatter than any other sloping peak on the block speaks to the stiff nature of the people taking care of you. It's as if they started taking on the personality of each other, house and household looping in one compact, narrow eyed inflexibility. Our way or the highway, and you know damn well you can't make it out there, don't you?
Rather that going through the front door and catching hell for making a mess, you've gathered small bits of gravel on your way. You slip around back, and pit the stones at the window of your shared bedroom until Bax pokes his head out. He helps shepherd you inside and fetches you a change of clothes and tucks your old ones into the laundry downstairs. Pray they don't hear the machine start, but they do have the Ed Sullivan show on top volume.
You wait, alone, in the second story bathroom, clad in boxers and an undershirt and wiping yourself clean with a towel. And suddenly there's a rustling sound. Something near the sink.]
[ god, he is so fucking relieved to see bax safe, but he can't let it show too much or else he'll have to explain exactly why he was so worried in the first place and there's no way in hell he can do that. his brother's the last person in the world he can get involved in this.
so he's playing it cool as much as he can, trying to keep the image of yves's mutilated face and the wet and heavy feeling of his body out of his mind until he's finally alone in that bathroom and he can stand over the open toilet and throw up a little bit in privacy. he's still shaky and struggling to steady his breath again as he gets back to cleaning himself up when he hears that sound and immediately turns in that direction, eyes wide.
...probably just the fan blowing the used tissues in the trash can, he reasons with himself; but he's still uneasy, and, swallowing down the sour taste in his mouth, he hesitantly steps a little closer to look. ]
[Well, the fan is on. It may be cooling off outside but the house retains heat like it may never know a sunny day again. It does very little to help the nausea.
There's another rustle, and this time something does fall out of the waste bin. It's a sheet of paper. Which is strange, because it's perfectly flat, not crumpled up like you'd expect from the trash. Moreover, it's lined, with a long, tightly looped handwritten script on it. Weird thing to throw away in a bathroom of all things.]
[Andy, you drag your heels to your Grandma Wynne's house. She and her husband Greg weren't thrilled to take you in, even just for a spell, but your parents had been at their limit. Misbehaviour and too many close calls have worn their nerves thin, and they were already too good at fraying each other's nerves to begin with. Better to sort that mess out without worrying about a second mess with a rebellious streak a mile wide. You try to sneak in around the back way, but Greg steps out the same time as you with today's trash in hand. He drops the bag and raises a hand, threatening to fetch you upside the head if you do NOT hose off your feet in the yard before entering your poor Grandma Wynne's good house, young man. And he may just decide to do it anyway, if the mood strikes.
You clean up, you change, you take a scolding of a lifetime, and you are sent to your foldout cot in the basement, tucked amid packages, knickknacks, disused furniture and old crates. All the stuff you put away to forget about. The guest bedroom on the first floor is for good company.
While you take a seething refuge on your cot, something thumps at the back of the room. A sort of wooden sound.]
[ he hates that bastard greg. he's a prison guard. wynne can be ... nice, but she never disagrees with him, never disagrees with his parents, never argues or causes a fuss or raises a finger. compassion, without cause. right now, the only thing he wants is to go home. to see his mom. he had said sorry for the fires (never very BIG), for the scuffles (he never WON), for the willful independence (he never went FAR) over and over and over, but they never seemed to believe him. his dad only ever looked more and more disappointed, more angry with him. but his mom had cried when they'd dropped him off. the last time he'd bolted, to try and make it back to his hometown, he hadn't made it very far. just to the bus station, where the driver wouldn't let him on because of the fact he was Obviously 11. greg had driven to pick him up and called him every invective on the way home. back to prison.
its difficult to sit still there and be scolded while the only thought that he can hold onto is yves' face, bloated from the water. his leg bounces up and down and he picks at his nails, glancing towards the doors and windows the entire time - as if he could make a break for it right now. maybe this time, he could hitchhike. someone might stop, take pity -- but he doesn't.
instead he slinks down to his cot, in the dark, alone, tripping over his own mess and collapsing into the cot. silently screaming into the pillow before he hears the thump. freezing, keeping his face in the pillow, listening for the sound again.
[It is a six-foot bipedal rat actually, with a flower at one ear and a framed picture of Viktor Arcane clutched to its chest.
No there is no rat. There's only a mountain of junk. Heaps down here, you'd lose a week trying to pin down anything in this mess.
Thump!
It's a little louder this time.
Something shifts. A cloud of dust whips off a lean-to heap at the back end of the basement, and there's the scrape of paper over a cement floor. Something's been knocked loose.]
[Jen, you step quickly and nervously to your Aunt's foreboding house. The thing has a nasty look about it — you've never liked the black-painted moulding around the doors and windows, and something about the chipping gray paint (formerly an eggshell white) reminds you of coffins. Like you're walking right into one every time you go through the front door. You trudge up and try the handle, only to find it's locked.
Suddenly, you remember the time. Your Aunt participates in a book club with about five or six other equally sour old hens, and she won't be back until around eight thirty. You're not wearing a watch, but you don't need to to know you've got at least an hour before then. You're not only late for curfew, you're locked out of the house. Quickly you clambor around the back — no dice. Locked too.
You could knock on a neighbour's door. You don't know them well because neither of you are well liked, but you could try.
There's a hum from somewhere up the road. It pricks at your ears, steals your attention.]
[well. that's not good. she trudges home from having to move a boy's body to the road, and then turns the knob and finds the door locked.
her aunt is going to blame her for this, certainly. if she'd come home right away, not followed bev and the others to play, maybe it would have been possible to get back inside before she left? her aunt encourages her to go to school and do her schoolwork, but it's exactly encouraging of her making friends with the other children around here. she's not certain, though. sometimes the rules in this place feel too arbitrary to predict. all she knows is that she did something wrong, and now she's trapped outside, on a night when she wants nothing more than to be inside and curl up in bed. even if nothing about the house is exactly comforting, it's better than this.
a neighbor... she considers it, briefly. they might be concerned, about a child being out, enough to let her wait there even if they don't think much of her family. it might be more of the sort of place she had, when she still lived with her parents - more of a child-oriented place, comforting, snacks, perhaps even a television. and that would be much nicer, and would take her mind off these worries for a little while, but...
viconia would want her doing that, she's certain of it.
she's accepting that she'll need to wait outside when she hears whatever is up the road.
[Nothing unusual actually. The hum grows stronger, and you feel a little like a dummy for worrying. It's a car.
But that's a good thing. Someone's coming home and someone ought to see you, and they would be concerned about a sodden and scared little girl outside after the curfew. They'd hop right out and ask for your name, where do you live honey, oh we should get you cleaned up right away.
It's not a car you recognize though. Much too nice, rather new. A red and white Plymouth Fury — if you were in the know, you'd realize it came out only this year and boasted a V8 engine under the hood. Nobody on this block had a motor vehicle this fine. Maybe nobody in Derry did, period, though some of the folks on Broadway had a pretty penny to their name.
It cruises around the corner at a crawl. The headlights are on, though it's not very late yet. A little like eyes, aren't they?
It carries on up the street, just-a-crawling. Kind of a waste of an engine like that.]
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holyspirits) wrote2025-03-09 04:46 pm
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[ rolls his eyes ]
Anyway, if you're doin' Aragorn, I guess I can be Boromir.
[ with the unspoken caveat that no one else gets to be faramir in that case because that role is RESERVED ]
There anything that'd work for a horn around here?
[ goes to hunt for junk in the grass... maybe there's an old funnel or something that can have its day in the sun as the horn of gondor ]
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Ooh, okay! Howabout I be your evil archnemesis? [She says with a grin.] We'll see who bests who!
[Meanwhile Ben beams at the thank you. He has spent most of his first year in Derry quite alone, and it wasn't until this very summer he's found people who are happy to speak with him, let alone let him come along. Maybe, we are love?
Beverly finds herself a weapon too, which she declares is a mace but really is just a branch with a quarter of an old wasp's nest on it (vacated, thank you, as are the wasps), and Ben trundles over to help Del find a perfect horn.]
I like Boromir, too. They're all really good, but I think I like him and Aragorn the best.
[You play! Jenny might take the lion's share of the lead, but frankly Beverly's just happy she agreed to come along. They have a stupendous duel, in which the wicked Beverly is dramatically slain after several harrowing blows. Andy is a damsel both desirable and formidable, and Boromir and Aragon lay waste to all that stands in their way to rescue her.
After a time, the terrible call of chores and supper beckons. Ben and Beverly split, but thank you for coming, and note that you're welcome to come by again next week if you like? More of the gang will be here. See you later!
You three weary warriors and maidens take much the same path back home, at least for a ways. Striding along the canal as it bends into town, though you're cutting through the park behind Derry High School, staying close to the water. You chat about this and that, maybe one of you kept your weapon from the game.
And then you see something bump the reeds along the edge of the canal. A big something, from the looks of it. Perhaps you should investigate?]
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the game was fun, but now, as they're leaving, she feels self-conscious again. it's starting to get late, and she really does have to get home. the curiosity over whatever that thing in the canal is fights with her worry about the curfew.]
...It's probably nothing.
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he should be getting home too, probably, but he hates the curfew. it makes him itchy just thinking about being locked in that house all night with no way out. the worst feeling in the world is being trapped with no where to go.
glancing over at the others, but he won't wait for them to make a call about it. ]
Someone come with me, I'm not going alone.
[ but already heading down to the edge of the canal. to poke the Something with his stick. ]
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Probably just a stray dog or somethin'.
[ ...
but that sounds fun, actually, so. he'll go over too, with the hollow reed of gondor in his hand. ]
CW: eye/face gore
Jenny may hang back while the boys tromp forward. Or she can come join them if she likes.
There is quite a thicket of reeds in the way, so it may take a few swipes of a Good Stick to brush them aside. Whatever it was doesn't move, and so waits wedged amid the thick stalks until the view is cleared.
It's a bit hard to tell at first, but you know this boy. He was a seventh grader, lightyears ahead of you in the hierarchy of kids. He'd been born with a birthmark splashed over half his face and took a hefty heap of shit for it, to the point where his parents had moved him to the Neibolt Street Church School. But he still hung around. He was helpful to a fault, often taken advantage of but his optimism bounced him back like a rubber ball.
Had, because most of that earnest face is gone. Some skin has been ripped away and there's a puddling socket where the right eye should have been. There's holes in and around the damage. Almost like pecks. Trailing down over his chest were the red has stained his navy blue button-up near to black.
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but then they see what's there. she knew him. he was always so kind, even when she pushed him away. she stumbles backwards, away from this, and screams.]
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yves had always been so nice. enough that he'd felt guilty when he'd looked at the birthmark too long, or noticed himself noticing it. but he can't exactly look away now. it takes jen screaming before he realizes what's happening - the sound shocking him out of rapt silence and sending him stumbling backwards as well. Falling onto his ass in the reeds and immediately getting soaked. ]
Fuck!
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...
he'd expected, like, a big snake or something, maybe. or some half-eaten dead animal. not an actual fucking dead body, and especially not the body of someone he knew. someone who'd always been kind to both him and bax, who'd never acted like they were anything less than full blood brothers, who'd helped him get his kite out of a hedge without being patronizing about it. ]
Oh, shit.
[ he backs away too, and turns to stare at the others with wide eyes. ]
What should— [ he swallows. ] We need to tell someone, right??
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she's in shock, just a little. this just isn't something that should be happening. not to another kid, not to yves. she scrubs at her face, embarrassed at tears welling up, but then, what can she do? she doesn't want to have to see this, she doesn't want to have to see him like that. he always had such a nice smile. who could think someone was ugly when they smiled at her like that? but now, he's - it's awful to look at, and she can't.
and then, horrible, selfish, another thought comes to her. she's going to be in trouble, isn't she? a mix of nasty feelings, the fear of the trouble she'll be in when some authority figure comes into the picture and asks why they were out here in the first place, and the miserable guilt at thinking that way when she should have been like del, immediately jumped to the right answer. to find someone, get them.]
It's - who? Do you know someone?
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picking himself up out of the soggy edge of the canal and trying to squeeze out his jacket, backing himself away from the corpse - glancing over in fear at del's suggestion too. it is ... probably the right thing. but if they tell, if someone finds this ... they'll never be allowed out again, will they? curfew will get tighter. guardians will get more strict. doors will shut that might never open again.
going to sort of pull jen over into a half-hold, half-hug. sorry that he's damp with what is probably corpse-water, but he's backing up. back to the path. gesturing at del to come too. ]
No--! No way. Maybe we just go home. What if ... [ what if someone blames them? ] Someone will find him.
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[ he doesn't know what kind of family yves has, if he has any siblings who are waiting for him to come home and wondering where he is, but if anyone ever found his brother out here like this and just pretended not to see it— ]
You want to just leave him to the fuckin' vultures 'til then, and whatever did this gets to just—
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in times like this, it's easier not to take a stand. to just go along with what the people who are more confident and forceful are telling you to do. wait for whatever is happening to pass and just get through to the other side. so it's up to yves and del to argue it out.
she'll take her damp half-hug, though. it's nice, thanks.]
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No, I don't want to just leave him-- [ his voice definitely cracks on this ] But we can't.
[ it is a sickening thought, isn't it? to be left alone, and cold, for whatever is out there to keep consuming. pulling jen in tighter, obviously to comfort her, and not for himself. not because he's suddenly cold and terrified too. del is right, but right isn't smart.
they can't be the kids that found a corpse. a target. ]
... What if we pull him up? Just to the road?
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he grimaces, but finally nods. it still feels like shit, but at least yves won't end up being out here alone for days if they make sure someone finds him. ]
...Yeah. Okay.
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The three decide that's close enough, and to depart for the day. Do they take their weapons with them? Maybe, maybe not. The mood is soured for certain.
Yves is found by a passing motorist not an hour after they leave him, and by 9pm the Derry grapevine all knows that another body has been found. It's not until two days later that the name is released, but that's a while aways yet.
All three of you make it home.
((Please respond to your respective top level below.))]
Del
Rather that going through the front door and catching hell for making a mess, you've gathered small bits of gravel on your way. You slip around back, and pit the stones at the window of your shared bedroom until Bax pokes his head out. He helps shepherd you inside and fetches you a change of clothes and tucks your old ones into the laundry downstairs. Pray they don't hear the machine start, but they do have the Ed Sullivan show on top volume.
You wait, alone, in the second story bathroom, clad in boxers and an undershirt and wiping yourself clean with a towel. And suddenly there's a rustling sound. Something near the sink.]
cw: emeto
so he's playing it cool as much as he can, trying to keep the image of yves's mutilated face and the wet and heavy feeling of his body out of his mind until he's finally alone in that bathroom and he can stand over the open toilet and throw up a little bit in privacy. he's still shaky and struggling to steady his breath again as he gets back to cleaning himself up when he hears that sound and immediately turns in that direction, eyes wide.
...probably just the fan blowing the used tissues in the trash can, he reasons with himself; but he's still uneasy, and, swallowing down the sour taste in his mouth, he hesitantly steps a little closer to look. ]
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There's another rustle, and this time something does fall out of the waste bin. It's a sheet of paper. Which is strange, because it's perfectly flat, not crumpled up like you'd expect from the trash. Moreover, it's lined, with a long, tightly looped handwritten script on it. Weird thing to throw away in a bathroom of all things.]
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Andy
You clean up, you change, you take a scolding of a lifetime, and you are sent to your foldout cot in the basement, tucked amid packages, knickknacks, disused furniture and old crates. All the stuff you put away to forget about. The guest bedroom on the first floor is for good company.
While you take a seething refuge on your cot, something thumps at the back of the room. A sort of wooden sound.]
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its difficult to sit still there and be scolded while the only thought that he can hold onto is yves' face, bloated from the water. his leg bounces up and down and he picks at his nails, glancing towards the doors and windows the entire time - as if he could make a break for it right now. maybe this time, he could hitchhike. someone might stop, take pity -- but he doesn't.
instead he slinks down to his cot, in the dark, alone, tripping over his own mess and collapsing into the cot. silently screaming into the pillow before he hears the thump. freezing, keeping his face in the pillow, listening for the sound again.
maybe it's just a rat? ]
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No there is no rat. There's only a mountain of junk. Heaps down here, you'd lose a week trying to pin down anything in this mess.
Thump!
It's a little louder this time.
Something shifts. A cloud of dust whips off a lean-to heap at the back end of the basement, and there's the scrape of paper over a cement floor. Something's been knocked loose.]
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Jen
Suddenly, you remember the time. Your Aunt participates in a book club with about five or six other equally sour old hens, and she won't be back until around eight thirty. You're not wearing a watch, but you don't need to to know you've got at least an hour before then. You're not only late for curfew, you're locked out of the house. Quickly you clambor around the back — no dice. Locked too.
You could knock on a neighbour's door. You don't know them well because neither of you are well liked, but you could try.
There's a hum from somewhere up the road. It pricks at your ears, steals your attention.]
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her aunt is going to blame her for this, certainly. if she'd come home right away, not followed bev and the others to play, maybe it would have been possible to get back inside before she left? her aunt encourages her to go to school and do her schoolwork, but it's exactly encouraging of her making friends with the other children around here. she's not certain, though. sometimes the rules in this place feel too arbitrary to predict. all she knows is that she did something wrong, and now she's trapped outside, on a night when she wants nothing more than to be inside and curl up in bed. even if nothing about the house is exactly comforting, it's better than this.
a neighbor... she considers it, briefly. they might be concerned, about a child being out, enough to let her wait there even if they don't think much of her family. it might be more of the sort of place she had, when she still lived with her parents - more of a child-oriented place, comforting, snacks, perhaps even a television. and that would be much nicer, and would take her mind off these worries for a little while, but...
viconia would want her doing that, she's certain of it.
she's accepting that she'll need to wait outside when she hears whatever is up the road.
what is it...?]
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But that's a good thing. Someone's coming home and someone ought to see you, and they would be concerned about a sodden and scared little girl outside after the curfew. They'd hop right out and ask for your name, where do you live honey, oh we should get you cleaned up right away.
It's not a car you recognize though. Much too nice, rather new. A red and white Plymouth Fury — if you were in the know, you'd realize it came out only this year and boasted a V8 engine under the hood. Nobody on this block had a motor vehicle this fine. Maybe nobody in Derry did, period, though some of the folks on Broadway had a pretty penny to their name.
It cruises around the corner at a crawl. The headlights are on, though it's not very late yet. A little like eyes, aren't they?
It carries on up the street, just-a-crawling. Kind of a waste of an engine like that.]
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