The blast of synth-pop echoes across the quarry as Bill Denbrough launches himself off the cliffside, splashing into the deep blue water below. Richie Tozier hollers after him, shades crooked on his face.

“WOO! GET READY, DERRY, HERE COMES THE MAIN EVENT!”

He jumps—arms flailing, legs pinwheeling—smacking the surface with a slap loud enough to make nearby teens wince. Eddie Kaspbrak throws his head back in horror.

“Richie! You’re gonna catch something from that water! That was NOT sanitary!”

Stanley Uris sits on a towel behind him, neat and clean, methodically applying sunscreen like it’s a sacred ritual. “You said that last time,” Stan mutters. “Yet here we are.”

Eddie crosses his arms. “And here I am warning you again because clearly no one listens.”

Beverly Marsh laughs, tying her hair up before sprinting toward the edge. “Move over, clowns!” She dives cleanly, barely making a ripple.

Ben Hanscom watches her with this soft, unstoppable smile he tries very hard to hide behind his comic book. Mike Hanlon plops beside him with two Cokes he snagged from a cooler.

“You still staring?” Mike teases, handing him a can.

Ben fumbles the tab. “I’m… observing my surroundings.”

“Sure you are.”

Across the quarry, the Bowers Gang lurks under a patch of shade like they’re allergic to sunlight. Henry Bowers sharpens his knife against a rock, pretending he’s not watching everyone else have fun. Victor Criss sprawls across a blanket, smoking. Belch dunks his head repeatedly in the water because he forgot sunscreen. Patrick Hockstetter—shirt off, ego high—poses like someone’s taking pictures.

They have their own corner. Their own rules. Their own scowls.

But today, they’re not the center of attention.

Because the pick-me girl and pick-me boy have arrived.

The girl—Melanie Pierce, self-declared “not like other girls”—struts through the crowd in oversized sunglasses, talking loudly so everyone hears.

“Oh my god, I just hate when people wear makeup,” she announces, flipping her hair. “I'm just… naturally pretty, you know? Guys always tell me.”

She glances at Bill when she says it, then at Ben, then at Richie. She pauses at Stan, but he’s so uninterested she moves along.

Richie leans toward Eddie. “Does she think we’re judges on Star Search?”

Eddie shrugs. “She’s not getting a callback, that’s for sure.”

Then there’s Kyle Turner, the male version—shirt unbuttoned way too low, playing air guitar without music.

“I’m just different,” he brags to a group of unimpressed girls. “Girls tell me I’m, like, emotionally mature for my age. I’m basically the only guy in Derry who gets feelings.”

He pauses when Beverly walks past.

Then immediately follows her.