Rich panicking is not helping Robbie stay calm, and he does his best to hide the antsiness, the twisted fingers, in wringing out the ends of his shirt until he's grabbed and shaken.
"It?" But then, recognition. It's been a long time since he saw that mini-series or read the book. The first, and only, time that Robbie saw It, he barely saw It. He heard plenty, though, with his eyes glued just above or below the tv, trying not to catch a glimpse of the screen when it sounded scary. Robbie's voice gets that dreamy, I-remember-that tone, despite remembering something that had scared him so bad his bladder shriveled. "I saw It when I was 13. The parentals didn't know, and I didn't tell 'em."
It was eighth grade, and Robbie was barely older than the kids in the movie (and probably the same age as the actors). He had finally won the argument that he was old enough to let himself in the house after school, to be trusted to not burn the whole house down. He found himself in a sudden upswing of social standing. Robbie had as many electronics as most of his classmates have in their entire house in his bedroom, and he had a few precious hours of guaranteed time sans the parental units every day. He didn't have to supply R-rated movies and violent video games. His friends smuggled plenty, sneakily borrowed from their parents or older siblings stash for the younger boys to try out at the Baldwin house where no one bothered to supervise.
It took them three days to watch the miniseries that someone had taped off tv, complete with commercials. Robbie always kicked them out at five o'clock, just in case. Just in case someone got it in their head to come home at five and have a family dinner at six, where they'd all laugh about how fun it was to sometimes be so kitschy.
That didn't happen on any of the It days though, although he wished it had. Robbie was left by himself for two or three hours more, refusing to go into the bathroom to pee until he saw his mom or dad arrive home. Just in case, his subconscious said. But the rest of him stuck to the story: he wasn't scared. He just didn't have to pee.
And now they're here - in It, in Derry, and Robbie is shivering from wet clothes and dread. H catches his tongue between his teeth to stop the chatter. He is undersized and living out a story where the children fight with belief, and Robbie knows that he is screwed. He doesn't believe in rock 'n roll. He doesn't believe that silver stops a monster. He doesn't believe in anything enough.
Ohmanohmanohmanohman. God, he hopes he doesn't get Rich killed because he's all fear and no faith. Rich isn't allowed to die here. "What are we going to do? It can be anywhere. It is everywhere."
He's not expecting a real answer. "This is the beginning of the book. Do we..."
Dammit, he wants to be older. Bigger. Less small sounding, because trying to sound matter of fact in a faltering boy soprano is frightening him even more. They're kids. They're just kids, and this is too much to throw on slim shoulders. He takes a gulp of breath. "Do we skip ahead to the end?"
no subject
"It?" But then, recognition. It's been a long time since he saw that mini-series or read the book. The first, and only, time that Robbie saw It, he barely saw It. He heard plenty, though, with his eyes glued just above or below the tv, trying not to catch a glimpse of the screen when it sounded scary. Robbie's voice gets that dreamy, I-remember-that tone, despite remembering something that had scared him so bad his bladder shriveled. "I saw It when I was 13. The parentals didn't know, and I didn't tell 'em."
It was eighth grade, and Robbie was barely older than the kids in the movie (and probably the same age as the actors). He had finally won the argument that he was old enough to let himself in the house after school, to be trusted to not burn the whole house down. He found himself in a sudden upswing of social standing. Robbie had as many electronics as most of his classmates have in their entire house in his bedroom, and he had a few precious hours of guaranteed time sans the parental units every day. He didn't have to supply R-rated movies and violent video games. His friends smuggled plenty, sneakily borrowed from their parents or older siblings stash for the younger boys to try out at the Baldwin house where no one bothered to supervise.
It took them three days to watch the miniseries that someone had taped off tv, complete with commercials. Robbie always kicked them out at five o'clock, just in case. Just in case someone got it in their head to come home at five and have a family dinner at six, where they'd all laugh about how fun it was to sometimes be so kitschy.
That didn't happen on any of the It days though, although he wished it had. Robbie was left by himself for two or three hours more, refusing to go into the bathroom to pee until he saw his mom or dad arrive home. Just in case, his subconscious said. But the rest of him stuck to the story: he wasn't scared. He just didn't have to pee.
And now they're here - in It, in Derry, and Robbie is shivering from wet clothes and dread. H catches his tongue between his teeth to stop the chatter. He is undersized and living out a story where the children fight with belief, and Robbie knows that he is screwed. He doesn't believe in rock 'n roll. He doesn't believe that silver stops a monster. He doesn't believe in anything enough.
Ohmanohmanohmanohman. God, he hopes he doesn't get Rich killed because he's all fear and no faith. Rich isn't allowed to die here. "What are we going to do? It can be anywhere. It is everywhere."
He's not expecting a real answer. "This is the beginning of the book. Do we..."
Dammit, he wants to be older. Bigger. Less small sounding, because trying to sound matter of fact in a faltering boy soprano is frightening him even more. They're kids. They're just kids, and this is too much to throw on slim shoulders. He takes a gulp of breath. "Do we skip ahead to the end?"