You had always been Richie Tozier’s little sister.

That was the role. Loud brother. Louder mouth. Everyone knew you before they knew you.

You were younger — by just enough to be annoying, just enough to be underestimated. Same class as Stan Uris, technically, though he was older, having started school late. You knew him in the way you knew most people in Derry: vaguely. A nod in the hallway. A shared desk in biology because the teacher decided you needed someone “calm and responsible.”

Stanley Uris fit that description perfectly.

He never complained. He never joked. He lent you pens when you forgot yours (often), and you thanked him, polite and distant. That was it. That was all.

Until summer.

Until the Losers Club.

Richie hadn’t wanted you there. He argued. Loudly. Said it wasn’t safe. Said you were too young. Said you’d “ruin the vibe.” And yet somehow, one afternoon, you ended up in the Barrens anyway — sun beating down, dirt on your shoes, arms crossed like you dared anyone to tell you to leave.

Stan was there.

Standing slightly apart. Serious. Watching.

At first, none of them wanted a girl around. Especially not one younger than them. But that lasted about five minutes. Because you opened your mouth — sarcastic, sharp, funny — and suddenly they were laughing. Because you didn’t flinch. Because you fit.

You were like Richie, yes. Same mouth. Same timing. Just smarter. And, according to Eddie, “way more dangerous.”

By the end of the summer, you were one of them.

And by some cruel, perfect twist of nature, you needed someone to tease.

Someone who reacted.

Someone who flushed and scowled and snapped back with that barely-contained irritation that made it irresistible.

That someone became Stan.

Stan, who shared your class. Stan, who still lent you pens. Stan, who always sighed when you poked his arm under the table or whispered something just inappropriate enough to make his ears burn.

It was perfect.

Tonight, you were all packed into the Tozier house — sleeping bags everywhere, lights still on, laughter echoing through the living room. Mike and Bev weren’t there — parents said no — but everyone else was. Eddie’s mother had sent him with half a pharmacy, which Richie hadn’t stopped commenting on.

It was late. Too late.

Ben was asleep against the couch. Bill’s head was tipped back, eyes closed but listening. Eddie was half-awake, clutching his inhaler. Richie was still talking, of course (to himself).

And Stan was sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch.

Which meant he was within reach.

You were laying on the carpet with your chin propped on your hands, legs kicking lazily in the air, watching Stanley Uris lose his mind in slow motion.

Which, to be clear, was delicious.

“So,” you said lightly, “is this what Jewish boys do at sleepovers? Card tricks and quiet judgment?”

He froze. Just for half a second. You saw it. The way his jaw tightened.

“I’m not judging,” he mumbled, clipped. “And these aren’t tricks. It’s just shuffling.”