Chapter Text
YOU KNOW WHAT THEY SAY ABOUT DERRY…
Derry High School wasn't the place to be.
Unless your heart longed for something loud, dirty and not at all nice-smelling, chances were that you wouldn't enjoy the time you were bound to spend being ping ponged between classes by the self proclaimed cream of school society for five more years of government assigned torture.
Donald Uris made himself familiar with the system just enough to find ways to avoid it. Show up, do the work, click the locker door exactly five times, don't look into too many eyes and get out as soon as the last bell rang. Simple and clean, no hiccups.
And no hiccups were granted to Donald by birth. The eldest son of Raziel and Elizabeth Uris, the future rabbi with a squeaky clean record and perfect grades lining up on every report card. Just the right kind of student to be distantly respected by teachers and completely ignored by classmates. Friends didn't interest him one bit; most kids at school fell somewhere in between of your usual Wentworth Tozier and Alvin Marsh (how Donald would dub these categories in his head, either an obnoxious idiot or pure evil).
That sunny, boring, and stretched out like the grossest brand of melted cheese April morning he had expected it to go just as smoothly as it always did. His clothes were ready since yesterday evening; a white button down so perfectly ironed he might've as well worn it to a wedding and a tie sitting tight enough to replace a rope in need of an emergency backup plan. Donald Uris was all ready for a quiet, calm, day with no unnecessary buzz in immediate proximity to his ear…
“Pssst.”
Donald slammed his locker shut, bearing unfortunate witness to a face that swam up behind it with a smile that most surely didn't have to include all of the teeth. “What.”
Zack Denbrough looked at him with what could only be the self confidence of a complete idiot getting ready to jump off a plane without a parachute. Head first. Into a burning pit of lava, most likely. “Don.”
“—ald, yes.”
“Of course! Soooo, Don…” Zack had the guts to nod along just to let the words fly completely over his blonde and most definitely empty head. An annoying fly of a thought forced its way into Donald's ear, suggesting quite loudly to knock right between Zach's eyes to hear the echo. Now if he would bring just a little more force to it… Donald’s shoulders jumped in an attempt to scare the idea away before it fully settled, but it proved to be one of those ideas. Strong and punchy for no real reason, that would stubbornly hit themselves against the walls of his brain until he finally did enough to satisfy their appetite. Donald grit his teeth, raising a fist in front of his locker again to knock before the fact that Zack was still talking registered to him fully. One. “Friend. Mate. Best pal. My brother. Remember I asked you if you were free yesterday at lunch?”
Donald didn't respond. Two. Hurry up before he said something this couldn't undo.
“Remember, right?” He sang-sung, all up in Donald's space for no real reason. His lack of awareness towards the complete disinterest towards him seemed so amusing to Donald that he almost bothered the rhythm. Three. Four. “And you said that you were totally, super duper free?”
Zachary Denbrough wasn't particularly bright.
“Right.” Donald deadpanned. Zack tilted his head akin to a very dumb but trusting dog. It didn't exactly help with the persistent idea of hitting him, for some reason. Donald would never hit a dog. Obviously. Denbrough was a whole different conversation. A conversation with himself that gave the needed push for the fifth and final knock that turned out to be far louder than the others. It raised a few heads from some of his classmates passing by, and Donald made his best effort to just focus on counting backwards very loudly in his mind. His hands retreated back to his pockets before he could give into another cycle of torturing his locker because of some passer-bys. Focus. “That's what I said.”
That wasn't what he said at all.
Donald has been avoiding Zack ever since that fateful yesterday lunch, hoping and praying selfishly for a sweet escape from the social shackles Denbrough tried to restrain him with. He was a horrible target for it. The worst he could find, probably. Maybe Zachary Denbrough was not only stupid, but a stupid masochist at that.
“Exactly,” he nodded so enthusiastically Donald worried his head might fall off. That would be inconvenient. It would land just between them like a bowling ball, just as heavy despite the emptiness of it. Would blood and brain tissue splatter around or would the impact not be enough? “So that means you can help me out with Sherri's piano thing.”
“Piano thing,” Donald echoed, still playing all the possible scenarios of Zack's untimely demise over in his head. “Is that what she called it?”
Zack's face formed something distantly similar to a thinking process. The closest one yet. Donald mentally graded it a solid 30. “Well, no. I don't remember what it's called. But it's important for her, so I'm being a good boyfriend.”
“By harassing people in your free time?”
“What's ‘harassing’?”
“You know what, nevermind.”
Donald turned on his heels, ready to set plan M in motion. M, obviously, standing for MOVE. Unfortunately, Zack seemed to catch onto it. Quickly picking up the pace, he walked right behind Donald with the stubbornness of a toilet paper stuck to the bottom of his shoe all morning. “Where are you going?”
Donald didn't bother to turn around. “Class, do you mind?”
That confused him deeply. “But it's lunch break! Actually—” he turned to the old but still miraculously working clock on the wall. The big arrow behind the dirty glass display stubbornly pointed at twelve. “...just started. C'mon, I saved you a seat at our table!”
Donald stopped so abruptly it almost made Zack crash into him. “Our?”
Zack blinked a few times, then broke into the biggest smile yet. Donald had to squint in fear of being blinded by such a bright display of joy.
“Yeah, out! Me, Sherri, a couple of her girlfriens… And I heard Wentworth’s coming as well.” Zack put one finger down, starting with his pinky, at each name before it got to three. Then gave up, instead pointing the fourth right at Donald. “And you, obviously.”
Donald threw an unimpressed look across the hallway. “Wentworth. Bert the turtle?”
He knew exactly who Wentworth Tozier was, actually. It was hard not to know, since he made it his goal to have everyone be aware of his presence once he entered a room by some of the very loud and annoying methods. But the turtle in question stood at his usual place just by the less than colorful poster preaching children to duck and cover, although not paying much attention to his duty of chanting it to everyone that passed by. Too busy trying to unwrap a sandwich with a pair of clumsy turtle… paws? Donald wasn't sure on terminology used for Bert's unique anatomy. If anything, it looked more like a green glove sewn together by someone on their first attempt. Ever. He didn't dare to call it that even in his head, though. That would be too disrespectful to the turtle community.
As if Bert himself was not disrespectful enough.
Alvin Marsh never cared too much about this dilemma, Donald thought solemnly as he watched him pass by poor Bert the turtle and smack the sandwich out of his — Donald made a mental note to find a better name for them soon — unidentified green limbs. It landed on the school floor with a sad plop, right near a drying pond of someone's spilled soda. Donald hoped it was soda, at least. That was the best possible liquid of choice to find on the floors.
Zack next to him shifted somewhat uncomfortably. “This guy gives me the creeps.”
For the first time ever, Donald agreed with him.
Alvin Marsh was the local creepy story to break all the lowerclassmen into cold sweat or good old run for their lives. With years, admittedly, the exaggeration of his evil deeds fell down like cheap drama decorations, but a piece of shit he remained. Donald had the misfortune of grappling with him a few times back in seventh grade. Alvin stayed in eighth for the second time, and the shame over it gradually bubbled into frustration that he particularly enjoyed taking out on those smaller and weaker than him. That year Donald was but a small, twig-shaped boy that heard just enough giggles behind his back to pay for his existence as one of the only jewish kids at school. That day, somewhere between those unnecessary hot ones right before summer, Alvin Marsh was in an especially bad mood. Donald remembers being yanked by his backpack the moment he left the school building after classes that day, falling down on the ground and gloomily watching his kippah being thrown towards the approaching school bus by a laughing Butch Bowers. He could hear a few other guys cackling nearby, but never bothered to recognize their faces. There was a crack; something like glasses, maybe; then a scream, a thud right next to him, and another burst of laughter. He didn't have enough time to realize what was going on because the next second, Alvin's face was right in front of his.
He didn't remember the slurs hurled at him or just how Wentworth Tozier ended up on the ground next to him with a probably broken nose, too distracted by the horrible smell coming from Alvin's mouth. It was so bad he felt nauseous. That moment of stone cold clarity that slowed down the entire world around him was enough for the slippery weight of fear to settle in Donald’s stomach and try to crawl its way out through his mouth immediately. But just as he geared up to give Alvin's beat up shoes a new and flashy green look, a high pitched screech turned both of their heads towards Butch.
Who was struggling on the ground, pinned down by another, much smaller but equally much fiercer figure.
“Suck it, Bowers!”
Right that moment, with the clearest his mind has ever been, Donald had realized that Zachary Denbrough was a complete and utter idiot.
Unfortunately, the incident seemed to hammer itself into his mind as the ultimate moment of binding between the two of them. As if Butch Bowers feeding them dirt made them brothers.
He didn't have any more one on one encounters with Alvin after the Great Biting incident of ‘60, Teddy's first year at Derry High. The most he got since that blessed day was a weak “freak” muttered towards him before Alvin quickly retreated with whoever was by his side at the time. Mostly Butch (or Oscar) Bowers. But Butch was a beast of his own. Everyone whose father made less than Patty Stanton's or, at the very least, Elaine Morrison's, knew exactly why they needed to stay away from the son of the police chief. Unfortunately, that part of Zack's brain didn't develop enough in all seventeen years of his existence.
“So, what do you think? Join us?”
Just like the rest of it, it seemed.
“I said I wasn't interested, Denbrough.”
“Aw, man,” Zack whined. “Sheri-bear wouldn't leave me alone all week. We need more hands! I can't feel mine already. Look!”
He waved his arms in front of Donald's face to emphasize the point. Turned out rather weak, in his opinion.
Donald ducked under Zack's hand and quickened his step.
“Come on, Don—”
Whatever it was that he wanted to say drowned in a shatter of glass and uneven choir of gasps that followed after. Donald slowed down again, this time looking at the other aisle of lockers and a frozen Lilly Bainbridge, a girl he knew was in Teddy's class and on many people's lips in not the most kind of ways, surrounded by broken glass and… pickles.
Ah. How creative.
He blinked. Then blinked again, somehow missing the moment she was approached by another girl with glasses that covered at least a good third of her face. Donald recognized her from Teddy's class pictures too, but not enough to remember the name behind them. They were gone before he could try to anyway.
Zack half-squeaked, half-gasped before yanking Donald, who made the mistake of being distracted, by his hand.
“What are you—”
“Annie!”
Donald could feel his guts twisting themselves into something suspiciously resembling a noose.
The traitor of a man that still had his hold on Donald's helplessly limp hand just brought him to his death. That was it, April 6th 1962, Donald Uris had died. Died by the hand of his own (self proclaimed) best friend. He would make sure to come back as a ghost and kill Zachary Denbrough if he ever decided to step foot into his funeral.
Andrea Bertoly turned around, perfect curls bouncing over her shoulder and revealing the blue, sparkly eyes that only widened in recognition at the sight of two boys approaching her. Her hand, hovering over her mouth as if she was having a good laugh just moments ago, raised in a friendly wave just above her head. The guy she's been having a conversation with walked off after a quick goodbye, leaving the three of them alone. “Zack! Hi!”
Oh. The birds were singing again, so gay.
“And you must be?”
The record that spun inside of his head — Why Do Fools Fall in Love, for some reason — scratched so loudly Donald was sure it could be heard even outside his mind. Right. Of course. Why would she know the name of her classmate of five years, really. “I’m— Don. Donald. Uris, Donald Uris.”
“Donald! Right, Zack told us you were joining,” she said, smiling brightly. Not the Zack kind of bright that was hard to look at. This time, he had trouble looking away. “I was actually about to go to the cafeteria. Sheri saved you a seat.”
He nodded dumbly. Then, realizing he must look an awful lot like Zack, stopped it immediately. “Okay. That’s nice. Very.”
Andrea didn't seem too bothered by Donald's newly developed speech impediment. All she did was dust her skirt off, turn around and head towards the cafeteria. Donald dutifully followed her like a newborn puppy.
It was three steps in when a dreadful shiver ran down his back. Zack's been awfully quiet.
“I knew you would agree,” he said as he hopped over the table in the corner, sliding an arm over Sharon McKinley's shoulder and smacking a loud kiss to her head. She welcomed the gesture with a giggle, picking up a spoonful of slop they were given today and shutting him up with one swift move of a hand. Zack's delighted moan was what snapped Donald out of it. He was sat at the opposite side with no real explanation of how he got himself into this nightmare.
And Andrea, apparently.
“Mashed potato time!” She exclaimed, plopping down next to Donald with a tray in her hands. Sharon greeted her with an excited squeal. “Like the song!”
“Ah,” he said helplessly. “How fun.”
“Holy shit!” Wentworth Tozier materialized on his other side, eyes uncomfortably blue behind thick glasses that were held together by one, pitifully looking bandaid. “And if it isn't Big D!”
“Not what I'm called,” he snapped back automatically, trying to save his portion from Wentworth's grubby hands.
Sharon only snickered at the sight, too busy with treating Zack to her plate. “So you know each other already. That's less trouble for me. Have you ever met Elfrida?”
Donald followed the direction of her hand that pointed to someone he didn't notice was there before. On Andrea's left, a girl with hair almost as red as Sharon's, looked at him with some strange brand of curiosity. “That's me! I don't think we have, no. But it's nice to meet you…”
“Donald,” he said, accepting the handshake she offered without question.
“Donald!” She giggled. “I'm Elfrida. But Sharon already told you. No fun.”
Andrea, with her mouth already full, pointed her spoon between Sharon's eyes. “Frankie comin’ tomorrow?”
Sharon's brows flew so high up they were no longer visible behind her hair. “Frankie? Isn't he like ten?”
“Thirteen-and-a-half,” Wentworth said without looking up from Donald's plate. Already half empty. Donald decided he wasn't that hungry anyway. “A big growing boy!”
Hell existed after all. Donald was in hell.
Elfrida slid her tray towards Wentworth, who dug into it immediately. “So he's coming?”
“Mhm. Flo will cover for him this time.”
That made her frown. “He bribed her again?”
“It's called ‘ask a favor nicely’, Frida.”
She sighed. “Whatever you say, Wentie.”
Donald watched helplessly. Finding himself hopeful, for the first time in his life, that Zack would speak up.
His prayers have been answered for once.
“So, Don, my man,” he chirped, leaning forward close enough to make Donald uncomfortable again. “Let me introduce you to the Plan.”
Sharon nudged him with her elbow. “You're making it sound very serious. It's really not a big deal.” She turned her head towards Donald, smiling almost sympathetically. “My parents are leaving tomorrow night, so I'm throwing a party.”
“A party,” he echoed. “I thought Zack said it was, and I quote, a piano thing.”
The corner of her lips twitched before going up. “It is! I need help moving my piano to another room. I'll just treat you to some drinks after that, that's all.”
Donald blinked. “And you want me to help?”
Sharon looked at him as if he was a toddler and asked why the sky was blue. “I love my Zach, and Went and Frankie are nice guys, but let's be serious. That's not enough to move a piano.”
“My uncle had to have his toe amputated after a piano fell on him,” Andrea said.
Everyone turned to her.
Her cheeks turned pink. “I don't know why I said that.”
Donald laughed. He didn't know why exactly, but he found it to be the funniest thing someone has ever said. So funny that the initial giggle soon turned into a full, proper belly laugh. Donald laughed and laughed, not caring to stop or excuse himself. That's when Wentworth joined in. He knew his laugh well as he heard it so many times before. Wentworth had that loud, wheezy kind of laugh that shook his whole body and made it hard to breathe. Elfrida was next, to his surprise; her laughter had a softer, higher pitch to it that made it seem quieter than it really was. Sharon's giggles were uneven and sharp as she took breaks to breathe in between. Zack joined in at the same time, completing hers perfectly. Of course, he always laughed with his full chest.
He didn't hear Andrea at first. She was lighter than anyone else, but Donald never heard a laugh so full. Full and lively, just like a laugh should be.
He didn't notice his own laughter stopping, too busy making out hers in the choir he accidentally created. It was his favorite, he decided. What a shame it was when it stopped.
Sharon cleared her throat. That was enough to get everyone's eyes on her again, somehow. She didn't have the usual loudness or demand to her voice that people like Alvin and Butch needed to be heard, but every time she spoke you just found yourself listening. “Let's just focus on not getting our toes cut off then.”
What has he gotten himself into?
The road home felt oppressively quiet once they parted ways at the crosswalk. Sharon lived the closest to him, it turned out, but she left with Zack a few streets earlier. Wentworth took the bus, and Elfrida had to go to the opposite side of the town.
Andrea took it on herself to walk Donald home.
She lived in the same area, he learnt. That wasn't too big of a surprise; the Bertoly family was one of the only Jewish families in Derry that frequented the synagogue just as much as the Uris’. Donald remembered seeing Andrea around during services. They never talked to each other outside of school, if brief greetings inside of it counted as anything. Donald wouldn't dare to approach her without a reason anyway. Andrea clearly had better things to do and better friends to have around.
Yet she was there still, jumping over the cracks on the pavement and taking Donald's tense silence patiently; even filling it with chatter about the drama club’s new play, the album she was eyeing that week at the record shop or her friend Minnie's upcoming birthday. He didn't give her much reaction outside of awkward hums and nods of the head here and there, but she didn't take offence to that. Another surprise. She was full of them, it seemed.
Donald didn't know what it was that made him so quiet around her. It wasn't fear, he knew what fear felt like well enough. Being afraid of Andrea seemed just that, impossible.
They parted without him saying much more, just by the corner of his house. Donald lingered there for a moment, watching her silhouette disappear somewhere between the orange and purple on the horizon.
He stood alone for just a moment more before walking home.
When the door behind him clicked closed, he stood face to face with his father.
“You're late,” he stated, squinting up at his son. Donald grew a lot in the past few years; it made his father feel uncomfortably small in comparison. Yet still, his eyes weighted just as heavy to pin his head down in shame.
“I'm sorry, father. I had to help Mrs Grant after class.”
“I don't recall Mrs Grant accompanying students home.”
Donald's words got stuck in his throat.
“Sit down for dinner, Donald,” his father said coldly. “We will talk about your unusual behavior after dinner.”
Clenching his teeth and swallowing the shame down before it could settle down bitterly on his tongue, he nodded. His mother was already setting the table up; Teddy flipped through a comic book in his seat. Donald moved his chair right in time with his father taking his place at the head of the table with a prayer.
Donald, although he would never admit it, hated this part the most.
It meant forcing the bad, impure thoughts out of his head. Even if they gripped him dead strong, refusing to leave just for a few moments. All that was left was to squeeze his eyes shut and focus on numbers, counting forward and backwards, multiplying and dividing until he heard the signal.
“Amen,” his father said, raising his glass.
“Amen,” he echoed emptily, watching his mother and Teddy do the same.
The rest of the dinner went the same everytime; father would ask Teddy about his bar mitzvah, maybe something about school, then finish the meal. Donald didn't have to pay attention anymore unless he was spoken to.
It began just as normally today.
“My son, the bar mitzvah boy. How’s the haftarah studying coming?”
Teddy hummed, not lifting his eyes. “Hmm, taste’s good.”
The table tensed up. All of them. Father's smile fell. Mother froze, frowning. Donald looked up from his plate mid bite. Huh.
“Something the matter, Theodore?”
Teddy hesitated. “Can I ask you a weird question?”
Still confused by it, father shrugged. “Sure.”
“Do you think somebody could kidnap a kid and keep him underground?”
Mom turned away with a hushed mutter.
“Underground?” Father said, not impressed. Any shadow of worry that could brim behind his eyes faded away in an instance. Replaced by endless, empty disappointment.
Donald stared him down. “What is wrong with you?”
Clearly trying to ignore him, Teddy turned away. But continued. “Yeah, just keep him there, in the sewers for months and months, hurting him or…” he paused, searching for something. Maybe some bravery. “I don't know.” He looked up at his father again. “Have you ever heard of something like that?”
Raziel met him with a cold look.
“Your grandparents escaped Buchenwald.” He began, putting emphasis on every word. “Their entire families murdered. The skin of Jewish prisoners… used for lampshades.”
That seemed to take any of whatever motivation Teddy was holding onto to evaporate. “What?”
“Lampshades.”
Donald swallowed, suddenly feeling all too well how cold the room has become. The soft light of candles seemed malicious now. Laughing. Watch out, Donald. Watch out or you'll see your family there next. They will be next, Donald.
Raziel sighed. “We are Jews, Theodore. We know better than anyone the real horrors of this world.”
His sharp eye caught onto the corner of a comic book that Teddy left on the table carelessly. “Reality is terrifying enough as it is.” He grabbed the book with one hand, holding it before Teddy's eyes as if it was evidence of a horrible crime. “Cut it out with the fantasy.”
With these words, Teddy's comic flew into the nearest wall. Donald closed his eyes, counting to five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five times. When he opened them back up, his father met him with a nod of approval to continue the dinner.
Donald didn't eat any more that evening.
Teddy's weird question seemed to shift their fathers’ looming anger towards him, as later that night nobody came to Donald's room for the dreaded talk. Good. He was lucky to have a younger brother strange enough to take the blame off himself. In times like this; times when Teddy messed up bad enough, Donald became the perfect, beloved child once again. Almost like he never disappointed his father. Like he was any good to begin with.
Donald leaned back in his seat, stretching his arms up as he put the pencil away. He just had finished his homework for tomorrow, simple enough to still have some free time before bed. He would usually spend those before a book or extra work with Jewish studies that his father assigned him to. Today, though, he felt like doing none of that. More than usual.
He sat down on the side of his bed, then leaning back until he hit the mattress. Above him, tall and silent, his white ceiling greeted him with nothing but a look down. He has plans tomorrow. Real, tangible plans with no less real people. People who wanted him around for some reason.
Who wanted him to do something, technically.
Donald winced at the thought. Not very nice.
He didn't get the chance to dip more into it, for better or worse, as a scream from the next room interrupted the thoughts altogether.
Donald sprung back to his feet. Teddy.
He didn't remember standing up or getting through the hall separating their rooms. Their doors didn't have locks on them — Raziel’s rule that didn't touch his own bedroom, of course — so it didn't take much effort for Donald to open Teddy's.
Just to see him under his table in total darkness, staring at nothing in particular. Alone. Donald's eyes did a quick round around the room. Window's closed. No armed men in black lurking in the corners… A comic book open on his bed.
All the worry lost its grip on his body, immediately. Instead, he let himself feel nothing but annoyance.
“Can’t believe we're related.”
Teddy's confused, wide-eyed face disappearing into the thin line of light as Donald shut the door was the last he ever remembered of him.
The morning after, Teddy was gone before Donald sat down for breakfast. It shouldn't have felt as strange as it did. He'd never been the type to drag the family meals out too long; in truth, Donald wasn't quite sure anyone present in that room would wish to spend a single minute more than strictly needed to to pass as enough of a family. But that morning, too-warm and artificially sunny to be placed right in the middle of the cruellest month morning, Teddy's plate was already off his side of the table when Donald made his way downstairs.
Father made a comment about some before class activity that Teddy suddenly had to attend to, but Donald brushed that excuse off as he did many others that his brother wasn't exactly creative about.
Not like it mattered anyway. He couldn't care less about where his brother was hanging out. It was none of his business.
Just as it was none of Teddy's business when Donald climbed out of his window the moment the clock hit ten in the evening and the lights in his parents’ room switched off.
He shouldn't have come, really. He could stay at home. Could pretend that Zack never existed and avoid everyone else in the halls just as he always would. Go back to normal again.
He wasn't sure what the norm even was, he would realize in the middle of first period math that day. Was it what his father told him? No, surely; his father was no good man. His mother was a doormat and his brother had weird friends that were horrible for his mental health. He was an antisocial freak that would die alone eventually; maybe become a rabbi before that, but never marry or have kids. A sad, sad existence for a sad, sad man.
A little drink couldn't possibly make it worse.
There was no piano, he learnt as he approached the McKinley house. Not on anyone's minds, at least. Being fashionably late, he was lucky enough to witness everyone else in all their wasted glory.
Frank Kaspbrak greeted him on the porch, saluting with a lit cigarette.
“These will kill you one day,” Donald said in his best monotone voice, accepting the offering nonetheless. Somewhere in the middle of his first drag, he fell victim to a coughing fit. “Gross.”
He wiped his mouth. Frank only giggled, taking the cigarette back. “You’re right.”
Donald didn't get to ask him about what exactly; Wentworth flew out of the open doors and draped himself over him with no shame whatsoever. Donald endured, too baffled to shake him off. “Big D! Right on time! Andie's doing a backflip! C'mon, c'mon, you don't wanna miss it!"
“That's not—”
“Donald! You made it!” Elfrida greeted him from inside the living room, seated on top of the famous piano Sharon advertised so enthusiastically yesterday. She was wearing green. It suited her, Donald thought. She looked happy. That detail seemed important for some reason.
“Hey,” he said, still restrained by Wentworth's gangly limbs. Elfrida waved back at him, then fell back in a fit of giggles. He decides not to bother her more. She was in her lane. Flourishing.
Sharon appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, with a bottle of wine that she quickly handed to Donald. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself,” he said, turning the bottle in his hand. It felt nice and full against his palm. Already open. Expensive, definitely. Tasted like shit, more likely.
Both of these turned out to be true; Sharon's house was spacious and decorated by someone who clearly had the taste and money for it. The small space between the main hall and the living room was just enough to conclude that McKinleys’ were rich. Rich enough to afford a huge piano and a liquor cabinet, at the very least. They were one of those families that displayed their vacation photos on the walls lining up towards the staircase. There was a lot of Sharon, of course; small, even smaller, and not that small at all. She seemed just as ginger during all those periods of her life. Her father, a tall man by her side in many of the photos, was just as ginger as her. Her mom not so much, but her hair still had that pleasant light hue of reddish brown Donald found himself drawn to in particular. She was pretty. Sharon took after her a lot.
Sharon's first day of school. Little Sharon and her father at the piano. Mrs McKinley at the piano, twenty years ago. Family beach day. Musical competition. Sharon wearing her mother's old hanbok.
Happy.
Donald looked down at the bottle in his hands.
He never had alcohol before. In a proper, drinking just to drink way. The small amounts of wine that he tasted were never enough to see the full picture. If there was a full picture to begin with. Maybe drinking was a lie. He wouldn't know.
“Whatcha waiting for?”
His shoulders jumped, almost setting the bottle flying down and splattering all around Yuna McKinley's expensive carpets. Wentworth blinked at him from behind his glasses, still holding on for dear life on the bridge of his nose. “C’mon, chug it down!”
Elfrida, somehow back up on her feet, made a cheerful noise.
Donald looked at Sharon, helplessly.
She shrugged.
Traitor.
He threw another long look at them all, inhaled deeply, and chugged it down. He made it through about three big gulps before catching his breath.
Three pairs of eyes stared at him, awaiting the verdict. Donald blinked. Then, after a long pause, made a face.
“Gross.”
The statement was welcomed with a bunch of groans. Elfrida gave him a thumbs down. Sharon clicked her tongue. Wentworth booed.
“You'll get used to it, Big D,” he shouted gleefully, saluting Donald with another drink he already managed to get somewhere.
Donald's face scrunched up. “I’m not getting used to whatever it was you said right now.”
“Oh but you will.”
The party quickly took itself into the living room; where, apparently, Zack was snoring away after passing out about an hour ago. Donald wasn't sure if he should've felt happy about the fact. Sharon sighed pitifully at the sight, but soon enough was busy with setting an empty bottle on the ground.
Donald tensed up. “No.”
“Oh relax, grandma. Not the kissing game.” Sharon rolled her eyes. “Just good ol’ truth or dare.”
“Oh, fun!” Andrea approached without making a sound. Again. That habit was proving itself dangerous as Donald choked on his drink, prompting Wentworth to hit his back with so much force he almost coughed out his lungs.
She sat down in the empty space between a painfully tense and just as painfully aware of that fact Donald and uncontrollably giggling Elfrida. Sharon smiled to herself, taking it as a sign to make the first spin.
The game was not that bad, it turned out. Especially after a bottle or two or Jerry McKinley's wine. Good stuff that was. Donald never would've thought that bones could feel so much like jelly.
Wentworth was half asleep somewhere in Donald's leg area. Right next to Elfrida, who made a pillow out of Andrea's thighs. Frank made it back inside someplace between rounds, making himself comfortable beside Wentworth. The circle was long forgotten; they were answering out of place and order.
“Elfie!” Sharon pointed the empty beer can at her friend. Then shook it, looked inside and still attempted to drink from it. “Who's the lucky guy? Don't make that face! I know you've been writing letters!”
That delighted Andrea into a fit of excited applause. Elfrida giggled, hiding her face into a heart shaped pillow she stole from under Zack's head. “Ugh, stop it! Fiiine! I think Alvin's a handsome guy…”
Donald blinked, lazily trying to pull the thread of memory stored under that name. Alvin, Alvin… What a stupid name that was. Alvin. He giggled. Alvin, Alvin. Stupid. So stupid. Who names their child Alvin? Al.
Sharon gasped. “Alvin Marsh?”
Alvin Marsh. Of course his last name would be something just as stupid.
“He's not that bad! It's all rumors, untrue! I've never met one person who he was mean to!” Elfrida hugged the pillow close to her chest, sighing dreamily. “I think… I think he likes me too! Do you? Annie, Annie! Do you?”
Someone sighed. Donald thought it might've been Frank; he wasn't drinking, for some reason. Did he think cigarettes were more healthy? What a strange guy he was. Running track and smoking cigarettes. Was he doing that at the same time? He had to ask.
Andrea giggled again, playing with a loose strand peeking out from the carpet. “Who wouldn't like you, Elfie? You're so pretty!”
Donald nodded along without a second thought. Without the first either. He didn't have thoughts anymore. They all morphed into a big, formless blob of voices that chanted Andrea is right! What a great observation, Andrea! You're so smart, Andrea! The smartest! The smartest! You look like a five.
“You're smart,” he echoed to nobody in particular.
“Why thank you,” Wentworth responded, falling back into sleep right after. Frank sighed, again. That time Donald was sure it was Frank. It was a very Frank sigh.
Ha.
Time passed, then passed once more and again for good measure. Donald accepted the shapeless existence he was bound to now. Wentworth was snoring like a train; Sharon or Elfrida, someone ginger, maybe, fell asleep on the carpet; Frank retreated for another smoke; Zack. Donald nodded to himself. Yeah. Zack.
That was enough to make him satisfied. It was his time, now. To nod off. Accept peace and tranquility. Let himself go…
A particularly comfortable pillow touched his cheek. Warm but not uncomfortably hot, and just the right amount of soft. Donald breathed in delight. He would fall asleep like that everyday if he could. He should. He would.
Yeah, he would.
“I could spend my entire life there, you know.”
The pillow giggled. That was strange, was it not? Were pillows supposed to giggle? Donald wasn't sure. But it was a damn good pillow. He could look past anything if it meant to sleep there every night.
With that, he fell asleep to a night of dreams full of gingerbread, chipmunks, and empty movie theaters.
Duck. Cover. Repeat.
When he woke up, the sun already crawled between the blinds. It took Donald approximately six seconds to remember who, where and why he was before he sprung to his feet and made a run for it.
No goodbyes. He couldn't even risk being late. Every minute, every second even, was ticking down towards his demise. If father ever found out he wasn't home that night, he might just never leave home again.
By the time he made it back through the window, it was past seven in the morning. Past the normal waking time. The time by which he should be up and, ideally, dressed. His mother would call him downstairs already, and would most definitely check on him if he didn't come down by that time.
Yet his room was empty.
Lucky, he thought. Maybe today would be a good day.
He changed into his school clothes in a rush, attempting to make his hair somewhat presentable but giving up quickly. He looked believable enough, he thought. They would definitely buy it. Even Teddy, that snake. He wouldn't suspect a thing. Even if he saw him now…
But opening the door resulted in silence. Donald threw a confused look to the doors lining down the hall. His own, his parents, Teddy's… Open wide. Not like him at all. He always made sure to close the door when he walked out of his room and he most definitely wouldn't be inside if it was open.
Shaking the uneasy feeling off, Donald descended the stairs. If everyone was already there, he could always play it out as sleeping through the alarm. Being late couldn't possibly be as bad as not being there at all. But if they knew already? Father would be mad. Mother would be disappointed. Teddy would be happy. Of course he would, why wouldn't he be? He was definitely waiting for the day Donald would be the humiliation target instead of him. He would give him the deadliest stare in that case. In fact, he would do that right as he saw Teddy in his seat. Right now.
Donald made it through the last few steps motivated solely by that sweet, sweet vision.
Only to find the needed seat empty, the table not even close to being served and his parents pale as ghosts.
Oh, trouble. They surely got trouble.
“Donald,” his father said, cold as ever. “We need to talk about Theodore.”