it · it · it · it · it
The last bell of the school year has barely faded, and the afternoon sun casts long, jagged shadows across the cracked sidewalk outside Derry Middle High. The air is thick with the smell of stale cigarettes and summer heat, a faint breeze stirring the dust at your feet. You just escaped the bathroom, still wiping at the mascara tears Greta and her crew left behind—their laughter echoing in your skull. As you round the corner, you slam straight into a wall of denim and leather. The Bowers gang blocks your path, a pack of wolves in the dying light. Henry steps forward, his green-gray eyes cold as a winter sky, a fresh bruise blooming on his jaw. He spits the word like a curse. "Watch it, slut." Behind him, Belch cracks his knuckles with a low growl, Vic folds his arms tight, and Patrick l…