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Billy is a lotta’ things.
Some time ago, he was all elbows and knees. Always a little too sharp. A jab here and there. ‘Gangly little squirt’, a father once said to a son. He might have even run his hand through the boy’s hair; blonde, soft curls. Pat his head, then. ‘Go’. Like fathers do.
He was soft sighs, roses in a bottle, bread fresh out of the oven. Maybe. Kind of. Almost, if he had more time, but. Neil always said he hung around his mother too much. And now she’s gone, so. Yeah.
Now he’s just. Billy. The guy who broke a kitchen plate on another guy’s head.
No one likes that guy.
Max has not looked him in the eye since that night. At least not on purpose, anyway. She slams the door of the Camaro like she knows he won’t say anything, won’t grab her wrist. Bruised peaches.
When she does makes eye contact with Billy, she has this look on her face. Like she’s picturing her hands around his neck. Neil with his hands around Billy’s neck. She probably gets a kick whenever there’s another crash coming from his bedroom. When there are no other words from him at breakfast except ‘yes, sir’, ‘no, sir’, ‘thank you, Susan’.
Maybe she’s thinking of finishing the job. Aiming a little bit higher. Sticking that syringe in his neck again, but this time she's gonna hit something, and he. He won't be so lucky, waking up in a stranger's house. Maybe she's thinking 'bout what dress she’s not going to wear at his funeral because she doesn’t like dresses and she doesn’t like Billy, so why would she wear a dress at his funeral? That doesn’t make sense.
She’d be there, though. After everyone’s—Neil, maybe—gone home. Dancing on his grave. Spitting on it, because why not. What’s a corpse gonna do? It’s kinda funny. The curly-haired kid attached to Harrington’s hip would actually spit on Billy now, given the chance, he's sure of it.
But none of them stand closer than 10 feet to him. None of them ever alone. Not without Max around. Or Steve. Or the mom.
He doesn’t know her name. She comes by the arcade sometimes to pick up one of the kids. Technically, he’s never met her before, but. That night. There was a photo frame on the floor. Broken. Perhaps from when they. When he.
It doesn’t matter. He’s definitely seen her before, and she’s definitely not seen him, yet the first time he comes face to face with her it’s like. She knows. She does this thing with her eyebrows and her mouth and her eyes just—flash. Red. Like the blood Harrington spat out on her living room floor. Crushed Coca Cola can near the rear right tire. Forest fire, except. It’s been raining a lot lately.
So, yeah. Red. It’s just a flash. A second, maybe. Two. And Billy understands that. Red, he understands. It taints the walls of a bedroom that was once his. The inside of his eyelids. Everything he ever touches becomes—sooner or later—red.
And he’s ready to turn around, get the hell out of there, when she just. Her face just—deflates. And suddenly there’s. Blue. Poignant, murky water blue. She sees right through him.
"Billy, was it?" she asks, and he.
("Yes, ma’am. William Hargrove,” he should say.)
(Wants to say, "Billy? No, that’s not me. And, please, just—don’t. For your own good. Don’t go around looking. Asking for him. Billy. It’s not worth it. One day, a boy is going to say ‘yes, Billy, that’s me’ and he. He’s not going to be worth it.")
What he ends up saying is, "Hope you got yourself a new fridge." And then he's crushing the cigarette butt with the heel of his boot and getting the hell out of that parking lot.
He can’t get out fast enough. By the time he makes the turn on Old Cherry Road, the water is right under his nose. Max stands outside the car and watches. As he drowns. And she’s frowning. Like she doesn’t understand why he’s still sat inside, staring at his pruney fingers. He sucks in a deep breath and chokes. It’s too much. She’s saying something now. He can see her mouth moving. She’s saying his name, he thinks. Something like ‘Billy, what the hell are you doing?’ but he can’t. Speak. He’s—crying, drowning, sneering, pleading, breaking plates, touching. It. The thing. Whatever the hell that thing was.
But Max is still there. Closer now. She’s knocking her fist against the glass. "Billy, what the hell are you doing?" she asks. Like. She doesn’t know. Like she can’t see. The water.
Max taps on the window one last time. When he doesn’t move, she rolls her eyes and steps away. Fine. Better being ignored than. Well. She doesn’t need his keys anyway. She’s been leaving her bedroom window unlocked lately. Open. Just in case.