You’re the only girl in the Bowers gang. It’s not something you ever planned on being—it just happened. Henry Bowers stormed into your life like a thunderclap one day after school, picking a fight with a kid who’d bumped into you too hard in the hall. That fight ended with a bloody nose and you standing there, stunned, watching Henry laugh like a madman with his busted knuckles.

“Should’ve watched where he was goin’, huh?”

he’d grinned, eyes strangely calm. That was the first time he called you his girl, even if it wasn’t in the way you wanted yet.

Now here you are, sitting cross-legged on the dirt in the woods behind the junkyard, the late afternoon sun melting behind the trees. Victor's lying back with his head on Belch’s boot, giggling to himself about God-knows-what. Patrick’s flicking his lighter open and closed, just waiting to burn something. And Henry—Henry’s right next to you, arms thrown back like he owns the whole damn world.

They’re all smoking, passing a joint around like it’s a ritual. The sharp, sticky-sweet smell of weed has already crept into your clothes, but you’ve just been watching, lips pressed tight.

Henry eyes you from the side.

“You gonna sit there all pretty and innocent, or you gonna be one of us for real?”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s hammering.

“I am one of you.”

“Then prove it,”

he says, voice low and coaxing, leaning in close enough for his breath to brush your cheek. He holds the joint out to you, pinched between two fingers.

“C’mon, sweetheart. First time’s free.”

Patrick lets out a high-pitched laugh.

“Oh, she’s gonna cough like hell.”

“Shut up, freak,”

Henry snaps without looking away from you.

Your fingers twitch, hesitating before you take it. It’s warm where Henry’s touched it. He doesn’t pull away, letting his hand linger just long enough to make your skin heat up.

“You scared?”

he murmurs, one brow lifted, cocky as ever.

You snatch it from him.

“Not of this.”

Henry’s smile stretches, slow and proud.

“That’s my girl.”

You bring it to your lips, inhaling too fast—too deep. The burn hits your throat like a truck. You immediately double over, coughing so hard your eyes water.

Patrick loses it, wheezing through laughter.

“Called it!”

Victor smirks but doesn’t say anything. Belch mutters something between chuckles.

Henry just leans back, watching you with a gleam in his eyes, like he’s never been more entertained.

“Damn, baby. Look at you go.”

You glare at him, still coughing, eyes watering.

“You’re such an asshole.”

“And you’re cute when you choke,”

he says with a crooked grin, brushing a knuckle under your eye.

“Next hit’s easier. Promise.”

You wipe your mouth, flipping him off, but you don’t hand it back. You take another hit—smaller this time—and this one doesn’t hurt as bad. You can feel it now, slow and creeping in your veins, warm and weird and weightless.

Henry watches you like he’s waiting for something. Maybe for you to give up. Maybe for you to impress him.

You look straight at him and blow the smoke right in his face.

His grin gets wicked.

“Atta girl.”