Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hawkins was absolute shit.

It reeked— big stinkin’ cow manure clogging his nostrils, like he was trapped in one of those endless garden centres back in California. And God, it was so boring. Flat. Ugly. Dead.

“It’s not that bad.” He pinches his brows together at her mumbling and took another drag from the cigarette hanging out the car window, why was she talking?

“Shut up,” he hisses.

The brat never wanted to be realistic. She chose to forget everything good they’d had back on the coast—for this.

She shrugs and goes back to mopily staring outside.

The school comes into view, big and depressing like the rest of this place. Billy peels into the parking lot and makes a point of revving the engine, tyres squealing as he slides into a spot. A migraine was already blooming behind his eyes. He could practically script the conversations he’d be forced into with these backwater hicks. He looks towards his stepsister, shooing her out. 

“Go. Scram!”

Max opens the door, and he shoves her just to be annoying. Then she flips him off, like the bitch she is. Billy steps out, slams the door, and watches her skate toward the middle school. He crushed his cigarette beneath his shoe. Billy could only laugh at her attitude, she probably thought she looked so cool skating around like a poser. He headed toward the reception, catching three girls openly staring at him. He smiled lazily.

He'd been a catch in California. No surprise he was already the best thing they’d ever see.

{~~~}

After a trip to the office, Billy stood at his locker, frowning at the combination lock. The clerk had told him the code had been reset after handing over his schedule and some extra stationery out of the goodness of her own heart, but she seemed to have forgotten to mention how to unlock it. 

This thing was ridiculous, it was so big. Cali lockers were tiny. Small boxes, just enough to stash a kit and maybe a book. Here? He could fit some clothes, a good supply of snacks and a pair of shoes for safe keeps. One good thing at least. He’s still wrestling with it when someone approaches from the right and claps a hand on his shoulder. Billy turns slowly, ice-cold stare meeting a freckled face prep.

The kid grinned, all smarmy and prickled at his silence. “I’m Tommy. Hagan. Nice to meet you.”

Billy ignored him and kept spinning the lock. The boy launches into a spiel about welcoming high school spirit, like he gives two shits about, but trails off as he continues to struggle. 

“...You need help?”

The stupid thing jammed again. He grits his teeth. “…Sure.”

The boy takes it from his hand and flicks through the numbers easily. Two-three-four-five. The locker popped open. Billy huffed, shoving his gym clothes and beat-up sneakers inside. How was he supposed to know that random combination? The clerk should’ve damn told him instead of complimenting his foreign accent, purring like a cat in heat. He refuses to thank him.

His reaction is delayed, too focused on where to put things as those stubby pale pickles nip into his pocket. The kid has the audacity to pluck his timetable straight off him. Billy spins, ready to throw him into the locker for getting so near. But Hagan is already a few steps away, reading aloud.

“Billy Hargrove. Junior. Oo! AP, damn. You’re a nerd.” He pushes the paper back into Billy’s chest. Laughing.

“That’s not my fault,” Billy growls, “Everyone in this bumfuck town is dumb as shit.”

That made the boy back off, palms raised. “Easy, tiger. Just trying to be friendly.” He slams the locker shut. He needed to find his class before he got in trouble. “Look,” Hagan continued, flashing ugly his varsity jacket. A gold and green monstrosity with his initials on the lapel. “The girls dig you. So does the basketball team. We’re… selective. But you’d fit in.”

Billy pops a piece of gum into his mouth, smothering a grimace. “Sports a big deal here or something?”

Hagan blinked at him like he was stupid, and Billy did not fucking like that. “Being a player’s everything, man. Parties, booze, and best of all, amazing pussy.” God, his brain was going to leak out of his ears. Hagan clapped him on the shoulder again. “Sit with us at lunch. Promise it’s worth it.”

“I’ll think about it,” Billy muttered, already walking away. He needed to find out where the hell the English department was.

“Oh, and Billy?”

He turned.

“Your class is the other way.” He checks the board. Damn it.

“Thanks,” he called, but the kid was already gone.

{~~~}

Class was… fine.

He arrived on time, but the murmuring started the second he walked in. He sighs and scans the room—small, cramped. Fifteen kids, max. The only open seat was next to a perky girl by the window.

He dropped into it, and she smiled. Bright, neat ponytail, perfect teeth. He’s expecting her to instantly start trying to chat him up, and to be honest, he wouldn’t mind. But all she gave was a shy little wave and went back to doodling.

Huh. Cute.

The teacher walked in and called him up to introduce himself. Billy delivered his name in a low, smooth tone that earned a few giggles. He mentioned surfing, living by the beach. The teacher nodded approvingly and started the lesson started. He tuned it out, it’s just some exercise about interpreting the connotations of mid-century Scotland for Macbeth, how fun. This class was miles behind his old school. He’d wanted AP, but there hadn’t been space. He would have to wait until one of those snobs dropped out.

The girl beside him pauses from her neat little analysis to frown when she notices he isn’t writing. “Are you not going to do the work?” she whispered. Her voice is soft, eyes big as she looks at him, confused. She probably can't fathom the fact that he’s doing jack shit on the first day.

“Nope.”

She hummed and went back to her paper as the teacher passed. He chewed his gum and glanced at her work, boring but concise. Not bad. Her name was written at the top, next to the date, in a tiny scrawl. Chrissy Cunningham. Fancy.

He can tell she’s judging him. To be honest, he’s too tired to actually put his brain to use, the thought of picking up a pen and putting words on the rough paper grates his nerves like no other. He didn’t get anything in his stomach before school, and he probably won’t get anything until dinner, unless he’s able to find some loose change and grab something from the vending machine. The less energy used today, the better. 

Billy gets through the class without being called upon, the teacher tells them they have until tomorrow to hand in the paper so he stuffs the blank sheet in his bag, planning to finish it in his car later. 

He is about to dash out the door, to try find his next class when Chrissy taps him on the shoulder, a little light poke that somehow makes him jump. Billy turns to her, eyebrow raised and a little smug, expecting her to finally ask him out or something. “Something on your mind, doll?” he answers suave.

She wrinkles her nose at his come on, which is hilarious, but smiles anyway. “I know it’s your first lesson, but if you don’t have anyone to sit with at lunch,” she says all sweetly, “you can come and sit with me.”

That makes him falter in his tracks. “Uh, yeah, sure. I’ll see.” He stared as she walked away, cheerful and unbothered. Was she being nice? Billy frowned, baffled.

That… didn’t happen.

Billy heads toward lunch, muttering about the obscene amount of homework already piled on him, when he rams face-first into someone’s back.

Hard.

Her books go flying. They both go down in a tangle of limbs.

“Fuck,” he groans. Did he just run into a brick wall?

His nose stings. His palms are gritty with the filth of the floor. He’s up first and, against his better judgment, offers the girl a hand. She’s pale, freckled, ginger, wearing some thick-ass glasses that she immediately adjusts.

Then, the bitch slaps his hand away. “Watch where you’re going, you absolute idiot,” she snaps, unleashing a stream of curses that question both his eyesight and his intelligence.

Okay, rude. If she hadn’t been blocking the entire hallway, maybe he wouldn’t have run into her. He straightens and keeps walking. Fuck her.

“So you’re not going to apologise?” she calls after him.

He turns slowly. “My bad.” Is she actually expecting him to apologise? “For missing your mammoth presence.” He snarls, “Next time, try not to stand in the middle of the hallway.” She gasps like he’s just stabbed her.

Billy spins on his heel and jogs the rest of the way to the cafeteria. Man, he really hadn’t wanted to be an asshole on his first day, but these people kept fucking with him. Just before he pushes the door open, he glances back. The ginger’s already ranting to another girl, snobby-looking, nose in the air. Billy shakes his head.

Fuck them.

{~~~}

The cafeteria’s mostly empty, early lunch. Perfect.

He counts the quarters and nickels in his pocket. In calculus, someone’s purse spilled near his desk. He’d nudged a few coins under the radiator and gone back for them after class. A pain in the ass picking them out. His fingers are sore from jamming his hands between the rails, but worth it.

He doesn’t feel bad. Not even a little.

He ignores the lunch line and heads straight for the machines. A cereal bar for a quarter. Water for fifty cents. That’ll do. The place is mostly empty, so he can probably snag a table at the back and death stare anyone trying to approach.  

“Billy!”

He turns, shoulders easing when he spots Chrissy waving him over. She’s seated beside a brunette with big hoop earrings and curls piled into an impressively tall bun. He’s surprised she remembered him. Touched, even.

Billy scans the room. Another table is filling up with letterman jackets. Thank God Hagan isn’t there, or he’s sure he’d be dragged to sit with those hooligans. He slides into the seat beside Chrissy and offers the other girl a polite grin. “This is Heather,” Chrissy says. “Cheer captain.”

Heather eyes him critically, and he shakes her manicured hand anyway. If the other birds had been stuck-up, Heather absolutely demolished them. She’s vicious, snarky, sharp-tongued, and he loves it. They chat, and Billy barely notices the blandness of his snack as she tears into the school’s various losers.

“That ginger you knocked? Barbara Holland.” she says, sidling closer. “Fat pig. Nobody likes her. Her friend’s worse.”

Good. They deserved it.

Chrissy giggles, quietly eating. Heather launches into some more gossip—a jock kicked off the basketball team for getting “boring.” Christ. These people were cutthroat. Her next tale, she regales about one beautiful time Hagan got his shit rocked by a whimp. She’s mid-story, absently stroking his arm, when she stops.

“Ahem.”

Billy turns to find—another ginger. Jesus, were they multiplying?

The table goes quiet.

“Yes, Carol,” Heather says flatly. “What do you want?”

Carol chews her gum, blatantly eyeing him up and down. “So you’re like, the Malibu Barbie Tommy won’t shut up about?”

He blinks. “Huh?”

She jerks a thumb over her shoulder. Sure enough—Hagan, at the jock table, failing miserably to hide the puppy eyes he’s sending over.

“My boyfriend misses you,” she smirks.

She plops into the empty seat across from him, right beside Heather. The cheer captain scowls. Carol beckons Hagan over, and he comes like a fucking dog to heel.

Ugh.

Heather huffs. Chrissy suddenly becomes very interested in her food. “So,” Billy asks casually, because he’s also intrigued. “You girls in a catfight or something?”

Carol laughs. Heather sighs.

“I like this one,” she says. Heather ignores her. 

“Carol Perkins, our shittest cheerleader.”

“Uh?” Billy says intelligently.

The girl blows Heather a kiss. “You know you love me.”

“You literally show up once a month,” Heather snaps. “And forget choreography all the time.”

“I’m the best dancer,” Perkins grins, slinging an arm around Heather’s neck. “Well—after Chrissy.” The latter giggles, and Billy nods, already bored with their cheer drama. Then Hagan is sliding in behind him, leaning all his weight against him. Exactly how Perkins is doing to Heather “Hargrove, why didn’t you sit with me?” he whines directly into his ear.

Billy wants to hurl. “Sorry. I’d rather sit with the ladies.” He flashes a grin at the girls.

“Ohhh,” Hagan sings. “Such a pussy magnet.” 

“We’re right here,” Heather calls, and the other two snicker at Hagan's tomfoolery – hah. The boy finally settles beside him. “Come to tryouts tomorrow. You’ll kill it.” God, this one is pushy. He’s been here three hours. Why is everyone trying to jump on his dick?

Hagan’s face drops, catching him off guard. “Ever since Harrington started ditching, the team’s been trash.”

“…Right.” 

“Oh! We can hang out after school,” Chrissy chirps. “Cheer and practice happen at the same time!” Billy looks to the others. Heather shrugs, and Carol smirks like an ominous vixen.

Whatever, he’ll be a victim of peer pressure just this once. Better than going home anyways.

“Fine,” Billy says.

Chapter Text

Why was she so late?

He’d finished three classes’ worth of work by the time Maxine finally came skating over, shoulders slumped like the universe had personally wronged her. The parking lot was nearly empty—everyone already damn well home, warm and cosy in their little hovels.

His dad was going to be pissed.

Billy doesn’t ask where she’s been because he doesn’t actually care, but she can’t keep pulling this shit. So he snaps at her anyway, irritation sharp and familiar.

She doesn’t snap back. Doesn’t roll her eyes or bite like she usually does. Just stares out the window, hollow.

Weird.

He has bigger things to worry about—like what the hell he’s going to say when they get home, and how he’s going to bring up the basketball tryouts without it blowing up in his face.

Still, he flips through the cassette tapes one-handed, eyes on the road. Billy’s fingers brush an old one shoved to the back—rarely used and dusty as hell, but he slips it into the console without looking. Bubblegum pop floods the car, something outdated she probably doesn’t even listen to anymore.

Still—there it is. The tiniest smile, hidden against the window. He hopes it’s a little reprieve from whatever got her so moody, because his day is about to get a lot shitter.

He groans when he pulls in behind his dad’s truck. Any hope of traffic delays dies instantly, snuffed out.

Fuck.

Max hops out first, light and careless as ever. Billy catches her arm before she shuts the door. “Dad’s gonna ask why we’re late,” he mutters. “What’re you telling him?” She sighs, adjusting her bag and says in that snotty-nose way she always is, “That you crashed the car. What do you think?”

Little brat.

“Well, you didn’t tell me,” he growls. “How am I supposed to know?”

“I tried to join a club.”

“Tried? What, they reject you?”

She mumbles into her hair. “Something like that.” That’s—actually funny. Almost worth what’s coming.

“Aww,” he croons. “Little Maxine, got rejected.” She yanks the door open. The TV clicks quieter. Neil turns slowly, eyes sharp as broken glass.

“School finished an hour ago,” he says. “Where were you?” Maxine at least looks properly chastised. She speaks first, thank God.

“I joined a club.”

Billy rolls his eyes internally. His dad turns. “And you?”

“I waited for her.”

A pause. Then a stiff nod. “Let me know next time.”

Like, Billy’s some psychic.

{~~~}

His room’s still a mess. Half-unpacked, trash bags shoved into corners. Billy digs out his journal from beneath a pile and slides it under his pillow, heart ticking a little faster until he can go over and shut the door. He peeks down the hallway. Max's door is closed. His dad’s still parked in front of the TV. Susan’s back—already cooking.

He’s got maybe thirty minutes before his dad gets restless.

He sprawls on the bed and pulls the book free. Brown leather, worn soft at the edges—a gift from his… friend back home. He scribbles quickly.

'Get into AP
Start applying
Job
Get the fuck out'

Simple.

A year and a half until graduation.

“Boy!” Neil shouts. “Why aren’t you helping Susan?”

Yeah. A long year and a half.

{~~~}

The kitchen’s cold. He considers going back and grabbing a hoodie, but decides against it, anything extra sets his dad off. Maxine is still holed up in her room. His stepmother won’t admit it, but she’s a terrible cook. Burns everything. Overcooks what she doesn’t burn. When Neil remarried, Billy had been relieved of kitchen duty. Women’s work, apparently. That lasted exactly one family dinner.

Tonight’s sausages and mash.

He knows it the second he steps into the kitchen. The batter in the bowl is too thick. It clings to the spoon in a stubborn, gluey way instead of the usual gooey. Susan hums to herself at the stove, wooden spoon tapping the side of the pot in an uneven rhythm. She doesn’t look stressed, just determined, like sheer optimism might bully the food into cooperating.

He washes his hands and moves without announcing himself. Reaches for the kettle, tops it up, and sets it to boil. He doesn’t mind helping out, it’s just the awkwardness that comes with the territory. He’s already counting in his head how much water it’ll need when Susan glances over her shoulder.

“I followed the recipe,” she says, a touch defensive, though she smiles.

“I know,” he answers lightly. He waits until she turns back to the stove before adding the water. Just a splash. He folds it in slowly. The batter relaxes under the spoon, smoothing into something workable. Susan pretends not to notice. He pretends she doesn’t notice him pretending.

She fusses with the sausages, turning them too often. He slides a plate beside her without comment and nudges the heat down. Steam clouds the window above the sink. The clock ticks toward seven. “You don’t have to hover,” she says, soft but not unkind.

“I’m not,” he replies, already peeling potatoes. The skin comes away in long, unbroken strips. She keeps watching him.

“You make it look easy,” she says.

Billy shrugs, eyes still on his hands. The mash goes lumpy, and he fixes it. By the time the clock hits seven, everything’s ready. Susan sighs in relief, softening her shoulders. “Well,” she says, smiling down at the food. Then she looks at him, like she’s about to say something else. Her mouth opens.

She hesitates.

“…I’ll call them in,” Susan says at last.

Billy nods.

Dinner unfolds. A ritual he knows by heart. His dad gets served first, always. Then Susan, Max, and lastly him. Water gets poured last. Susan hovers, hopeful, while Billy moves between the stove and table. When they sit, his dad bows his head to begin Prayer. Billy nudges Max under the table until she speaks up, his dad hates mumbling.

They eat.

Susan beams when Neil praises the food, pride lighting her face. Billy keeps his eyes on his plate and eats slowly. The conversation drifts toward his sister. How school was. Who she sat with. She talks about joining the AV club, and Billy barely reacts, social suicide, honestly. He focuses on the food, still warm.

Then he remembers. The table quiets.

“I’m… uh,” he starts. His dad doesn’t blink.

“I’m trying out for basketball tomorrow,” Billy says. “I’ll be back a little late.”

“What?” His dad frowns, tone sharp enough to cut.

Susan looks surprised, interested, even. “I didn’t know you liked basketball.” Billy forces himself not to flinch. “Yeah. Thought I’d try.” She nods, encouraging. Neil studies him for a long moment, jaw tight.

“Be back before dark,” he says finally. “And don’t skip kitchen duty.”

He nods. That went better than expected.

He finishes first but waits until everyone’s done before clearing plates. He stacks them neatly and carries them back to the kitchen. Susan lingers in the doorway, watching.

“Don’t stay up too late,” she says, almost like there’s something else riding on the words.

“Okay,” he replies, not turning away from the sink. She leaves it at that. When he finishes, the kitchen still smells warm and rich. He dries his hands, flicks off the light, and heads to his room.

{~~~}

The alarm screams beside him, and Billy groans in the freezing air. It’s cold as shit. Leaving the warmth of his sheets feels borderline criminal. There’s banging at his door. Neil.

“Get yourself up!”

He drags himself out of bed and starts moving on autopilot. Max is probably still dead to the world, so he slams his fist against her door on the way past. She groans.

Good.

He comes back from the bathroom, and her door’s still shut. “Oy, Maxine, get your ass up!” There’s a rustle from inside her room, blankets shifting, a muffled groan, so he moves on, already halfway back toward his own door.

Then he hears it.

Footsteps. Heavy. Fast. He looks up just in time to see his dad storming down the hallway, jaw set, shoulders tight like he’s been waiting for something to snap at. His presence fills the narrow space, sucking the air out of it.

“Mind your language around your sister.”

For fuck’s sake.

Billy nods, jaw clenched so hard it aches. He swallows whatever sharp reply is clawing at the back of his throat and turns toward his room, reaching for the door—

—and stops.

Neil steps into the doorway, blocking it with ease.

“I want you to apologise.” His brow twitches.

“Sorry, sir,” he mutters, already shifting his weight, thinking about the cold, the thin pants clinging to his legs that he wants to get out of. He just wants to change. Just five minutes. A hand slams against the doorframe.

“Not to me.”

Behind them, a door creaks open. His sister peeks out, hair a mess, eyes half-lidded with sleep. He stares at the floor, forces his voice flat. “I’m sorry, Max.” She nods quickly and scurries past them toward the bathroom. His dad watches her go, then turns back, eyes hard.

“Watch yourself,” he says. His dad glares at him one last time before walking off, shoving him again on the way past, just because he can. He breathes slowly once he’s alone, cheeks burning. He hates this part most—being made a spectacle, dragged into his dad’s power games with Max as the audience.

He rummages through his clothes box. Five minutes. Maybe less. Old jeans. Plain black T-shirt. He’s got nothing meant for this weather. He shrugs on a denim jacket anyway, better than freezing, and runs his fingers through his hair. Billy barrels past his dad without looking and calls for his stupid stepsister. Thank fuck she’s ready. They sprint to the car. He peels out of the driveway like the house might grab him back if he hesitates.

He checks the dashboard.

Fuck. Three minutes left. He floors it, gears shifting fast. No cop’s gonna be out at eight in the damn morning. Probably. Billy parks, further since all the good spots are taken, his sister’s gone in a blink—rolling away from the car before he can even mouth off. Usually, his favourite moment of the day.

Not today.

He glances at his watch.

Late.

Billy groans and drops his forehead onto the steering wheel, contemplating just knocking himself out cold.

{~~~}

Fuck. His will to live is hanging by a thread.

He managed not to get a detention and, as a reward to himself, slept through English, much to Chrissy’s displeasure. Honestly, it’s probably for the best. Billy isn’t a morning person, and if he’d tried to talk, he would’ve said something sharp straight to her pretty little face and hated himself for it later.

He hands in his essay anyway. Ms Raine takes it with raised eyebrows once she looks at the sheer amount of writing. The word count had been a minimum of one hundred. Somehow, he managed to fill two full pages in tiny script writing. Don’t ask him how.

Hagan finds him again at his locker. This time, he’s flanked—fox-girlfriend on one side, another jock on the other. They box him in so fast, Billy nearly cracks his skull on the open door trying to straighten up.

“Jesus—yes, Hagan. What now?”

“The cheer girls are sitting with us today,” Hagan says, like it’s a decree. “You’ll be there too.”

Perkins, Carol, whatever snaps her gum, smirking like she already knows the answer. The other guy—at least—has the decency to step back a little. Billy lets out a long, dramatic sigh and nods. Hagan pats him firmly on the back, satisfied. Perkins keeps smirking. It’s starting to piss him off.

They saunter away, entourage intact. Billy grabs his workbook and shuts his locker harder than necessary. Geography is before lunch today. If he gets there early, he can snag a seat in the back, prime real estate. And then do fuck all for the rest of the hour. He’d talked to his counsellor that morning. A spot finally opened up in AP. Advanced Geographical and Political Studies isn’t exactly his dream subject, but credits are credits, and colleges love the numbers more than the content. 

Billy’s getting a better handle on the school now. Departments are split weirdly between floors—half upstairs, half down—which is stupid, but whatever. He’s one of the first to arrive in the classroom.

Yes. Back row’s free.

He drops into the seat next to the radiator and sinks into it, soaking up the warmth like a cat. Slowly, students filter in. Then a familiar presence slides into his peripheral vision.

Heather.

She catches his eye and grins wickedly once she recognises him. Without hesitation, she takes the seat beside him, unpacking her things like she owns the place. “So you finally joined the big leagues then? I heard Tommy looked like he was about to suck your dick in the hallway earlier.” He gives her an incredulous look, eyes wide at the notion.

Well.

This just got interesting.

Chapter Text

The teacher walks in soon after and sets up at the front. They’ve still got a few minutes left before the bell rings. “Well,” Heather sighs dramatically, already settling in, “this is going to be hell.”

Billy blinks. “Bit early for there, isn’t it?”

She twists in her seat to look at him properly, brown eyes sharp and assessing. “Ms Lynch,” like that explains anything. He raises a brow, and she rolls her eyes, continuing. “She overcomplicates everything. You can ask her the time, and she starts on a roll about focus and motivation.” He laughs before he can stop himself. “That sounds great to me.”

She groans. “See? That attitude? That’s exactly how they gets you. Makes you think it’s fine, and then—bam—fifteen-page packet on mitigating flood repercussions.”

He leans back, stretching his legs under the desk, playing it low even as curiosity pricks at him. “I didn’t peg you for AP Geography.”

Heather’s eyes narrow just a touch. “Oh?” she says sweetly. “And what did you peg me for?”

Ah. oops. He lifts a shoulder. “I…didn’t mean it like that.”

“Uh-huh.” She clicks her pen open and shut. “Let me guess—cheerleaders don’t do smart shit.”

He huffs, lips twitching despite himself. “Did not say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” She smirks, then huffs again, gaze drifting to the whiteboard. “But yeah. I’m here because I have to be.”

He turns a little more toward her now. “Have to?”

Heather props her chin in her hand. “Hawkin’s a dead end.” She says it casually, “If I want out—like, really out—I need the grades. Colleges don’t care if you can do a perfect toe touch.”

Billy nods slowly. He knows that feeling too well—the itch under the skin. Heather side-glances him.
“What, no smart comment?”

“Just… wasn’t expecting you to say it like that.”

She rolls her eyes. “Please. I want to see the world. London. Tokyo. Anywhere that doesn’t smell like here.”

And ain’t that true. She perks up immediately. “What about you, California boy?”

“Uh.”

She presses, eyes bright. “What’s it actually like? Beaches and palm trees? Hot people everywhere?”

He snorts, of course that’s the first thing that comes to her mind. “You really wanna know?” Heather grins. “Obviously.”

He tilts his head, thinking. “It’s loud. Bright. Everyone’s chasing something. And yeah—lots of beach.”

She hums, considering. “Maybe I’ll run away there. Get a sexy surfer boyfriend.”

Billy chuckles. “Better choose carefully. There’s about a million of them.”

“Oh yeah?” She arches a brow.

“Yeah,” he says dryly. “Some come free with the board.”

She laughs at that.

Without quite stopping himself, Billy adds—too blunt, maybe—his gaze flicking to the parking lot. To the cherry-red Mustang she rides, catching the light like it knows it’s being admired. Then back to her clothes after that, all recognisable labels. “Won’t you miss your daddy’s money?”

Heather doesn’t flinch. She just smiles. “Oh, always. But I’ll figure it out.”

A short, helpless chuckle slips out of him before he can stop it. “Alright. Whatever you say.” She beams, pleased. Ms Lynch clears her throat loudly at the front of the room, and Heather finally turns forward, flipping open her notebook with exaggerated care. As the lesson starts, Billy settles back in his chair, warmth humming through his chest that has nothing to do with the radiator.

{~~~}

There’s a girl sitting a few seats ahead of them, dead centre of the room. Billy notices her about five minutes into the class—mostly because he can’t see past her.

Her hair is… impressive. A curled bush that somehow manages to take up more vertical space than the back of her chair. Every time he shifts, trying to catch a glimpse of the front, it blocks him again.

He sighs quietly and tilts his head to the side.

Nothing.

Billy shifts again. Tilts the other way. Heather gives him a questioning look at his fidgeting, but when he moves again, she realises his issue. And proceeds to cover her mouth with her sleeve, shoulders shaking.

He exaggerates the movement on purpose now, slowly craning his neck like he’s trying to peer around a corner. He pushes further—leans so far sideways his elbow nearly bumps off the desk.

She wheezes, which turns into a cough as she chokes on her saliva. It’s not subtle at all. A couple of kids nearby glance back at them. Billy straightens, as if nothing happened, face neutral. Ms Lynch drones on about grade boundaries, marker squeaking as she sketches something that looks more like a cracked dinner plate than a continent.

The bush doesn’t move, Billy tilts again. He can’t see shit.

Heather loses it—just a little hff through her nose before she clamps down, eyes watering. He shoots her a look, smug, and she shakes her head.

Ms Lynch keeps talking, chalk tapping against the board, blissfully unaware of the quiet brewing behind her. She underlines the question once, firmly, then turns.

“Alright,” she says, dusting her hands together. “Who can tell me how and why the Human Development Index can be beneficial or detrimental to developing countries?”

Silence.

Then—zip—a hand shoots up.

The girl in front, of course. Her arm locked in a straight, unwavering line. Ms Lynch squints over her glasses. “Yes… Nancy.” There’s a sigh in her voice, almost fond. “But is there anyone else? Or am I to assume no one but Nancy did the reading?”

Heather slumps back in her chair, rolling her eyes so hard he can practically hear it. “Ugh, Wheeler is such a teacher’s pet,” she mutters, barely moving her lips. “Ice bitch cunt.”

Bit harsh. He lifts an eyebrow at her. She waves him off. “What? She knows.”

Wheeler launches off, parroting on about education access and life expectancy. Rehearsed to Billy’s ears.

Then she keeps going and going. The other students sigh, and one kid in front of him mimes falling asleep to his partner. Sheesh, tough crowd. She starts looping back on herself, then contradicts it. And fumbles the conclusion. Her certainty drains out near the end, replaced by a rush to finish strong.

Ms Lynch steps in, merciful. “That’s a good start, Nancy,” she says kindly. “You’re absolutely on the right track. But the final point needs a bit more clarity.”

Wheeler’s shoulders stiffen. A tight breath through her nose. “So,” Ms Lynch continues, scanning the room, “who can help her finish the thought?”

Her gaze lands on Heather. Heather freezes.

Her back snaps straight, eyes wide, pen hovering uselessly over her notebook. She stares resolutely down at her work, pretending to be deeply absorbed in her three lines of words. She quickly glances at him, panic flashing across her face.

Billy doesn’t really think about it. His hand goes up.

Ms Lynch looks almost relieved. “Yes—?” She hesitates, searching.

“Hargrove”, he supplies easily. “The HDI’s useful because it shows where investment should go. But if countries chase the ranking instead of addressing local needs, it can push policy in the wrong direction.” Beside him, Heather lets out a long breath and sinks back into her chair. 

“It helps compare,” he adds, “but it shouldn’t dictate.”

The teacher’s face brightens. She nods once, decisive. “Exactly. That’s the balance I was looking for. Thank you.”

Wheeler stares straight ahead, jaw tight. Heather leans toward him, whispering, “I owe you my life.”

He smirks.

Up front, Wheeler hunches over her notebook, scribbling furiously like the page itself has wronged her. She doesn’t look up again. Heather catches it anyway and beams, smug and unapologetic, tapping her pen against her teeth like she’s won something. “She’s gonna hate you,” she murmurs, gleeful. “It’s fine, though. The team already hates Wheeler—’cause she screwed up their best player.”

“Ah.” Billy keeps his voice neutral. He’s only caught fragments of the drama drifting through halls and locker rooms, but it’s clear enough now. The resentment doesn’t stop with her. Whatever went down stuck, and it stuck hard.

Billy eases back in his chair, shifting just enough to finally get a clear line of sight to the board. Ms Lynch drones on, circling key points with her chalk, her voice settling into a steady, numbing rhythm. The rest of the lesson slips by without incident. Heather actually pays attention after her little scare, pen moving in neat lines, while Billy lets his gaze drift to the clouds outside, watching them crawl past and pretending he isn’t counting the minutes.

The bell shrieks overhead, cutting straight through the quiet. Chairs scrape back in unison, the spell breaking all at once. Heather swings her bag onto her shoulder and glances at him sideways. “So,” she says, casual as anything, “you going with Hagan?”

He huffs, gathering his things. “Not like I’ve got a choice, right?”

She grins, already halfway into the aisle. “I’ll save you a seat. Right by me.” Then, lowering her voice just enough to feel conspiratorial, she adds, “Pretty sure Carol wants to eat you alive.”

He pauses, tilts his head, lets the smile curve slow and deliberate. “Can’t have that now, can we?” he says, voice all sugar and drawl. “Thank ya, Bubblegum. I’ll be there.”Heather rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling as she totters off down the row, ponytail swaying.

Billy watches her go for a second, then slings his bag over his shoulder and heads for the door.

{~~~}

He strolls into the cafeteria fashionably late—at least, that’s what he tells himself—and slides into the seat Heather promised him. The table’s already buzzing with noise, voices overlapping, someone laughing a little too hard, gum snapping in the air. Chrissy’s beside him, legs tucked neatly under the bench, nails flashing pastel blue as she peels the wrapper off a cheese sandwich. She fans them out when she catches him looking. He nods toward her hands, “That colour’s pretty on you.”

Her whole face lights up, like he’s flicked on a switch. “You think?” She turns her hand, admiring it anew. “I couldn’t decide between this or pink.”

“Blue’s nice,” he says easily, tearing open a protein bar. “Looks good, like… sky-blue. Or one of those fancy bathrooms.” She giggles, delighted, and takes a tiny bite of her sandwich, chewing carefully. Another small bite. Billy crams one whole side of his meal into his mouth in one go, and she watches him, vaguely fascinated.

Hagan barrels in a second later, the tray thudding down with a loud announcement. “Alright, alright—introductions.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “This is McKinney—Patrick. You’ve met. And that’s Jason Carver.”

McKinney’s tall and sun-browned with an easy smile. His gaze immediately falls to the Camaro keys clipped to Billy’s belt loop. Carver—blonde hair, cut jaw— stares at Chrissy and lifts a hand in a lazy little wave. The girl giggles. Actually giggles—soft and breathy, and from Billy’s position, he can see one hand curl into the hem of her skirt.

Carver grins back, pleased, already leaning an elbow on the table. “Hey,” he says, eyes lingering on her form. Chrissy ducks her head, smile stretching wider anyway. “Hi,” she murmurs, barely audible, cheeks pinking as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She doesn’t look up again, but she doesn’t pull away either.

Heather watches the whole exchange, unimpressed. Slowly, she shifts her gaze to Billy. He meets her eyes just as Carver laughs at something Chrissy says—something not even that funny—and nudges his knee under the table. Ew, her look says plainly. Billy chews slowly, then gives the faintest shrug of his head in return. McKinney, thankfully, turns his body a little, angling away from Hagan’s noise and toward Billy “So,” he says, eyes shining with genuine curiosity, “you really from California?”

“Born and baked,” Billy replies easily. “Ocean practically raised me.”

McKinney lets out a soft, disbelieving sound. “No way. You lived by the—the ocean? All the time?”

“All the time,” he says. “Always had salt in my hair and sand in places I didn’t know existed.”

He shakes his head, grinning. “Man,” he says, quieter now, “I’ve never even seen the ocean.”

Billy presses a hand to his chest, mock-solemn. “That’s tragic, dude. Truly. We gotta fix that.”

McKinney chuckles, shoulders loosening. “Yeah? You gonna drag me out there?”

“Absolutely,” Billy says. “First lesson’s free. Second one, you gotta survive the waves.”

The boy asks him about everything back home, sunburns and beaches, the dumb tourist traps Billy pretends to hate but secretly misses. McKinney listens, nodding along, asking questions without trying to show off or one-up him, which is nice. Somewhere between a story about jellyfish and his rant about overpriced boardwalk food, McKinney’s gaze flicks past him, out the cafeteria windows.

“You drive that Camaro, right?”

Billy arches a brow. “Depends. You a cop?”

He laughs. “The blue one?”

“Yeah.” McKinney sighs, eyes wide, like the word wow got stuck halfway out. “Dude,” he says, reverent. “That thing’s sick.” Billy grins, a little softer this time. Yeah, his car is a beauty

Hagan, meanwhile, is feeding off the energy like gasoline. He leans back, arm slung behind Perkins, puffed up and loud. “I’m just sayin’—if Hargrove sticks around, we might have a new king.”

Billy chokes a little on his bar. “Eh?”

“Look at you,” He says, gesturing wildly. “Cheerleaders, my boys, cool car—” Perkins snickers, snapping her gum. “Watch out, or you’re gonna give someone a complex.” Then she tilts her head, eyes mischievous. “Stevie’s not gonna be happy about that.”

Hagan and the other boys make some noises of displeasure, and Heather gives Billy a knowing look. She mouths, See? They hate him.

Before Billy can say anything, a girl–Wheeler–stalks past their table, book-bag slung high, chin tipped up like a challenge. Her eyes slice straight to him—sharp, icy. Full glare. No shame. Perkins notices just as the girl clears their table to walk haughtily to the other side of the hall. Her eyebrows shoot up as she tracks Wheeler’s retreating back. “Oh my god,” she says, turning to him. “What did you do?”

Billy huffs through his nose, shoulders slumping just a bit. “Dunno.” Heather responds with details, “That nerd got bested.” She hooks an arm around his neck, tugging him in, proud. “By one of our very own.”

Hagan slams a palm down on the table, rattling the trays. “Damn right,” he says, sneering. “She deserves it.”

Perkins doesn’t join in this time. She studies Billy instead. Chewing once before she speaks. “So,” she drawls, “you actually know your stuff, huh?” Heat creeps up the back of his neck. He shifts, suddenly aware of how many eyes are on him.

“A bit,” he shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”

She leans in, voice dropping low, playful but pointed. It’s close enough that he can smell her perfume—sweet, saccharine. How Hagan doesn’t react at all is beyond him. “You do private lessons?”

He squirms a little, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck, flustered despite himself. “I could,” he says lightly. “But it’ll cost ya.” Heather straightens instantly, arm slipping from his shoulders. “How much?”

He blinks, caught off guard. Everyone’s grinning now, waiting for the punchline. “Uh, a fiver?”

“I’ll do it,” she says without missing a beat. “My teacher's basically given up on me.” There’s something in her voice that isn’t joking. 

“Oh,” he says, softer now, sincere. “Don’t worry. I’ll help.” That’s enough for the others. Hagan lets out a low whistle. McKinney bumps Carver’s shoulder with an exaggerated smirk, and Heather groans dramatically, dropping her head to the table.

“Ugh,” she mutters. “Here we go.” A drink sloshes but doesn’t spill. People start talking over each other. Hagan, of course, is already spinning it into something it isn’t. Billy just smiles, finishing off his protein bar. He watches the chaos like it’s happening a few feet away.

He meant exactly what he said.

{~~~}

His next period is Study session. The library smells a little whacky—old paper and dust warmed by the afternoon sun. Billy is hunched over a thick paperback, its spine cracked and soft with age. He’d slid the paper cover off before sitting down; now it looks like any other unremarkable book, plain, with small gold lettering on the front.

Persuasion.

It’s the last one. The only one he’d been missing.

The rest of his collection is stashed in the boot of his car, buried beneath blankets and spare clothes. He wouldn’t dare check it out. He’s not supposed to have it. Maybe he’ll just hide it somewhere no one else can find—somewhere it can’t be taken.

Chrissy sits across from him, planner open, already half-drowned in colour. She’s got a ridiculous amount of highlighters, pastel tabs, and paper clips stacked into one pile. She’s focused, tongue caught briefly between her teeth as she lines a page.

He glances up from his book, casual. “So,” he says, keeping his voice low, “you like Carver?”

Her pen stills. Slowly, she looks up at him, eyes wide. “Maybe,” she says, then rushes on, “He’s in my sociology class. He’s—he’s super sweet…and cute.”

Billy hums exaggeratedly, dragging it out. “Oooh la la.”

She flushes instantly. “Shush!” she hisses, swatting at him with a tab sheet.

They both duck their heads at the same time when shoes click past their table. The librarian’s glare is pointed, lips thinning as she pauses just long enough to make her presence known. Chrissy straightens. Billy stares very hard at his book.

Once the footsteps fade, Chrissy huffs. She fiddles with a note, peeling it up and sticking it back down. “My mother would freak if she knew I even thought about dating.”

Billy looks up again. “That right?” His tone’s light, but he’s listening. “No boyfriends for you?”

She smiles, small and sheepish. “Yeah. No boys at the house or dates…she says it’s about priorities.” Her shoulders lift in a shrug that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “She checks my grades every week.”

He keeps quiet. “She’s just… strict,” Chrissy says quickly, like she’s defending her. “She wants me to do well. Go somewhere good.” Billy nods. He doesn’t say my dad too. Instead, he flips a page of his book, taps the corner like he’s thinking.

“Mine’s big on rules,” he offers. “Curfews and chores. He doesn’t really care what I’m good at, as long as I’m not… embarrassing.” Chrissy frowns at that, sympathetic without prying. “That sucks.”

He says it easily. “Well, you get good at following instructions.” Then he grins, more vicious. “Or hiding.” Her gaze flicks—quick—to the folded cover of his book, and she smiles in what Billy thinks is agreement, but says nothing else. They settle back into studying after that. Her highlighter squeaks across the page, the sound loud enough that he has to pause, skip behind a line and wait for it to stop. Pages turn. Somewhere out in the hall, someone shouts too loudly, the noise bleeding faintly through the walls.

Chrissy hums under her breath as she writes, then looks up at him. “Jason’s not, like… a big deal or anything,” she says. Billy watches her for a moment, then nods. “Course not.” He goes back to his book, the heroine’s talking about the woes of love in far too many words, and thinks—yeah. Sure.

{~~~}

Billy and Chrissy stroll down the crowded hallway, his bag bounces annoyingly into his hip, and he keeps batting it to the side as she talks about her next classes.

“So, you got Home Ec’ after this, right?” Chrissy asks, eyes flicking down to her planner.

“Yeah, hopefully they don’t make me do something criminal. ” He shivers at the memory—one time a teacher had insisted he wash a chicken. With soap. He’d nearly passed away on the spot.

Already, he can picture how that class is going to go: absolute baboons fumbling around with knives and burners, arguing over recipes they haven’t read. Best case scenario, someone forgets to turn off a stove, and he gets to spend the period laughing instead of participating.

Before Chrissy can answer, a stiff piece of paper smacks square into Billy’s chest. He stops, eyebrows shooting up, and holds the poster at arm’s length, incredulous.

Tina, one of Carol’s friends, leans casually against the lockers. “Halloween party. Tomorrow, at mine.” She waves the poster in front of him. “You should come.”

He squints at her. “Me? Why?”

“Because everyone’s gonna be there,” she says, a coy smile tugging at her mouth. “They all wanna see the hot new toy from Cali.” Then her gaze flicks to Chrissy. “And you—definitely you. Most of the cheer girls are going, so don’t even think about bailing.”

He glances at Chrissy, who tilts her head and shrugs with a small, conspiratorial grin. “Sure. I’ll come.” Tina’s smirk grows, leaning in as she lowers her voice just enough for him to hear. “My parents are out, too… we’re breaking into the wine cellar.”

Billy rolls his eyes, half amused, half unimpressed. “Right. Sounds so riveting.”

Chrissy nudges him with her elbow. “Come on. It’ll be fun!”

He huffs, slipping the poster into his bag. “Alright then,” he says, letting the corner of his mouth curl up. “Guess we’ll see what kind of trouble we can get into.”

{~~~}

Home economics is at the bloody top of the building; he has to climb five staircases to get there. The room greets him with the stench of stale food and raw onion, the kind that clings to the walls no matter how much bleach they use. Billy drops his bag onto the counter and claims a station without ceremony.

The desks are paired—two per setup—and his partner is already there. A guy who looks like he hasn’t slept properly in years. Mousy brown hair, shadows under his eyes, shoulders slouched like gravity’s got a personal vendetta against him.

The kid barely acknowledges him. Just stares at the counter as if it were truly interesting.

Perfect.

Ms Turner claps her hands once loudly once the last few kids arrive. “Alright, everyone, eyes up here.” She points at the board.

‘LASAGNA — 2 Hours’

Billy’s interest spikes despite himself. Oh. That’s… real food. Maybe he can stuff it in the back of the fridge and shove a bunch of bottles in front for future use. She begins writing the ingredients down. Meat. Cheese. Sauce. Pasta sheets.

And his stomach drops straight through the floor.

Fuck, he forgot.

Billy rummages through his bag anyway, because denial is a powerful thing. Notebook. A pen. Gum sheets. A folded worksheet. He lets out a breath through his nose, stares at the bag in misery.

The boy beside him finally looks over. “You alright?”

Billy sighs, short and dry. “Define alright.” He tilts his bag upside down. It offers nothing. “I don’t have any of… the stuff,” he waves his hand in the air at the remission. The kid watches him for a second, then reaches down and nudges a grocery bag with his foot. “You can use mine.”

Billy pauses.

“…You serious?”

“Yeah.” A shrug. Casual. “I got enough”

Billy eyes the bag, suspicious. “You’re not gonna hit me with some ‘but you owe me’ later bullshit, right?”

The boy snorts. “Nah. It’ll go off if I don’t use it all.”

He smiles, relieved despite himself. “Alright then. Cheers, grocery angel.”

The kid rolls his eyes. “It’s Jonathan.”

He smirks. “Johnny-boy.” Jonathan gives him a look like he regrets speaking at all.

The teacher starts the timer, and they both get up. Billy lines up the sheets, tapping them straight against the counter. Jonathan fills a pot, salts the water before it even heats. He’s efficient at it, and Billy watches in mild interest. 

Jonathan chops onions fast—knife tucked in close, fingers curled. He wipes the blade and moves on. Doesn’t even look up at the noise around them—someone nearly sets a tea towel on fire two stations down. He’s way faster than Billy

“Damn,” he mutters. “Someone’s done this before.”

Jonathan mumbles, grating cheese. “Yeah.”

“Let me guess,” Billy says. “Chef in training.” The boy doesn’t look up. He grins anyway. “No? Alright—raised by wolves. Or—wait—you’re banging the Teach, and you get secret lessons after class or something.”

Jonathan laughs before he can stop himself. “God, no. Gross.” He shakes his head, reaching for the sauce. “My mom’s just… busy. So I cook. For my brother and me.”

Billy hums. “Called it. House chef.”

Jonathan shrugs, eyes still on the counter. “Someone’s gotta feed him.”

“Sure. Lucky kid.” Billy doesn’t comment on how steady his hands are. Or how clean his station stays. He just smirks. “You know, if this were a competition, you’d be making the rest of us look bad.”

Then Billy does something dumb; he twists the salt shaker a little too confidently. The lid slips. The crystals cascade into the pot.

“Shit—fuck!” he mutters, jerking it back like that’s going to help. Jonathan looks over. Then he chuckles—quiet, and this time there’s the faintest curve to his mouth.

“Don’t worry,” Jonathan says. “I won’t tell anyone.” He nods toward the rest of the room, where no one’s paying them any attention. “Gotta protect your bad-boy image.”

Billy mock gasps, grabbing a spoon. “Is that all you think of me? I’m hurt, Johnny.” He stirs, cautious now, stealing a glance at the boy, who’s already turned back to his own station, humming under his breath.

The room’s split clean down the middle—like some kind of academic fault line. On one side is them, the juniors, actually following instructions, quietly cooking. On the other, the seniors: louder, messier, already halfway to disaster.

Billy smells it before he sees it.  Acrid, sharp—burning oil. Then smoke starts curling up from the far-left stove, thick and grey, climbing fast toward the ceiling tiles.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” a tall senior is saying, flapping his hands uselessly. He’s lanky, all elbows, eyes locked on the pot like it might bite him. He’s talking to his mate. “The alarm’s gonna go off, the alarm’s gonna go off—”

“Eddie,” the teacher snaps from the other side of the room, not even looking up from the juniors. “One more misdemeanour and I’m marking this as a fail.”

That shuts him up—but not the smoke. Billy glances over, then sighs. He’s the closest one to the lot, so without turning fully, he calls out, voice easy. 

“Open the window and turn the heat down.” He juts his chin out at the tablecloth the section shares. “Fan it.”

The kid freezes, then scrambles to do exactly that, yanking the window up and waving fabric wildly. The smoke thins, drifting out in embarrassed wisps.

“I—I knew that,” He says quickly. “Was just… testing it.”

“Yeah,” Billy says, deadpan. A second passes. The boy stares into his pot again, frowning.

“Uh. So when do the eggs go in?”

Billy winces. God, he probably deserves the fail. “Before the water boils, man. Otherwise, they crack.”

The senior blinks. Then—relief. “Right. Yeah. Makes sense.” He tosses them in carefully, like they might explode.

“Thanks, dude,” he adds.

Billy gives a lazy salute with his spoon and turns back to his own station. Jonathan glances at him, amused. “Bad-boy image holding up okay?”

“Barely,” Billy mutters. “Heroism’s exhausting.”

The room settles as burners click off and the worst of the chaos fizzles out. The teacher instructs them to drain the pots and clean up. Jonathan slides his lasagna onto a cutting board and starts portioning it neatly—small, even squares. “So,” he says, not looking up, “you’re new, right?”

Billy watches him work, amused. “Yep.”

Jonathan hums. “Kinda surprised I haven’t seen you around before.” Billy scrapes his portion into foil. “Probably ’cause the cheer squad and the basketball team cling to me like koalas.”

Jonathan pauses, wrinkles his nose in mild disgust. Billy giggles. “What? You don’t like ’em?”

“Not really my crowd,” Jonathan says, shrugging.

“Sure,” Billy replies, genuinely. He folds the foil over his food, copying Jonathan’s careful creases. If the guy’s got a system, he might as well use it.

The bell rings, the last one of the day. And everyone gets up, voices rising again. Jonathan grabs his container and stuffs it into his bag. “Anyway. I gotta go pick up my brother.”

Billy slings his own bag over his shoulder. “Alright. Adiós, mate. I’ve got basketball tryouts.”

He winces sympathetically, already stepping away. “Wow. Have so much fun with that.” Billy grins after him, watching him disappear into the crowd, thinking—yeah. He likes this one.

{~~~}

Billy lingers by the entrance instead of heading straight for the locker rooms. From here, he can see across the field to the middle school car park—just barely, if he squints past the fence.

Susan’s car sticks out immediately. Ugly and impossible to miss.

He waits.

It’s a familiar knot, tight and patient at the base of his spine. He’s not the one picking Max up today. He knows that. Susan knows that. Still, he needs to see it—needs proof, something solid he can carry home so his dad can’t twist it into something else.

The car door opens. A small figure climbs in, backpack and skateboard swinging. Max. Only then does his chest loosen. Susan looks up and spots him across the lot. She lifts a hand in a small wave—encouraging. He nods back, letting the moment linger just a second longer. 

Turning away, he finally shakes himself and heads for the locker rooms. The crisp air of the outside gives way to the warm, pungent heat of the gym as he crosses the threshold. The doors slam behind him, and the room erupts in noise—metal clanging, voices bouncing off tile, the tang of deodorant thick in the air. He steps in, shoulders tensing, ready to vanish into the chaos.

“Yo!” Hagan crows the second he spots him. “There he is. Malibu finally made it.”

Billy grins, drops his bag onto the bench. “You act like I was gonna vanish.”

“Man, I’m just sayin’,” He goes on, already halfway into a story, “wait till you see him on the court—” McKinney snickers, tossing a damp towel across the locker room. It smacks Hagan squarely on the back of the head, and he yelps, spinning around with mock outrage. McKinney raises his hands in complete innocence.

Carver leans lazily against a scratched locker, arms crossed, a smug half-smile tugging at his lips. He nods along like he’s already seen this routine a thousand times. The chatter slides into the kind of locker-room nonsense that only stupid teenagers seem to thrive on. Hagan’s voice picks up deliberately loud, like he knows the rest of them will listen.

He starts ribbing Carver, his tone thick with teasing, pointing out the way he looks at Chrissy. McKinney chuckles beside him, shaking his head, and even Billy can’t help but quirk his lips at their ridiculousness.

Hagan keeps the teasing rolling, nudging Carver in the ribs and laughing at every flinch. “Seriously, man. You’ve been drooling over Cunningham for months. When are you gonna ask her out? Or are you planning to stare from afar forever?”

Carver rolls his eyes, shoving Hagan half-heartedly, but the grin tugging at his lips betrays him. “Shut up, dude. Not all of us want to jump straight into bed at one whiff.”

McKinney leans back against the lockers, “We all see it, man. You don’t have to hide it.”

Billy leans against a bench, tugging off his jacket. Hagan waves his arms dramatically as he mimics Carver’s infatuation, McKinney snorting behind. Billy hums under his breath, focused on unlacing his shoes, when he hears the locker room door swing open.

The noise doesn’t falter at first—but then slowly, the chatter dies. The teasing fades. Hagan stops mid-sentence, McKinney’s smirk falters, and Carver looks at the floor quite intently. Even the guys leaning against lockers subtly turn, backs facing the newcomer.

Billy squints toward the door. 

The new arrival steps in. A boy, tall and lean with a pretty impressive coif of chestnut hair. He doesn’t say anything, shoulders hunched just slightly forward, jaw tight, eyes focused. 

He scans the room in slow, deliberate sweeps, barely pausing on anyone but the ones he deems relevant. Then, he fixes his gaze on Billy. Just a hard, measured stare. Billy instinctively shifts his stance, his mind buzzing: The fuck…?

The boy tilts his head ever so slightly, eyes scanning him with that deliberate, calculating look. Then he narrows them, as if something about Billy sets him off. The boys who had been teasing Carver fall silent, the energy in the room shifting.

McKinney mutters under his breath to Hagan, “Dude… why is he even here?”

Hagan shoots the newcomer a glare so sharp, so full of barely contained venom, that even Billy flinches. He swallows, feeling the tension creep along his spine.

The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable, until the boy finally moves, shoulders squared. His eyes flick back once, unreadable, before he disappears behind the lockers. The chatter creeps back—but quieter now, subdued. Billy frowns, tilting his head slightly. 

Weird, he thinks.

By the time they spill onto the court, he still feels a little off-balance. Hagan’s silence had left them all standing awkwardly, glancing at one another like they weren’t sure what to do next. The other kids filing in, stretching their limbs as they wait for the teacher to come.

The same boy appears at the far end, moving with that controlled gait, standing just outside the flurry of motion. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t even glance around—just watches. And somehow, that makes the rest of the boys instinctively straighten, eyes forward like some kind of competition.

Billy can feel the familiar spark of unease prickling at the base of his neck, but he forces himself to look ahead. He keeps his posture loose, casual, like he belongs here—or at least, like he’s trying not to betray that he doesn’t.

The coach steps onto the sideline, clearing his throat. “Alright, everyone—if I haven’t met you yet, I’m Coach Martin. Welcome to tryouts.” He pauses, scanning the room. “We’ll split you into two groups: those who are new, and those who are retaking. Newbies, you’re over here,” he gestures to one side of the court, “retakes, go that way.”

The retakers go first, moving through a series of warm-up drills the coach has lined up: layup lines, free throws, dribble-and-pass exercises, and a quick sprint-and-shoot routine across the court. Hagan immediately pairs up with Carver, dragging the blonde into the middle of the court. The boy Hagan seems to despise so much stands off to the side and draws in a few hesitant glances from the others. Nobody steps up to pair with him.

The coach notices and clears his throat. “Patrick, you’re with Harrington.”

Harrington.

McKinney blinks, then shrugs. Hagan’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing. He’s clearly seething, though Billy notices the way his shoulders stiffen.

McKinney steps over, tossing a ball to Harrington “Guess we’re partners,” he mutters. Harrington nods once, expression blank.

Hagan groans audibly from across the court. “Coach! You’re letting him steal my best mate,” he turns, “Patrick!” Voice is loud enough to echo. “What are you doing over there?”

Billy leans back against the bleachers, stifling a laugh. Hagan’s acting like such a little bitch it's almost as entertaining as the drills themselves.

The pair fall into the drill, and Harrington moves like the court was built for him.

There’s nothing flashy about it—, no bravado or showbiz. Just smooth manoeuvres. Light on his feet, shoulders loose, eyes up. It’s almost unsettling how calm he looks, how effortlessly he glides through the line. He’s got this kind of light-footed swiftness that makes watching him play is… entrancing.

McKinney steps in to intercept, quick and solid, but Harrington reads it a step ahead. He pivots just enough to slip past, guiding the ball with a subtle flick of his wrist. McKinney adjusts, tries again—blocked. But he recovers fast, impressed but careful not to show it too openly. 

Then Hagan can’t help himself.

“Oi, Harrington!” he shouts across the court when Harrington’s layup rims out. “You call that a shot?” He gloats, loud and dramatic, clearly playing up to the line of newbies. “What—hands asleep?”

Harrington doesn’t react. Doesn’t even look over. He just retrieves the ball, jaw set, expression unreadable. The lack of response makes Hagan’s face twitch in frustration.

“Man, you’re impossible!” He mutters, half to himself, half to Carver and Billy, voice tight. McKinney just shakes his head, rolling silently, letting Harrington set the pace.

The retakers finish with a full-court shooting drill. Carver fumbles once more, catching a quick jab from Hagan, while Harrington picks up, consistently sinks his shots with precision. Billy observes, Harrington’s calm seems to set Hagan’s anger sky-high—and how poor McKinney seems to be caught right in the middle of it.

From the far side of the court, the cheerleaders file in, claiming a small section for practice. They arrive in a burst of noise and chatter, their uniforms marked by flashes of bright green and white. Noise slices straight through the boys’ posturing, and Hagan, thank god, backs down a little.

Chrissy spots Billy almost immediately, leaned against the gym apparatus. “Hey!” she calls, her voice carrying clear across the court. A few heads turn. Heather lifts a hand and gives him a lazy wave, smirk firmly in place—like she knows exactly how much of a distraction she’s being in her short skirt and cut-off top, and is enjoying every second of it.

Carver huffs beside Hagan, glaring at Billy. “You not tryin’ to steal my girl, are ya?” Billy rolls his eyes, letting out a soft scoff. 

“Chrissy? Not my type.”

Carver blinks, then shrugs, giving a tight-lipped smile. “Alright, man. You’re cool… but, uh, watch out.” Hagan’s mood lightens as he catches sight of his girlfriend. She blows him a playful kiss, and he’s smiling like a fool. 

And this is the same dude giving Carver shit for his crush.

Billy leans over and smacks him on the back. “You’re whipped, mate,” he says, and Hagan’s grin only widens. The cheerleaders settle into their corner, the twinkly slap of pompoms filling the air as they practice. The coach claps his hands, cutting through the small chatter that's started up. “Alright, newbies—your turn!”

Billy steps in with the line of others, chest out, shoulders back. His height and broad frame make the smaller kids next to him shrink instinctively, and he can feel their nervous energy radiating off them. A slow, toothy smirk curls across his face, and he notices four of the boys shooting quick, worried glances at him, as if he’s a predator sizing up its prey.

He’s older than most of these kids by a solid year and played enough streetball in California to know how to move. To play dirty when he needs to. 

Across the court, Harrington stands alone, stoic as ever. Billy tilts his head, giving a faint, playful glance in his direction. He lets the smirk linger—enjoying the moment, enjoying the subtle fear in the faces of the kids around him.

This is going to be fun, 

The coach blows the whistle, and the drills kick off. He’s got to dribble through cones, then do quick passes and layup lines. Billy moves with confidence he hasn’t felt in a while—knees bent, eyes open, hands snapping out for every throw. Sweat beads along his hairline, but he doesn’t slow. Most of them stay out of his way, but one kid, small and scrappy, darts left and right, almost taking the ball from him. Billy sneers at the kid's confidence and snatches it back effortlessly.

From the other side, Heather and Chrissy are already making noise. “Come on, Billy!” Chrissy yells, clapping. Heather hoots and whistles, making exaggerated hand gestures with her poms, egging him on. Billy cackles, leaning into their attention, feeling the rush of it—the idea of being watched, admired, envied even.

He spots the little spunk attempting a move again and decides to show off. Snatching the ball clean, he flips it under his leg mid-spin, pivots away from the hoop, and releases it backwards. The ball arcs perfectly and sinks through the net. “No way!” someone yells. It’s Carver. 

Billy pauses, chest puffed, smirking. He flexes his biceps, strikes a pose, and blows a kiss to his own arm in a ridiculous show-off. The sideline cheers and whistles, laughter echoing up the court walls. Stupid? Absolutely. But the energy, the attention—it tastes like crack. And for a moment, he controls the chaos.

Heather hoots, Chrissy claps, Patrick whistles, and even Hagan shakes his head in exaggerated disbelief. The smaller kids groan, muttering under their breath, but Billy just laughs, loud and free.

Then his gaze flicks across the court. Harrington is standing there, expression unreadable. Their eyes meet. Billy leans slightly forward, cocking his head like a challenge. For the briefest second, Harrington’s mask flickers—he shakes his head, a quiet huff escaping, equal parts exasperation and disbelief. Billy grins wider, enjoying the silent exchange, just enough to provoke him without saying a word.

Turning back to the drill, he ramps it up, weaving in the flair. He snatches the ball from another kid attempting a layup, spins 180 degrees, and tosses it through the hoop mid-stride. “Bang,” he mutters under his breath, half-mocking himself, half showing off.

McKinney claps him on the shoulder when he returns. “Man, you weren’t kidding about street ball.”

The drill winds down. The coach claps, and the line of newbies scrambles for water. Billy tosses the ball back underhand to the rack, brushing sweat from his forehead. Carver and McKinney ask him who he thinks will make the team, while Hagan goes over to canoodle with Perkins. 

The coach whistles, drawing everyone’s attention. “Alright, gather around!”

The chatter dies down reluctantly, and they move to form a circle around him, but Billy’s eyes catch something else. Harrington is already moving, long strides carrying him toward the doors, ignoring everyone around him. His silent departure makes Billy frown.

Outside, he can see Nancy Wheeler lingering by the door through the glass—her posture stern and arms crossed. Hagan leans over, catching the scene too, and lets out a low, teasing groan. “Typical Harrington,” he mutters, rolling his eyes, “Sucker for the ice queen.”

Billy watches for a moment longer, his lips pressing into a tight line. His frown deepens slightly—Harrington should be paying attention, not slipping out the door. Then the coach snaps his fingers, and the room refocuses.

“I’ll post the list tomorrow of everyone who made it.” He says, voice firm. The players nod, some quietly, some grumbling, and then the room breaks up. Billy lingers at the edge, glancing once more toward the door where Harrington disappeared. He can’t deny the curiosity that piques inside at the reason he left so abruptly. Then he shakes it off, slings his gym bag over his shoulder, and follows the others, the echo of sneakers and locker doors closing behind him.

After waving the others off, Billy takes the long way around to his car, seizing the quiet to light a cigarette. The late afternoon sun flashes against the school windows as he rounds the corner—and slows.

Up ahead, two figures stand half-hidden between the alleyways of the building. Wheeler. And Harrington. Their voices are low but barbed, Wheeler sounding worse as she snaps under her breath. Billy catches the tail end as he drifts closer.

“—wasn’t Jonathan’s fault!”

Jonathan?

Billy flicks ash to the pavement, brows knitting. Jonathan… as in the skinny kid from econ?

Huh.

As he steps into view, they both freeze mid-sentence, eyes cutting toward him. Billy lets a slow, lazy smirk curl on his lips. They flinch under his gaze, and he strolls past, cigarette already between his fingers, inhaling deep.

He reaches his car, tosses the keys onto the seat, and glances up just in time to see the cheer girls spilling out of the building. He waves, letting them pass, and their chatter fades behind him. Leaning back against the door, he thinks about what Harrington—the untouchable shadow on the court—and Johnny boy have to do with Wheeler.

He can’t help the small smirk curling at the edges of his mind; whatever it is, her pussy must be magic. Damn.

Chapter Text

The counselor’s office smells faintly of burnt coffee and old carpet, the kind that’s been cleaned so many times it’s given up. The walls are lined with little thank-you cards, pinned in neat, colour-coded rows. Picture of graduation ceremonies and smiling families, cursive scribbles of I couldn’t have done this without you. Billy sits across from the desk, knees bouncing despite his best efforts to lock them still. His eyes wander anywhere but her face, landing instead on the small brass nameplate at the edge of the desk. Ms Marsha Kelley,

“Alright, Mr Hargrove—”

“—Billy,” he cuts in quickly, before he can overthink it. His face stiffens. “My father’s Mr Hargrove.” There’s a brief pause. Then she smiles, unbothered, and adjusts easily.

“Billy,” she repeats, pushing her glasses higher up her nose. “Your form tutor mentioned you’ve asked about switching your classes. Can you tell me why?”

He shifts in his seat, fingers worrying at the seam of his jeans. Saying it out loud makes it real, and real things have a way of slipping through his fingers.

“I want to apply… outside,” he says finally.

Her eyes flick down to the papers in front of her. Just a second, but long enough to make his chest tighten. “California,” Ms Kelley says, knowing.

He nods.

“Applications don’t open until January,” she continues. “What’s the rush?”

He sighs through his nose. “I want to apply for scholarships too.” That gets her full attention. She studies him now, not skeptically, but thoughtfully.

“Mmm,” she hums. “You do know the competition is particularly tough this year?”

“I know,” he says quietly. Billy’s known for a long time.

She slides a single sheet of paper across the desk toward him.

His name is scrawled at the top. Beneath it, handwritten notes. Different handwriting by different pens. Each of his teachers, it seems, had something to say.

‘Focused.
Motivated.
Consistently exceeds expectations.
Works well independently.
Shows initiative.’

Heat crawls up his neck. Billy looks away, embarrassed. He’s not used to being spoken about like this, certainly not when he’s in the room. “In the short time you’ve been here,” she says, carefully, “you’ve made a very good impression.” There’s a beat. And he braces himself.

“So,” she adds, “I may be able to accommodate your request.”

Billy’s head snaps up. He can’t help the smile that breaks across his face, wide, boyish, eyes crinkling at the corners before he can rein it in. God, that was embarrassing. But relief hits him all the same, sharp and dizzying.

“But.”

The smile fades. He schools his expression back into something neutral. “There will be a maths assessment on Monday,” she continues. “You were exempt initially due to your transfer, but the next formal exam period isn’t until after Christmas. That’s too late for what you’re asking.”

He nods. Mr Thompson had warned him yesterday.  “If you want to move up immediately, you’ll need to perform well. Very well.”

Billy nods again, steadier. “Yeah. I can do that.”

She watches him, then offers a small, encouraging smile. “Good. Then I wish you luck, Billy. I hope I’ll be seeing you again soon.”

He stands, thanks her politely, and lets himself out into the hallway.

The afternoon sun slips through the high windows, catching dust in the air, painting the floor in strips of bright gold. He pauses there for a second longer than he should, heart thudding. Not with fear this time, but something lighter. Hope, maybe.

{~~~}

Billy doesn’t bother going back to class. There’s only twenty minutes of Spanish left, and it’s all painfully simple anyway. It’s a free period next, in which he’ll probably spend sitting in his car smoking, thinking in circles.

Right now, though, he needed some sugar.

He’s still got that lasagna tucked into his bag, and honestly, it’s been keeping him alive. Neil’s in one of those moods. Withholding lunch money because he just can, so Billy’s been stretching spare change between gas, food, and Max’s stupid arcade games she swears she needs. He’ll never admit it, but he kind of likes paying for her.

He heads toward the green area, just outside the quieter wing of the school, the one with the half-forgotten conference rooms no one ever uses. Heather had tipped him off about the vending machine out here, an old one with busted calculations, if you bought the right thing.

A soda for a few cents less feels like a win.

The machine hums loudly when he gets there, rattling like it’s one wrong shove away from giving up entirely. And that’s when Billy notices her.

There’s a girl, sitting on the bench beside it, tucked back just enough to be missed if you weren’t looking. Her legs are crossed, shoulders hunched. She’s slumped forward, head bowed, folding in on herself. He can’t see the girl's face, but she’s tall, with long limbs folded awkwardly, dressed fucking ugly. Oversized red flannel with the cuffs rolled up and scuffed boots. 

Billy slows, then hesitates. For half a second he considers turning around. 

Instead, he steps up to the machine pretending like nothing’s weird at all. She doesn’t look up or acknowledge him. Just sniffs quietly, wiping at her nose with the heel of her hand.

Okay…

He fishes some coins out of his pocket, painfully aware of the silence stretching between them. The machine whirs. Clicks and rumbles louder. He stares straight ahead because if he doesn’t look, neither would she. Seconds tick by.

Nothing drops.

“Come on,” he mutters under his breath, tapping the glass.

The machine rattles, then stops entirely. Billy groans. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” He gives the side of it a frustrated smack. The sound echoes down the empty corridor, way louder than he expects.

That’s when she looks up.

Bright blue eyes. Wide for a second as she takes him in, the dangling earring, myriad of rings on his raised fist. Her gaze flicks over him quickly, assessing.

He rolls his eyes, already bracing for a comment. Some jab. A wow, you’re loud or what’s your problem. Instead, she scoffs.

“Don’t hit it,” she says, voice rough. “You gotta like shake it. On the left side.”

He blinks. “…What?”

She gestures toward the machine. “Just listen to me.” He hesitates, then grabs the side, giving it a firm shake. The can drops with a solid thunk. He stares. Then snorts. “Nice.” 

She smirks faintly. 

“Thanks,” Billy says, pulling the drink free. “…Uh?”

“Robin,” The girl replies flatly, already looking away again.

“Right. Robin.” He gives an awkward half-nod. “I’m—” She doesn’t ask. Billy pauses, then just shrugs it off. Sure.

“Well. Thanks,” he pops the tab with a hiss and takes a sip, glancing at her once more—still slumped, determinedly pretending she’s not upset—and turns away. She snickers at his abrupt departure, and he looks back at her with a glare. The girl looks back down quickly. 

Birdy’s got a lot of attitude for someone who looks that miserable.

{~~~}

Billy’s halfway through his second cigarette and mildly warmed up when he spots the flash of pastel at the main doors.

A little ginger head peeks out and hesitates. He doesn’t need to squint to know who it is, the colours give her away. He watches lazily from the driver’s seat, smoke curling out the cracked window as she scans the car park. The moment her eyes land on the Camaro, she straightens and makes quick haste towards him.

Chrissy jogs, then slows, clearly forcing herself not to look eager. Two steps later, she speeds up again, arms tucked tight to her sides. The girl’s shivering, for some reason jacketless in this cold ass weather. Billy huffs a quiet laugh around the cigarette.

He rolls the window down as she reaches the front of the car. “What’re you doing out here, doll?” he drawls.

She stops by the bonnet, hugging herself. “We got let out early.”

“Mhm.” He flicks ash out onto the asphalt and takes another drag, eyes still on her. “And?”

She opens her mouth, shuts it, and blurts, “You—” Another shiver cuts her off. He sighs, long-suffering but not unkind, and pops the passenger door open. 

“Get in before you turn blue.” 

Her face brightens, and she scrambles in quickly, slamming the door and rubbing her hands together. Billy shifts in his seat, slouching deeper, one knee coming up to rest against the centre console as he eyes her.

She mumbles, hovering her palms over the heating vents, soaking it in. “It’s freezing.”

“You’re the one who forgot your jacket,” he says mildly.

She shrugs. He watches her, then looks out through the windshield. Small flocks of kids spill from the building, laughter bleeding into the parking lot. It won’t take long before rumours start up once they’re spotted together. Good little Christian girl, and him.

“You hear yet?” Chrissy asks.

He flicks his eyes back to her. “Hear what?”

She hesitates. “About the team.”

He frowns. The sheet doesn’t go up until the end of lunch. He’s already half-planned a route past the notice board, just in case. Not because he cares. Just… curiosity. “No?” he says. “Something happen?”

Her smile falters, just slightly. “They made him captain.”

“Who?”

She shifts in her seat. “Er...Tommy was throwing a fit about it. We could hear him from the class opposite.” She pauses, waiting, then continues when Billy stays quiet. “Harrington got picked. Patrick overheard him and Coach, and things got messy. Tommy got right in his face during bio.”

Billy grimaces. “Damn.”

She laughs. “Yeah. Both of them got detention, so lunch is going to be quiet.” Billy doesn’t laugh with her.

Harrington.

Sure, he’s good, but captain? When half the team can barely stand the guy? He doesn’t even bloody talk. There’s no way in hell Billy is taking orders from that prick.

She looks at his scowl and adds, “He was captain last year.” That explains so much. Billy shakes his head, disgusted. Of course. Of course, he’s handed the title. He knows those people well, the ones who never have to fight, never have to claw their way up and out.

He flicks the cigarette out the window, rather viciously.

“I see.”

Chrissy watches him now. “You okay?” He scoffs softly, pulling a crooked smile back onto his face. 

“Peachy.”

They sit in his car for the rest of the period. Chrissy doesn’t make any move to leave, so Billy digs into his bag and pulls out his lunch. He starts munching, balancing the box against the steering wheel. Chrissy shifts. She drags her bag onto her lap and wraps her arms around it, hugging tight. Her knees angle toward the door, and she stares out the window, eyes tracking people as they drift through the lot.

After a moment, she says lightly, still not looking at him, “So… what are you wearing tonight?”

He blinks mid-bite. “Hm?” Her gaze flicks to him, then drops to the tin in his hands. He lifts it to her face, “You want some?”

She shakes her head fast. “No—no, I meant—” She gestures vaguely. “For the party.”

“Oh.” He lowers the tin, swallows. He’d honestly forgotten. “Uh. I don’t know.”

She giggles. Heat creeps up his neck. “What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” She twirls a little keychain attached to the zip of the backpack; it’s a figurine of that one green fairy. “I-I’m going as Tinkerbell,” she says shy. Then, quieter, more to herself, “Well. If I can get out of the house.” He frowns and shovels another forkful into his mouth.

“She’s…weird about stuff,” Chrissy continues, “I have this dress. It’d be perfect. But it’s old, like, from when I was younger.” She pauses and again stares away. “She’d lose her mind if she saw me wearing it.”

Billy squints. “Why?”

She shrugs, eyes still glued to the window. “Because it’s short. And it’s not what she thinks is appropriate,” she sighs. “I should’ve thrown it away a long time ago.”

He considers that, then, without much filter, he says, “Your mom kinda sounds like a bitch.” Chrissy gasps. Actually gasps, hand flying to her mouth, and for half a second, Billy thinks he’s seriously fucked up. She laughs. Startled,  little unhinged. “Oh my God, no one has ever said that about her.”

He winces. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

She waves him off, still grinning, cheeks pink. “No, no. Don’t. That was—” She laughs again, shaking her head. “That was funny.”

Billy relaxes back into his seat, relieved, and takes another bite of his lunch. She watches the parking lot for a long time, then turns back to him. There’s something different in her expression now, a little spark of mischief tucked between that sweetness.

“You know,” she says carefully, dragging the word out, “you could… maybe, pick me up tonight?”

Billy lifts a brow. “Why would I do that?”

“So my mom won’t have to drop me off.” She says quickly, eyes darting. Her fingers twisting in the strap of her bag. 

He studies her face. The girl has this bad habit of trying to play it casual. “What, there’s no one else?”

Her mouth pulls into a pout. “ Heather’s carpooling with Carol and Tommy, Patrick doesn’t have a car.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “And if Jason picked me up, Mom would figure it out by Sunday. We see his family at church.” He tosses the empty container into the back seat, the foil scratching against the leather, and brushes his hands together, dusting off the crumbs.

“Well,” Billy says, leaning back, all mock-consideration, “sounds like I’m your saviour.”

Her face lights up immediately. She nods hard. “Yes. Exactly. So—please?”

Those eyes again. Big. Shiny. Earnest. They remind him of a particular redheaded bitch when she wants something badly. He exhales, long and theatrical. “Fine… I’ll pick you up.”

She squeaks and wiggles in her seat, excitement spilling over. “Yes! Okay—just—” She points at him, suddenly serious. “Park down the road. And don’t rev your engine.”

He snorts. “You’re no fun, Cunningham.”

Chrissy grins; she doesn’t care in the slightest.

{~~~}

“You’re not going,”

Billy blinks. Maybe he misheard.

“What?”

His father says it flatly, “You’re watching your sister.”

Billy has already decided on the costume. Not inspired, sure, but fine enough. The black leather jacket hangs open over his bare skin, paired with tight jeans that ride low on his hips. He even got the chance to work a smear of black into his eyeline to sharpen the angles of his face. He’d checked himself twice in the mirror. Sexy.

Seems all for shit now.

Neil stands in the doorway, having flung it open hard enough to mar the wall behind with another fresh dent. There's already too many of them, half-moon shadows from being thrown open over and over again. Behind him stands Maxine. She wears a cheap white mask, something he thinks is supposed to be Michael Myers. Billy glares straight at her. 

The mask shields her from it, so he looks back at his father. “Why can’t Susan take her?”

“Because Susan has more important things to do,” Neil snaps, his voice already too loud. His pussy of a step sister flinches at the sound, shoulders hitching. Usually, Neil keeps it down when she’s around, but today seems to be a different case. He strides inside, filling the space like he always does. Billy forces his shoulders loose, his jaw unclench. 

“Don’t mess with me, boy,” his dad says, stopping close enough that Billy can smell the beer on his breath. “You watch your sister.” Their eyes lock, and for a short second, Billy thinks he’s gonna hit him in front of Max.

Neil turns on his heel and leaves as abruptly as he came. Billy lets out a breath and looks at her again. Disdain curls in his gut, it’s so unfair. “Can’t look after yourself, can you?” he snarls.

She doesn’t answer. Just stands there, mask tilted slightly, silent.

Billy shoves past, shoulder clipping hers as he storms toward the front door. The night air outside is a reprieve from the heat simmering under his skin. He throws himself into the car, fuming.

He sits in the driver’s seat, hands locked around the steering wheel. He doesn’t turn the radio on. The passenger door opens a minute later.

Max climbs in without a word and shuts the door carefully. That alone needles him. He starts the engine hard, and pulls away from the curb. “So,” Billy mutters, eyes fixed on the road. “Where?”

She stares out the window before answering, voice small. “Loch Nora.”

He rolls his eyes. “The rich place.” She keeps watching the houses slide by as they drive. Kids in costumes wander between houses, parents trailing behind. Billy parks along the curb near a cluster of oversized homes and cuts the engine. He leans back in his seat, staring her down.

She unbuckles slowly. Hesitates. Then looks at him. “You—uh. Where were you gonna go tonight?”

He keeps his eyes on the slits of blue peeking through the mask. “A party.”

The words are harsh. Bitter in his mouth.

Billy thinks of Chrissy. She is probably going to resent him, believing he bailed. Her plan crushed because of Maxine. His knee starts bouncing before he can stop it.

“Oh,” Max says. There’s a pause. Then, quieter, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to… involve you.”

He grumbles. “Yeah, well. You did.”

She frowns, fiddling with the edge of her sleeve. “I asked Mom. Neil just overheard. Then he said you’d do it.”

Billy laughs once, humourless. “You know he didn’t ask.”

She winces. Silence stretches again. The small children giggle and squeal somewhere down the block. 

“Maybe,” she says carefully, “you could still go.”

He rolls his eyes, “What are you talking about, shitbird?”

She briefly smiles at the familiar nickname. “Like… I’ll go trick-or-treating. You go do your thing. Then you pick me up later.”

He squints at her. “You serious?”

She huffs and looks at the kids passing the car. “Yeah. I mean. I won’t tell. And if I do, we’re both screwed anyway.” Billy scoffs. He’d be in way more trouble than her.

He glances at the dashboard clock, then back at her. “Alright. Fine.” He points toward the curb. “You meet me here. Same spot. In four hours.” She lights up instantly. Way too eager. “Yeah, okay!”

He narrows his eyes. “Don’t be fucking late.”

She nods rapidly, already halfway out the door. “I won’t! Promise!”

Then she’s gone—door slamming, shoes hitting the pavement, vanishing into the glow of the people. Billy snorts despite himself, leaning back in the seat. “Unbelievable,” he mutters.

{~~~}

He follows the address off the corner of a torn sticky note, crumpled from his pocket. Billy squints at it once and eases the car to a stop a few spaces down the street.

The engine idles softly.

He definitely can’t honk. So he just sits there, drumming his fingers on the wheel, staring at the row of identical semi-detached houses. Billy checks the time. Four minutes past.“Alright,” he mutters. He’s just about to consider getting out,  maybe pretending he’s lost—when movement catches his eye.

An upstairs window slides open.

Slowly. 

His mouth falls open just before it morphs into gleeful cackling as a flash of green appears, followed by limbs. Chrissy, unmistakable even half-hidden, shimmies out onto the sill like she’s done this a hundred times. She grabs hold of a drainpipe and begins scaling down the wall with surprising grace, controlled footsteps, and quiet movement.

She lands with barely a sound, knees bending softly on impact. Chrissy turns around to look back, but there isn't nary a peep out of the house, and bolts for the car, flats barely touching the pavement.

Billy is wiping at his eyes when she yanks the passenger door open and slips inside, breathless and grinning.

“I did not think you could do that,” he says, still laughing, voice loud and unrestrained now that she’s alright. She laughs too, cheeks flushed, tugging the door shut. “I know! It didn’t used to go that smooth.”

He shakes his head and looks her up and down. Alongside her dress, she also threw on a pair of silver dress-up wings. “That was pretty damn clean, Tink.” She beams, pride all over her face, even as she ducks her head a little. He pulls the car away from the curb, still chuckling under his breath. 

“Cheerleader things, y'know,” she says lightly. And Billy descends into giggles all over again.

She gives directions with one hand on the dash, leaning forward every time she recognises a turn. “Left here—yep, this one.” He slows down to look for a spot, and she gripes, “No, not that house, the next one.”

The house is fully lit, impossible to miss with a bunch of other cars blocking up the driveway.

Billy snickers, “I’m not blind.”

It’s not Loch Nora-level obscene, but it’s a long way from Cherry Lane. Music leaks into the street before they even stop—bass thumping low and steady, teenage shrieking spilling out through open windows. Crude decorations litter the lawn, kicked-over pumpkins, and strewn cobwebs and toilet paper. Someone’s fog machine wheezes dramatically out of the garage.

He pulls up along the curb and kills the engine. Chrissy goes for the door handle, but he grabs her arms before she can leave. “Just—uh,” he mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck. “We can’t stay too late.”

She paused mid-reach for the door. “Sure…why?”

“I’ve gotta pick up my sister later,” Billy says quickly. “Babysitting duty.” Chrissy raises a brow. Then she snickers.

He scowls. “Don’t.”

“That is so sweet,” she says, utterly sincere.

His ears burn. “It is not.”

She laughs softly, eyes bright. “You sneaking me out of my house and then leaving early to take care of your sister? What a good brother you are.”

He huffs, mortified, shoving the door open. “Brother my ass, let’s go.”

“Billy Bee, sweet as nectar”, she singsongs, hopping out of the car before he can argue, her green costume catching the porch light as she straightens. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Good,” he mutters, locking the car and following her toward the noise. As they come closer, the music swells, laughter heightens.

The party is in full swing. The moment they step inside, the house swallows them whole.

Bodies press in from every direction, kids packed shoulder to shoulder, dancing, shouting and laughing. The air is thick and overheated, fogged with cheap perfume, sweat, and something sugary spilled on the floor that was never cleaned up. Music thunders through the walls, bass vibrating straight into Billy’s ribs.

There’s too much going on, so. He locks onto green.

Her costume flashes just ahead as she weaves through the crowd, tugging him along by the hand. He follows, ducking his elbows and shoulders, letting her carve a path through the chaos. Groups of girls shriek nearby, laughter bursting out right after, and he nearly loses her before she pulls him forward again.

“Chrissy!”

A blur of brown curls slams into her from the side. It’s Heather, she wraps herself around Chrissy, squealing as they spin together, nearly knocking into a guy dressed as a sheet-ghost.

“Oh my God, look at you!” She coos, pulling back just enough to grab at the green fabric. “This is criminally cute.” They finally stop moving, and Billy gets a good look at her.

The brunette is dressed entirely on the opposite end.

She’s gone full vampire, with black lingerie layered beneath a short, opaque dress that barely toes the line of decent. Her sheer tights are artfully torn, silver jewellery glinting at her throat, wrists, and ears, catching the light every time she moves. Fake blood drips from the corner of her mouth, glossy like she’s just wiped it for effect.

Heather’s eyes flick to Billy, assessing, a grin curling as she takes him in. “Well,” she shouts over the music, wicked and loud, “you clean up nice, Hargrove. What are you supposed to be?”

He shrugs, “Sexy,” and shoots back. “Ain’t that enough?” Heather bares her fangs, already loading a retort, but before she can say anything, Hagan is crashing through them.

“There you are!”

He shoves them all together, throwing an arm around Billy’s shoulders without warning, nearly sloshing whatever drink he’s holding. He’s dressed in a black jacket with the sleeves pushed up, jeans scuffed at the knees. A black tie is wrapped around, crooked across his forehead. The mean one from Karate Kid.

Billy snorts. “Lame, Hagan.”

Tommy grins, pushing a hand through his hair and then bending, like he’s about to sweep his leg and knock them all out. “What? It’s iconic. Don’t hate the get-up.”

Heather claps once. “Okay, but if anyone starts a brawl tonight, it’s absolutely you.”

Tommy beams. “See? Appreciation.” He turns slightly, scanning the room. “It’s dry as hell inside, everyone else is by the pool. ” He meets Billy’s eyes again, like he’s speaking only to him. “Let’s grab some drinks and head there.” 

Billy arches a brow. “I don’t think Tina’s gonna be happy to hear that.” But Heather’s already snagged Chrissy by the wrist, laughing as she drags her toward the back doors, tulle fluttering behind her. Billy sighs and follows, letting himself be swept along.

It’s cooler out here, definitely nicer, he won’t deny. The crisp air is filled with the scents of autumn and chlorine, and red fairy lights are strung between trees and fence posts, glowing low and moody, woven with orange bulbs shaped like tiny pumpkins. Leaves crunch underfoot as they walk, real and plastic ones mixed together. Carved jack-o’-lanterns sit along the edges of the patio, candlelight flickering wildly in the dark. There are more fake cotton webs, ripped and sinking into the floor, trampled by the teens. One tangles in his boot, and he spends a good minute kicking it away.

The pool is noisy, populated with a few kids already in the water, clothes abandoned in messy piles, splashing and shouting like it’s still summer. Music thumps from inside, muffled now, but the bass still carries through the ground.

Tommy reappears, arms full. “Delivery!” he yells, lobbing cans of beer one after the other.

Billy snatches one cleanly out of the air, metal cold against his palm. Heather snags it from him with a grin. “Finders keepers,” she trills.

He shakes his head and grabs another, holding it out to Chrissy. She declines, hands lifting in surrender. Billy shrugs and takes a sip, the hiss lost in the noise as he takes a long pull.

Patrick wanders over then, wrapped head to toe in a last-minute mummy costume—layers of toilet paper practically drooping and unravelling with every step. He lifts his arms dramatically, the paper wrapped around trailing in ghostly streamers.

“Fear me,” Patrick intones, deadpan. 

Billy chuckles before he can stop himself, “You look like you wandered out of a storage closet.”

He bows, paper tearing audibly. “High art takes sacrifice.”

Jason joins them next, dressed as a pirate in the most uninspired way imaginable—striped shirt, cheap belt, shoes that look suspiciously like his regular ones. The only thing with any personality is the hat, oversized and theatrical, clearly lifted straight from the drama department.

He raises his drink. “To Halloween,” the blonde says, earnest as ever.

They clink cans, a messy chorus of cheers rising up around them. Someone screams from the pool. Another laughs too loud. Fairy lights sway as people brush past them, shadows dancing over carved pumpkins and spilled beer.

He drifts around, with the many bodies that are pulled into the same loose orbit by the music and the buzz under their skin. The bass thuds through the treaded grass. The volume keeps going up, again, and again, and the outside pulses with it, red lights blinking, shadows jumping across carved pumpkins and bare branches overhead.

It’s cold out here, sort of. His breath fogs faintly in the air, but Billy doesn’t feel it. Not with the others so close to him. He, Patrick, Chrissy end up lazing on the deck bench shoulder to shoulder, elbows knocking, warmth bleeding through their cheap costumes. The space is rancid with beer and leaves and chlorine drifting over from the pool, damp and dingy and unmistakably teenage.

Billy lets himself sink into it, following the flow of his too-cool crowd. His drink is warm in his hand now, and he nods in time with the music.

He hums along, swaying more loose-limbed. 

Heather comes by and pulls him up from his seat. Ridiculously tries to twirl him round, and fails miserably. She doesn’t give up, though, and dances into his space, reckless, silver jewellery flashing every time she moves. The girl presses in close, when the beat picks up she spins away. Laughs, then settles back against him.

It’s playful. Showy. Her hands don’t wander so he never minds.

She grinds against him briefly, enough to draw a few hoots from the boys, turns and hooks an arm around his neck, pulling him down, forcing him to duck his face into her neck. Heather calls him a shit dancer, so he smirks and dips her fast, all drama and pizzaz. She shrieks, loud and ecstatic. Billy barely grabs her back before she falls into the grass.

He doesn’t pull away from her as they move together, lets her explore, lets the heat and motion of her hands skimming his chest be, before she retreats like it never meant anything at all.

Around them, everyone else dances, careless. He can see Carol snaking her hands into Tommy’s belt. More drinks spill and Patrick trips over his unravelling wrappings, almost taking Jason with him, setting off another round of hollering. 

Eventually, Heather loses interest and peels away from him without ceremony, already grinning at some other poor guy she’s decided to enthral for the next song, dark curls flashing as she drags a boy straight into the mess of bodies. Billy drops back onto one of the low stone edges, unoffended, catching his breath. Sweat clings to his collarbone; the night air cools it just enough to feel pleasant.

Chrissy stays close, her dress brushing him now and then with how close she sits, and giggles softly whenever fresh chaos unfolds.

The garden glows low. It feels secretive despite the small crowd out here. But he prefers it over the absolute chaos that seems to be going on inside. Billy exhales slowly, eyes half-lidded and relaxes his shoulders.

Heather reappears not long after, apparently done with the men for tonight. She snatches Chrissy by the wrist with mock authority and hauls her back into the music. Chrissy squeaks, protesting half-heartedly, but lets herself be pulled along, the two of them swaying together more silly. Billy watches them for a moment, smiling despite himself. But he gets too hot, sitting directly under the lights and the wandering eyes, lingering looks of people hoping to ensnare him in a dance. He wants a chance to breathe first.

Billy pushes to his feet, weaving between the tightest cluster of bodies until he can lean back against the rough bark of a lone tree further away. The music still rattles through him, but it’s a little more dulled. He tilts his head back, eyes tracing the lights overhead. Jason appears at his side, halfway through another beer. He tips the can toward him.

Billy shakes his head. “Nah. I’m driving.”

Jason shrugs, downs the rest, and disappears again. He follows the boys receding back before his eyes catch onto another pair of familiar faces.

Across the garden, Tommy’s got Carol pinned against another tree, hands everywhere, mouths locked like they think no one can see them. Billy rolls his eyes, turning away before their grotesque show burns into his retinas for good. He tips his head back instead, staring up at the slice of night sky caught between tree branches and fairy lights. For a second, his thoughts slip sideways, to the other things he should be doing. He could’ve been practicting right now, giving himself a better chance of a getaway, but instead Billy is here, ruminating.

Patrick wanders over, pulls himself away from Jason with a lazy wave. He stops beside Billy, leaning against the same tree.

“You’re looking rather annoyed,” Patrick says, squinting up at the decorations. “That’s illegal at a party.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well. I gotta do the math exam Monday.”

Patrick turns, eyebrows lifting. “Oh crap, I forgot about that. Jesus I’m dead.” Billy’s lips curl up at that. 

“You're not a studious one, McKinney?”

“I haven’t opened my notebook since, like, September,” Patrick admits cheerfully. “I keep telling myself it’ll sort itself out.”

Billy scoffs. “Bold strategy.”

Patrick grins, nudging him with his shoulder. “Don’t let Tommy hear us. He’d lose his mind if he knew we were standing here talking about school like a pair of nerds.”

“Mhm, because there’s so much better else to do here, right?” He adds dryly. Patrick laughs, the sound easy—but it cuts off. When his gaze flicks past Billy’s shoulder.

“Oh,” he says. “Uh. That doesn’t look  good.”

He follows his line of sight.

Tina finally appears, stalking out of the house. A bitch on a roll. It’s the first time he’s seen her all night, which is strange considering it’s her party. Her costume is dumb like most of the girls here, barely put together underwear with a pair of animal ears on top, funny considering her mouth is set in a line dark that promises trouble.

She makes a beeline straight for Tommy and Carol.

The loud, pointed cough she gives is just enough to draw attention. Tommy breaks away first, already scowling, Carol rolling her eyes like she’s been personally inconvenienced.

Patrick and him watch from their tree as Tina starts talking fast, hands pointing back to the house. Whatever she’s saying, it’s bad. Tommy’s expression shifts in stages, confusion, irritation, then something hotter. His jaw tightens and his hands curl.

“Yikes,” Patrick mutters. “He’s mad-mad.”

Tommy says something back at the girl, and Carol jumps in, defensive. Tina shakes her head hard, curls bouncing, clearly not buying whatever they’re telling her

Billy pushes off the tree. “We should probably—”

They don’t even finish the sentence. The girls come closer first, curiosity written all over. Heather follows like she smells drama, eyes glittering as she slides in beside Chrissy, already smirking.

“…I’m serious, Tommy,” Tina snaps, arms crossed tight over her chest. “Do you know how annoying it is to host and have him just show up?”

Patrick slows beside Billy.

Tommy scoffs, still flushed from his kissing-induced interruption he’d been dragged out of. “Why’s that my problem?” He laughs without humour. “You want me to talk to Harrington?”

Ah, he can tell where this is going.

Billy can’t help himself. He finds this whole thing between the two downright stupid. Those two get so worked up over each other.

He tilts his head, grin sharp as he cuts in, “Aw, come on, Tommy. Maybe Harrington just couldn’t stay away. Heard his favourite guy was gonna be here.”

Tommy whips around. “Oh, fuck off, Hargrove.” The edge cracks the tension just enough. Even Tina huffs, some of the fire bleeding out of her glare.

“He’s a total loser,” Tommy continues and then shoots Tina a look. “Why’d you even invite him?”

The girl lifts one shoulder in a gritted shrug. “I didn’t. But he came, didn’t he?”

Carol snorts, stepping closer. “Just tell him to fuck off. Nobody wants him here.”

Tina rolls her eyes so hard it’s almost theatrical. “Sure,” she says, already turning away. “Give me the problem. If I can even find him.”

She stalks back toward the house, and Billy sighs, amused despite himself. “Party’s really coming together, huh.”

Heather clicks her tongue, eyes flicking toward the house. “God,” she says, faux-thoughtful, “I wonder if Wheeler came.”

Jason lights up instantly. “Oh my god—imagine if Holland showed up with her.” He cackles and looks back at the house. “Can you see them? Harrington probably felt left out and followed the whores here. Get his dick wet since Wheeler likes her piggy way more than she likes him.” Billy chuckles, already fishing a cigarette from the crumpled pack in his pocket, and lights it with a quick flick, the flame briefly illuminating his grin before he draws in smoke.

“Hm,” he says through his exhale, mean and amused, "Harrington's probably holding her purse while she looks for better boys to please her."

Patrick laughs, shaking his head. “You guys are brutal.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Heather shoots back, leaning into Chrissy’s side. “He definitely came to fuck. Or punch someone. Or both.”

They spiral from there—talking over one another, inventing increasingly ridiculous theories. Harrington came to spy. Harrington came because his parents kicked him out. Harrington came because he heard Tommy would be shirtless. Tommy squawks at that one, face flaming so red.

Chapter Text

They drift topic eventually, the Harrington speculation dissolving into noise and laughter. Billy feels a flicker of something like guilt—thin and quickly smothered—but it’s outweighed by the warmth of belonging. Their shared disdain has greased the hinges for him; it’s easier to laugh, to lean in, to exist comfortably among the self-appointed royalty of the school when they’re all united against someone else.

The music changes, less bass, more bounce and Chrissy perks up immediately. “Oh, I love this one,” she says, already tugging at his sleeve.

Before he can think better of it, he lets her pull him back into the dance of bodies. They dance badly at first, off-beat and giggling, until Jason groans somewhere behind them like he’s been personally offended by the sight. Billy ignores him. He’s too busy watching Chrissy glow under the string lights, dress swishing, wings catching the light every time she turns.

On a whim, he scoops her up. It’s easy, startlingly so. She shrieks, hands flying to his shoulders, laughter bursting out of her as he spins her once, twice. The world blurs, lights streaking, music pounding, her breathless sounds high and bright in his ear.

“Jesus,” he says, breathless, grinning. “You weigh nothing.”

She giggles harder, dizzy now, clinging to him. “That’s what fairies are like, no?” He sets her down but keeps his hands at her waist a second longer, steadying as she tilts backwards. They’re near the edge of the pool now, close enough that the blue light ripples up her legs. She smooths her skirt, still chuckling, cheeks flushed from spinning. Billy steps back—and immediately catches his boot on something soft and elastic.

“Shit—”

He stumbles, arms windmilling, and barrels straight behind into Heather. She lets out an exaggerated scream, clutching at his jacket like she’s been grievously wounded, eyes flashing with mischief.

“Oh my God,” she gasps, hand to her chest, already smirking. “Assault.”

“Watch where you’re standing,” he shoots back, grinning despite himself.

The pool is empty, abandoned as the night sharpens and the air turns mean and cold. Steam curls faintly off the water under the lights. The other kids have scattered back toward the house or clustered around fires and drinks, leaving this pocket of space open.

Heather gives him a shove. He shoves back. They square up like idiots, circling, hands batting at each other’s shoulders, bickering too loud.

“Don’t,” he warns, already knowing she will.

She grins wide, feral. “Too late.”

She topples backwards on purpose, fingers catching the front of his jacket, and drags him with her. The water swallows them in a violent splash, cold biting instantly, stealing his breath. He comes up sputtering, hair plastered to his face, grinning anyway.

“Jesus Christ, Heather!” She surfaces beside him, mascara smudged, hair slicked back, cackling like a demon. There’s another blur and a splash—bigger, clumsier.

Patrick launches himself into the pool with a yell, landing half on top of them. Water sloshes over the edge, soaking the concrete. The remains of his getup disintegrate immediately, toilet paper breaking away in soggy fragments.

“Oh fuck,” he wheezes, laughing, trying and failing to peel it off his arms. “My costume!”

They’re all screaming now, half cold, half delirious. Heather splashes him viciously, Billy retaliates, and Patrick flails between them, completely doomed. Water flies everywhere, lights shatter into ripples,  the party has distilled down to them three idiots in a freezing pool, howling and breathless.

“Guys!” Chrissy’s voice cuts through the noise, thin with panic. She’s standing a few steps back from the pool, hands hovering uselessly at her sides. “You’re drunk, be careful!”

Billy scoffs and flicks water from his eyes, squinting up at her through wet lashes. He lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “Relax, Tink. I was a lifeguard in Cali.”

Heather immediately lets out an exaggerated ooooh, clutching at Patrick’s arm like she’s swooning. “Did you hear that?” she sings. “A hero.”

Patrick snorts. “So strong.”

“Oh, totally,” Heather adds, already swimming closer, eyes bright with mischief. “Prove it.” Before he can say anything, they’re on him. Heather latches onto one arm, Patrick grabs the other, both of them hooting and squawking as they cling like dead weight.

“Hey—hey, knock it off—”

“Save us, lifeguard!” Patrick yells, kicking dramatically.

Billy growls but can’t stop grinning. He braces himself, muscles tensing as he starts toward the edge, dragging both of them along. The water resists, cold and heavy, but he powers through it anyway,  showing off without even trying not to.

Heather purrs the whole way. “Look at him go!”

They reach the edge in a clumsy heap. He hauls them close enough, and the three of them collapse over the ledge together, chests pressed to concrete, coughing and laughing so hard it hurts. Water streams off him in rivulets, soaking the ground beneath.

Heather wipes her face, still breathless. “Okay,” she gasps, “I’m impressed.”

Patrick groans, peeling soggy paper off his arm. “The Mummy is dead.” He’s still wiping the water outta his face when Tommy calls out.

“Oi! Hargrove!”

Billy looks up, dragging wet curls back from his face, water dripping down his neck and soaking more of the sodden collar of his jacket. He’s gonna have to air the thing out now. Tommy’s waving him over, halfway grinning, about to make an announcement. 

He pulls himself away from the other two to see what the fuss is about, and once close enough, he can make out another person. 

“This,” Tommy says, slinging an arm out toward a tall, lanky figure hovering near the patio doors, the figure stills, “is Munson. Resident freak.” he lowers his voice theatrically, though not nearly enough, “—the weed guy.” The boy lifts his lunchbox in greeting. His hair’s a mess of curls, frizzed out by the damp night.

 He squints at Billy for half a second—then his face lights up.

“No shit,” Eddie says, pointing. “It’s you.”

Before Billy can respond, the boy flips the lunchbox open and tosses something small at him. He catches it on instinct. “On the house,” Munson adds, “Consider it a thank-you for saving my grade. My knight in shining armour.”

Tommy’s jaw drops. “Are you kidding me?” He jabs a finger at the senior. “You’ve never given me anything for free.”Billy snorts, glancing down at the bag before tucking it away. 

“I saved the kitchen before he could burn it down.”

“It was an honest mistake,” Munson protests, offended. Then he brightens again, already backing toward the house. “Anyway—setting up upstairs. Back bedroom. Prices are normal tonight,” he announces, clearly for the benefit of everyone within earshot.

Tommy pouts and moves towards him immediately, “No fair,” Billy rolls his eyes and flicks the baggie at him without looking. He doesn’t need it anyway, his dad would throw a big fit about the smell.

Tommy catches it, breaking into the most ridiculous, satisfied grin.

Tina reappears, brushing past Munson as the dealer winks at her. She rolls her eyes and shoves Tommy out of the way on the porch, flushed and sweating.

“My house is trashed,” she snaps at no one in particular. “Someone stole my mom’s favourite vase.”

Billy lifts his gaze from Heather—who’s kneeling by the pool, wringing water from her curls with more violence than necessary—and lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “What did you expect? You invited half the school.”

She shoots him a look. “That vase was imported.”

“Chill, Tina,” Tommy says, deadpan. “I’m sure it’ll turn up on the lawn by morning. What kind of person steals house décor?”

Tina mutters something under her breath and crosses her arms, leaning against the door like a sulking bouncer. The music swells again. More shouts from inside. The party shifts, restless.

Then—

“Guys, come see!”

Carol’s screech cuts through the noise from the far edge of the garden. Heads turn. She’s planted beside a small cluster of people that’s appeared almost out of nowhere, corralling bodies closer with wild hand gestures.

“Come here,” she yells, practically vibrating. “We finally got the keg working!”

The crowd responds instantly, like iron filings snapping toward a magnet. Tommy bounds toward her, sudden energy in his step, and Billy follows, curiosity pulling him along. The second Tommy clocks what’s happening, his eyes light up.

“Oh hell yes,” he says, already bouncing on his heels. He turns to Billy, grin stretching sharp. “You ever done one of these?”

He eyes the setup, unimpressed. There’s a metal barrel with a spout and a long hose connected to it. “No.”

“Never? You’ve got to!” Tommy fires back. “It’s tradition.”

Patrick snickers, standing on of side of the thing. “Harrington held the record back when he was still king of the hill.” That gets a ripple of reactions from some of the onlookers, groans, scoffs, and people mutter his name in bad taste.

“Forty-one seconds,” Tommy crows, loud enough for everyone to hear. He jabs a finger at Billy. “That’s the number to beat.”

He arches a brow. “You keep stats?”

“I’m saying,” Tommy continues, voice rising, feeding off the gathering crowd, “you could knock him off his throne. Take his crown.”

A few heads turn. Someone whistles. They start chanting his name, some joking, some serious.

Billy looks at the group. The way all those eyes land on him like a dare. Chrissy hovers near the edge, eyes wide, hands twisting in her costume. Heather stands next to her, eyebrow raised like he’s gonna pussy out, and Carol smirks with open interest, predatory and amused.

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “You people are insane.”

Tommy claps a hand on his shoulder. “Yeah. And you love it.” The chanting grows bigger, sloppy and uneven. Some person shouts Harrington’s name in challenge, an insult. Billy glances once toward the house, toward the noise and heat and the mess of it all, then back at the crowd, buzzing, waiting.

“Alright,” he says finally, voice low but steady.

The reaction is immediate. Cheers explode. They whoop so harsh it cracks. Tommy grins. “That’s what I thought.”

He flicks the cigarette from his fingers and passes it back without looking, jaw set.
Yeah. Damn sure he can beat that snob.

The crowd presses in tighter, bodies forming a rough circle, heat rising despite the cold. The red lights blur at the edges of his vision. They keep shouting his and Harrington’s names. The air smells of beer and smoke and damp leaves, shrill and sour all at once. He shoves the spout in his mouth, it’s ice against his tongue.

Hands grab at him. Patrick on one side, Tommy on the other. Their grips are firm. Tommy’s got one hand clenched around his thigh while Patrick hoists him by his shoulder and hip.

“You good?” Patrick asks, voice close to his ear.

Billy nods once. No backing out now.

The world tilts.

Suddenly, he’s upside down, blood rushing to his head, the ground where the sky should be. The music thumps somewhere distant, muffled, like it’s underwater. His heart pounds hard enough to vibrate up his throat.

Then they twist the handle.

Cold bitter floods his mouth all at once, overwhelming, immediate. He doesn’t think, just focuses. Breathing evenly through his nose. Slow. He locks his jaw and forces steady.

The burn hits next. Stinging. Angry. It bypasses his tongue and scorches a path straight down, his stomach tightening in protest as it fills too fast. His eyes sting, blurring everything into streaks of motion.

The noise swells.

The chant builds, uneven at first, then higher. Voices layering over each other until it’s one pulsing sound, knocking straight through his skull.

“Thirty—”
“Thirty-five!”

He clenches his fists around the metal, nails denting it. The world narrows to counting breaths, to ignoring the churn in his gut, holding out steady while people scream around him.

His head throbs. 

“Thirty-eight!”
“Thirty-nine!”

Billy thinks, absurdly, of California. The salt water and holding his breath under waves, anchoring himself under just because he could.

“Forty!”

A ripple goes through the crowd, anticipation crackling, voices climbing higher.

His stomach is throbbing violently now, liquid sloshing, heat blooming in his chest. He swallows hard, forces it down, and rides the wave of nausea with grim determination.

“One more,” A voice screams.
“Beat him!”

“Forty-one—”

Billy holds on. Teeth clenched.

“Forty-two!”

The cheer detonates.

He doesn’t even register being lowered at first, just the sudden righting of the world, hands steadying him as his boots hit the ground. His knees buckle, just barely. Billy coughs, gasps hard, dragging in lungfuls of cold night air.

Sound crashes over him all at once, whoops, clapping, shouted disbelief. Tommy’s on him immediately, pounding his back hard enough to rattle his ribs, grabbing at his shoulders in wild, uncontained euphoria.

“Holy shit—did you see that—”

He sways, dizzy as hell, stomach sloshing unpleasantly. The alcohol surges back up his throat, and he barely manages to spit away from himself, fizzy foam splattering the grass. The crowd howls, like that only makes it better.

For one buzzing moment, he thinks distantly: Jesus Christ, why did I do that?

Heat floods him, adrenaline, triumph, the sheer electricity of being watched. Sweat slicks down his spine, his pulse hammering everywhere all at once. He feels huge. Untouchable. The whole night has tilted in his favour.

Tommy shoves his cigarette back into his hand, laughing like a maniac.

Billy throws his head back and roars into the night, voice ripping raw from his chest.
“That’s how you do it in Hawkins! That’s how you do it!”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, breath still coming hard, they yell, Billy straightens slowly, grin cutting through the haze—feral, victorious, a little unhinged.

Yeah.

He beat him, and they love him.

The noise hasn’t died down yet; voices still buzz his name like he’s something magic. Billy’s the moment. The story people will be telling tomorrow into next week, with wide eyes and exaggerated hand gestures.

Jason slings an arm around him, grinning like an idiot. “Damn, man,” he says loudly, “didn’t know you could suck for that long.”

Billy snorts and shoves him away with a huff, punching his arm back. “Shut up,” he says, still breathless, and before he can make space, Tommy’s on him.

An arm hooks tight around his bicep, fingers digging in like he’s afraid Billy might disappear. Tommy’s face is flushed, eyes wild, words tumbling out half-formed and jumbled.

“C’mon—c’mon,” he’s saying, dragging Billy bodily through the crowd. “We gotta show him. Gotta show that loser—show Harrington—”

“Tommy—” Billy starts, but it’s useless. He’s drunk too, head light, loose limbed, laughter spilling out of him as he stumbles along. The crowd follows.

Like Billy’s a flare cutting through the dark. 

Cheers ripple after them, people spilling in their wake as they push back into the house. Inside, the air is thick. Hot, damp, and humming. It’s too much in here, bass-heavy and booming in his chest.

Kids part for them as they move, stepping back with looks that range from impressed to jealous to outright stunned. There’s whistling, slapping of his shoulder as he passes. Billy barely registers any of it.

He looks up.

Harrington leans against the far wall, too relaxed, too composed. That unmistakable sweep of dark hair, perfectly even in the heat. Black sunglasses still on, inside, at night, which somehow only makes him stand out more. A shadow among shadows, calm in the chaos.

Billy’s focus snaps sharp, the drunken haze pulling tight to one point. Something hot and horrible coils in his chest. He slips free of Tommy’s grip without really thinking, feet spurring him forward on their own.

Each step deliberate now.

The music dulls, the cheering blurs, the world shrinking to the space between them. Harrington doesn’t move at first—just watches, head tilted slightly, unreadable behind the lenses.

Billy stalks closer, heartbeat battering in his ears, sweat cooling on his skin. The crowd senses it—energy shifting, voices dropping, eyes turning.

Whatever this is—

It’s about to happen.

Tommy’s voice slices through the music, brash and unfiltered as he shoves Billy forward like a prize on display. “We got a new keg king!” he hollers, mocking, manic and proud.

Jason flanks Billy’s other side, he sneers toward the wall. “Eat shit, Harrington!” The words ruffle, drawing attention like blood in water.

Harrington finally moves.

Slowly. Deliberately.

He lifts a hand and pushes his sunglasses up, perching them atop his head. The gesture is almost lazy, like he’s humouring them. Like, none of this is worth the effort. He doesn’t even glance at Tommy. Or Jason. Or anyone else barking for his attention.

He looks straight at Billy.

Not anger. Not embarrassment. Just that cool, assessing stare, heavy and intent, like Billy’s interruption is something mildly inconvenient. His eyes rake over without apology, taking him in from head to toe. Lingering.

Something hot flares beneath Billy’s skin, barbed and torrid, racing down his spine and pooling low in his gut. He feels it before he can stop it, the unconscious straightening, the subtle flex of muscle, chest lifting, shoulders squaring.

Yeah. Look at me.

The room shrinks to only the space between them. The bass keeps pounding, bodies still move around them, but none of it matters. The noise fades to a dull thrum, replaced by the rush of blood in Billy’s ears.

Harrington’s gaze doesn’t waver.

Neither does Billy’s.

He meets it head-on, chin tipped up, blue eyes bright and unflinching. A challenge without words. A dare. Fire licking under his veins as he holds the stare, refusing to give even an inch. For a suspended moment, it’s just the two of them, locked, charged, something volatile hanging thick in the air.

King Steve’s full attention. Exactly where it belongs.

A picthed, derisive snort slices through it.

Billy’s eyes flick sideways, breaking the spell, and that’s when he sees her. Smaller, rigidly upright beside Harrington, had been there the whole time.

Wheeler.

He hadn’t even noticed her.

She doesn’t look at Billy for long. Just a quick, unimpressed glance before rolling her eyes so hard. Whatever expression crosses her face, annoyance, embarrassment, it’s gone just as fast. She turns on her heel and stalks away without a word, hair swinging.

Harrington follows.

No hesitation. No backward glance. Just peels off after her, drawn away like a dog to its whistle, the tension snapping loose as he disappears into the crowd after her.

Billy exhales hard, dragging back on his half-forgotten cigarette, smoke curling from his lips as his gaze lingers where Harrington had just evacuated. Pussy.

Beside him, Tommy snarls under his breath, jaw tight. “Fuckin’ figures.” Billy doesn’t answer. He just watches the gap swallow Harrington whole, teeth worrying the filter, something sour settling in his chest where the fire had been.

{~~~}

They’re back outside by the pool now. Him, Tommy, Patrick, and Carol, spread out like they’ve claimed the place. The garden is practically empty. Most chose to go inside, settle in the warmth. 

Patrick’s stripped down to his underwear and, floating on his back, arms splayed and surrendered to the water entirely. Every time he drifts too close, Billy nudges him away with his boot, splashing just enough to be annoying.

The boy yelps on the fifth attempt, flailing when Billy pushes too hard. He laughs after a moment, regaining his position and wraps a hand around  Billy’s ankle, causing him to shake him off “You’re such a dick.”

Billy grins around his cigarette and does it again anyway.

Tommy’s gone quiet on the opposite side, earlier joy dulled into a sulk. His head’s tipped against Carol’s shoulder, and she’s absentmindedly running her fingers through his hair, soothing him like a big, moody baby. He doesn’t complain.

Inside, Chrissy and Heather are probably dancing. He catches flashes of green and black through the windows now and then. Jason disappeared a while ago, no doubt trying to worm his way back into Chrissy’s orbit under the excuse of “just one song.”

The night’s colder now, the air tinged against his damp skin. Billy takes another drag, then speaks, casual. “So.” They all look at him.

He tilts his head, eyes flicking briefly toward the house before settling back on them. “What’s the big deal with Harrington?”

Patrick squints at him from the water. “What d’you mean?” Billy shrugs, glancing down at Patrick and then over at Tommy. “I mean… why do we hate him so much?”

Tommy scoffs without lifting his head. “You’ve been here, what—a week? And nobody told you?”

“Nope,” Billy says, popping the p as he exhales smoke. “I get that he’s an assface, but you guys seem to have some kind of… vendetta.”

Patrick snorts and rolls onto his stomach, paddling closer to the edge of the pool until his chin rests on crossed arms. Carol’s fingers, still in Tommy’s hair slow, then stop. She lets out a short breath through her nose, something stabbing and humourless.

“Oh, Barbie,” Carol says. “You really wanna know?” 

He lifts a shoulder. “You’ve got my attention.”

Carol glances down at Tommy first, like checking whether he’s up for it. His jaw tightens, but he gives a barely-there nod. Patrick’s already shaking his head, like he knows exactly where this is going.

“Alright,” Carol says. “You know Jonathan Byers, right?”

Billy’s brow furrows but he nods. Byers is the surname? Carol’s mouth twists. “He’s a psycho perv.”

Patrick groans softly and thumps his forehead against the pool edge. “Carol.”

She ignores him.

“So,” she continues, eyes fixed somewhere past Billy, “back when Harr–Steve first started bringing Wheeler around—like, really bringing her around—we were all hanging out together. Me, Tommy, Steve. She was new and shy, whatever. Harrington was stupidly into her.”

Tommy huffs at that, bitter.

“One night,” Carol says, “we’re at Steve’s place. A pool party. Messing around, being idiots. And the whole time? Jonathan Byers is out there. In the treeline. Watching.”

His stomach tightens. Fucking hell.

“He took pictures,” Carol says flatly. “Of Nancy. Of us. And then—” She laughs once. “I caught him printing them at school. Just standing there like it was normal.”

 Billy’s eyes widen despite himself. He knew Jonathan was… involved. But that? “The fuck?”

Patrick drags a hand down his face. “Wish she was.”

“And that wasn’t even the worst of it,” Carol adds. Her gaze flicks back to Tommy, something pained softening her expression. “People started talking. Everyone seeing Jonathan and Nancy together. Real close. Steve tried to ignore it.” Tommy shifts, and Carol’s hand finds his again.

“Then one night,” she says quietly, “Steve went to Nancy’s house. Finds them in the same bed.” Silence settles heavy around the pool. “He came to us,” Carol continues. “Crying. Like—actually crying. We were furious. Gonna go after them but,”

Patrick looks at him, solemn. “We’ve always had his back.”

“But Steve…” Carol’s voice hardens. “Steve didn’t want to fight. He got back together with her instead. Just—decided it was fine. And after that?” She shrugs. “He stopped calling. Stopped showing up. Acted like we were the problem.”

Tommy finally lifts his head, eyes dark. “Years,” he mutters. “We’ve been friends since middle school. And he dropped us for that bitch.”

Billy sits back, cigarette burning between his fingers.

“So,” Carol finishes, voice low and tight, “yeah. We hate Harrington. Not just ’cause he’s a prick—but ’cause he chose her. And left the rest of us behind.”

For a moment, no one says anything. The pool water ripples faintly, reflecting the porch lights in broken lines. Billy stares out at the dark surface, filing every word away. Like it might matter later. He takes a slow drag, the tip of his cigarette glowing briefly before dying back into the night.

The quiet doesn’t last.

Heather comes tearing out of the house like she’s been launched, heels skidding across the patio stones and grass. She’s breathless, already halfway to shouting. Chrissy and Jason spill out behind her, half-laughing, half-confused, as if they missed the first sentence of a story and chase her to find the rest.

“Guess what?” Heather shrieks, nearly tripping over a plastic jack-o’-lantern.

Billy turns his shoulder toward her, smoke curling lazily into the air. Tommy lifts his head off Carol’s shoulder, blinking.

“Wheeler and Harrington are having issues,” Heather sings, clapping her hands together like she’s announcing a prize.

Billy snorts before he can stop himself. Tommy squints. “Since when?”

Heather doesn’t even need the prompt. She launches right in. “Just now. Inside. I swear to god, they were going at it. Wheeler was all—” she pitches her voice higher, mocking, “‘You’re full of bullshit, Steve,’ and then he was saying something about how she’s ‘overreacting’—”

“Classic,” Carol mutters. 

“They were heated,” Heather continues, practically glowing. “Like, breakup-adjacent heated.”

Billy exhales smoke slowly through his nose. He’d heard a quarrel too similar the day before. “Yeah,” he says, after a beat. “That tracks.”

Tommy’s head snaps toward him. “What do you mean, that tracks?”

He hesitates—just a fraction too long, and scratches at the back of his neck. “I, uh… I overheard them yesterday. In the parking lot. Arguing about Jonathan.”

Tommy straightens, pulling away from Carol completely now. “You knew that and didn’t tell me?”

He shrugs, easy, unbothered, taking another drag. “Didn’t really seem like breaking news.”

Tommy scowls, arms folding tight across his chest. “Wow. Okay, man.”

Heather lets out a delighted giggle, unrestrained. “This just keeps getting better.” From the pool, Patrick groans, the water sloshing as he shifts closer to the edge. 

“You people are exhausting.”

The moment dissolves into overlapping chatter and half-formed jokes. Tommy insists—completely serious—that the Last Judgment could arrive and Wheeler and Harrington would still be together, while Carol and Heather argue just as passionately for the opposite. Billy doesn’t join in. He watches the house instead: the glow spilling from the windows, shadows flickering behind the curtains, music thudding faintly through the walls. He exhales, smoke curling lazily from his mouth, unease prickling just beneath the humor.

A soft tap against his shoulder breaks the spell.

Chrissy’s standing close now, closer than she had been all evening. Her voice is quiet, almost apologetic. “Um,” she says, nodding toward the house, “it’s… kinda getting late.”

Billy blinks, the noise and light snapping back into focus all at once. His stomach drops. He’s on his feet before he fully realizes why.

“Fuck—shit. Yeah. Okay.” He drags a hand through his damp curls, breath coming a little too fast. “Shit. I forgot about Max.”

Chrissy winces, already checking the time. “We can still make it.”

“Yeah,” Billy says, though he’s already backing away, pulse hammering. “Okay. Sure.”

The goodbyes blur together—hands waving in his peripheral vision, voices calling see you over one another, a cup clattering to the ground. Heather leans out from the doorway and blows Chrissy an exaggerated kiss. “Drive safe, sinners!”

He barely registers it. Billy jogs toward his car, keys clenched so tight they bite into his palm, every step too slow. He yanks the door open, slides into the driver’s seat, and slams it shut behind him. The sudden quiet is deafening. His breath sounds loud in his ears.

Chrissy laughs as he pulls away from the curb a little too fast, adrenaline still buzzing through him. The drive is quieter now, the party shrinking behind them until it’s just an echo in the rearview mirror. Streetlights streak gold across the windshield in uneven flashes. Billy keeps glancing at the clock, mouth tight. He doesn’t have time to do this properly, to walk Chrissy to her door, or make sure she gets in safe. Guilt pricks at him, sharp and persistent.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally. “I should’ve dropped you off first.”

Chrissy waves him off, easy. “It’s fine. Really.”

When they pull up to the agreed spot, Max is already there, exactly where she said she’d be, arms folded tight across her chest, foot tapping against the curb in a furious, rhythmic beat. She looks smaller than usual under the streetlight, but no less severe. Annoyance radiates off her in waves. He barely has time to cut the engine before she yanks the door open. Then she freezes.

Chrissy leans forward from the passenger seat, smiling like this is the most normal thing in the world. “Hi,” she says brightly, lifting her hand in a small wave.

Max blinks. Once. Twice. Her irritation falters, recalibrates into something wary. She doesn’t say anything—just slides into the back seat and shuts the door with deliberate care. The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable.

Billy doesn’t comment. He’s too tired for explanations. He pulls back onto the road.

A few minutes later, they park down the street from Chrissy’s house like promised. The place looms quiet, porch light glowing like a warning beacon. Chrissy lingers with her hand on the door, hesitating.

“You gonna be okay climbing back up there?” He asks, voice soft.

Chrissy grins. “Yeah. I locked the door, so as long as I’m quiet, I’ll be okay.” Then, after a beat, gentler, “Thanks. For tonight.”

“Anytime,” he says. “See you Monday, Tink.”

“See you,” she replies, slipping out into the dark and disappearing around the side of the house.

From the back seat, Max watches her go, face twisted into something between suspicion and disbelief. She waits until Chrissy is fully gone before speaking.

“…Is that your girlfriend?”

He snorts, pulling away from the curb. “Hell no.” 

Max hums softly, unconvinced, and leans back against the seat—eyes still fixed on the empty sidewalk as they pull away.

Chapter Text

Billy sits on the cold wooden floor at the foot of his bed, wedged into the narrow gap between the bedframe and his wardrobe. It’s uncomfortable, veering just a side into pain when he shuffles to ease the numbness. His knee keeps pressing into a loose slat of floorboard and it’s difficult to see, but it works. 

He’s half-hidden from the view of the open door. If Neil walks past, he won’t be seen right away. Maybe not at all.

Spreads of paper are scattered on all sides. His textbook is opened to a bookmarked chapter with a notepad flipped beside it, already crowded with lines of numbers. The only light comes from the early morning sun glitzing through the thin strip of his closed curtains.  His room is quiet and he keeps a constant ear out for the footsteps that walk by, making sure it stays that way.

He’d managed to beg Tommy for one of his old math papers. It sits on top of the pile now, wrinkled and abused. Billy flips through it with a faint wince. Jesus, Tommy was absolute shit. His handwriting slants all over the page, letters fighting for dominance of space. He doesn’t even bother differentiating between a and d in the explanation boxes. The majority of working-out looks like a series of guesses that happened to land somewhere near the answer.

Still, it’s something.

It won’t be the exact same exam, Billy knows that. But the topics should overlap. He grabs his pencil and starts crossing them off one by one. He works, quick pen markings through each page, ticking in the margin. He isn’t panicking, well not yet. Billy’s done all of this before. Back home, these units were mandatory a year earlier, when classes actually moved at a decent pace. Hawkins by comparison drags its feet in more ways than one.

Still doesn’t mean he can coast.

Billy slows down deliberately, checking each step, making sure nothing catches him out. Trigonometry, he flies through, it’s his favourite unit. But Binomial takes longer. He forces himself to redo them, again and again, because he knows his weakness. Always quick to forget the last term under time limits.

By the time he moves on, the notepad is filled with tight, orderly lines of work. Everything else is straightforward. Almost fun.

He slips into a steady rhythm, flipping between the practice sheet, Tommy’s paper, and the textbook, back and forth. Every correct answer gives him a small, sharp flicker of satisfaction. A brief smile. A quiet zing of pride, he doesn't linger on for too long.

“Billy, can you—”

His head snaps up. 

The pencil digs down hard, and the graphite snaps with a small crack as he flinches. Max stands in the doorway, giving him a weird look.

He blinks once, then lifts his brows slowly, fixing her with a glare of warning and impatience. “What.” She tilts her head, eyes flicking to the gap and then to the closed curtains. 

“Why are you hiding?”

“No, I’m not.” He scoffs, “What do you want?”

Max frowns but steps inside anyway. She nudges the door closed, just a little, but it still manages to piss him off instantly. 

He’s going to have to open it again. Find that exact, miserable balance, wide enough to count as open, closed enough to let him relax. Any wrong angle and Neil will notice. Neil always notices.

“Don’t do that,” Billy says quietly. Max pauses, hand still on the door, and proceeds to scowl with irritation. “Relax,” she mutters. “You’re so weird.”

He doesn’t answer, already up on his feet, adjusting the door and listening for movement down the hall. Only when it’s in position does he turn back to her, shoulders still tight. 

Max answers by flapping a piece of paper in his face. He snatches it with a scowl, scanning the page. Simple algebra problems. Nothing scary. He snorts despite himself, catching the way she’s rocking slightly on her heels. “These are easy, dumbass.”

She huffs and crosses her arms. “No, they are not. Or else I wouldn’t ask you.”

Billy rolls his eyes, but some of the tension drains out of his shoulders. At least she isn’t here to start a fight. “Okay… well.” He grabs his pencil and starts jotting down answers, skipping the working out.

She pitches forward, shakes her hands in front to him stop. “Don’t do them for me!” she snaps. “Can’t you at least tell me the steps?”

He pauses, squints at her. “Do you seriously not know how to do this?”

She scuffs her bare foot against the floor. “No…”

Billy pinches the bridge of his nose and looks down at the paper. “Oh my god, you have tests in two weeks.”

She tilts her head up then, fixing him with those wide, pleading big blues, a weapon only used in dire situations. “I just need you to show me the steps. That’s it.”

He clicks his tongue. “That’s not how it works, idiot. You need to understand the method before you even touch the questions.” She pouts and turns away, shoulders slumping. Spoiled little brat. Jesus Christ. He exhales through his nose.

He’s really going to have to teach her, isn’t he?

Billy throws his hands up. “You know what? Fine.” He reaches for his keys without quite looking at her. Good chance to leave for a few hours. “I’ll explain it or whatever. We can go to the library.”

Max’s head snaps back around. “Really?” She hops in place once, barely containing herself.

“You’re gonna beg me to go to the arcade after, aren’t you?”

She’s already sprinting down the hall. “Yep!” calls back, muffled. A loud thump can be heard as she digs for a jacket.

{~~~}

Billy regrets his decision. Massively.

God, he’s an idiot. Of course it’s packed. Every possible table is occupied, chair stolen or claimed by notebooks and backpacks and rubber shavings. The seniors are cramming for their upcoming mocks while clusters of middle schoolers swarm the front tables, tragically earnest in their hopes of study and far too loud for a place with library posted on every wall in bold letters.

He weaves through the hoards with growing irritation, muttering under his breath. Billy shoulders past whispering groups and pointedly ignores the wide-eyed stares, pushing deeper into the building where the shelves grow taller and darker, with overhead lights that flicker faintly. The air back here smells like dusty old paper, cosy and stale all at once.

Max toddles along behind him, backpack bouncing against her spine, craning her neck at everything like she’s wandered into the cathedral. She keeps drifting too close to other tables, earning sharp looks from stressed-out teenagers.

“Look forward,” Billy mutters, steering with a light hand on her shoulder.

Finally, he spots an empty table wedged between two towering shelves, just far enough from the main hubbub of forced quiet chatter to feel secluded. He claims it immediately, dropping his bag with a decisive thud. Far enough not to hear whispered drama or the frantic scratching of pencils.

He shoots a glower at the nearest occupied table. One kid, with some dumbass hat,  has sprawled across an entire bench by himself, legs stretched out like in ownership. Greedy brat. 

Kid doesn’t even look up.

Billy exhales sharply through his nose and turns back to the task at hand. He rifles through his bag, pulling out his own neatly organised work, then drops Max’s absolutely monstrous exercise book onto the table. It lands with a dull, threatening thump.

“Okay,” he says, snapping his fingers once to get her attention.

Max tears her gaze away from the surrounding clusters of whispering kids and looks back.

“Sit,” Billy instructs, pointing to the chair. “Before someone mistakes you for a feral.” She scowls but obeys, dragging the chair back with a scrape that earns them at least three dirty looks. 

“Rule number one,” he mutters, leaning in, “we don’t get kicked out. Rule number two—” he flips her book open with authority, “You actually learn something.”

Max groans and slumps forward. “This was a bad idea.”

Billy snorts quietly. “You’re the one who asked for help.” 

He pulls her notebook closer and starts fresh.

{~~~}

Billy makes a small list at the top of the page, numbering each step and adding arrows pointing neatly to the next. Easy to follow. 

It takes him a minute to figure out which method her teacher actually wants. He squints at the pages, decoding chicken-scratch notes wedged between doodles of skateboards and baby animals. He sighs, adjusts, and rewrites the steps the way they expect it to be done.

“Okay,” Billy murmurs. “Watch this part.”

He works through the first question slowly, deliberately. Max leans in close, close enough that he can feel the warmth of her shoulder against his arm. Her eyes track the movement of his pencil as he carries numbers over, simplifies fractions, and underlines what matters. He writes down things he’d normally do in his head, every bit of mental math spelt out in plain graphite.

“No skipping,” he says quietly. “That’s where it gets confusing.” 

He glances at her as he finishes the problem. Her shoulders have loosened. She nods once, tentative, then again, more certain.

“Okay,” she says. “I… think I got it.”

Billy slides the paper toward her along with the little cheat sheet he’s made. “Do the rest then. Same steps.” Max hesitates, but starts. She doesn’t stall this time. Or sigh. Just works through the problems, pausing only to double-check herself. When she finishes the last one, she looks up, bracing for impact.

Billy scans the page. Every answer checks out. He nods, satisfied. “Yeah.”

Max grins before she can stop herself and immediately ducks her head, rifling back through her messy book to retry the questions she’d skipped earlier. Billy doesn’t comment,  just turns back to his own work, the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth lingering. Spoilt

Time passes as they bunker down. He’s pretty satisfied with his own work by now. Problems double-checked, margin flagged with what he’ll revisit later. Max finished her worksheet ten minutes ago and wandered off to grab a book while he wraps up.

She’s curled sideways the wooden chair, knees tucked up, absorbed in a kids’ fantasy paperback propped against the table. Quiet for once in her life.

A sharp gasp echoes down the aisle.

Both of them look up just in time to see Heather bounding toward them between the shelves, ponytail swinging like she’s just spotted prey. Billy rolls his eyes on instinct. Across the table, Max lowers her book slowly, squinting at him. This is your fault.

Heather skids to a stop and drops into the empty chair beside Billy, her bag hitting the table and promptly bursts with the motion, gel pens clattering. She snaps her gum and beams, bright white teeth on full display.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” she says. “Didn’t expect to see you here, blondie.” She tips her chin toward Max. “Is this your sister?”

Billy mumbles setting his pen down, rolling his neck until something pops. “This is my step sister,” he corrects flatly. “Maxine.”

Heather gives Max an exaggerated salute. “Nice to meet you, Maxine.” Max side-eyes Billy over the top of her book, unimpressed.

Heather tilts her head. “Well? You gonna introduce me, or are we doing mysterious silence?”

“Max,” Billy grumbles, monotonous, “this is Heather.” Max gives a polite, tight nod, then immediately drops back to the page like Heather has ceased to exist.

Heather laughs, delighted. “She hates me.”

“She hates everyone,” Billy says without looking up.

Max makes a noise of protest, then stands abruptly, clutching her book to her chest. “I’m gonna—uh—read somewhere else.” She shoots Heather one last suspicious look and stalks off toward the far end of the shelves, shoulders stiff. Billy watches her go for half a second, then turns back just in time to find Heather grinning at him.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” she says sweetly. “You’re very…odd.”

He snorts. “You didn’t come over here to comment on my personality.”

“True,” Heather says, reaching into her bag and pulling out her notebook. “Mocks are killing me. And you’re, like… smart. I guess.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Okay?”

She flaps her hand and leans closer. “Do you know the year-above material?”

“Yes,” he says automatically. Amends, “ …Unfortunately.” Her grin widens. She digs into her purse, a real leather, stupidly fancy-looking, and pulls out a crumpled five-dollar bill. She presses it into the front pocket of his jacket with a surreptitious pat.

“I’m following up on that offer, help me revise,” she says, and winks. “I’ll make it worth your while.” Billy looks down at the money. Then up at her. Then back to the money.

“…you sure?”

Heather pouts. Why is he so weak to big eyes? “Please?” He shakes his head, but tucks the bill deeper into his pocket anyway. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re saying yes.”

“Yeah,” he admits, already reaching for her notebook. “I am.” 

{~~~}

Helping Heather is… different from helping Max.

For one, he’s getting paid. That helps. A lot.

For another, her materials are insane. She’s got the latest editions of every textbook, fresh glossy pages and barely broken spine, none of the sad, duct-taped patchworks Billy’s got. He keeps catching himself lingering over them, mentally marking chapters he’s absolutely going to come back and rifle through later. Her stationery is equally offensive: fresh highlighters that actually work, gel pens with vibrant ink that don’t skip, and clear tabs that stick down. 

Annotating with her stuff feels unfairly satisfying. He’s a little jealous. Deeply so.

They sit hunched over the table together, as Billy aids through the topics she’s stuck on. Heather’s organised, much more than Max could ever dream of being. Most of the time, she just needs a nudge over a mental roadblock, some quick explanation to get her unstuck. Once she has it, she’s off, scribbling confidently while he watches to make sure she doesn’t derail herself again.

“See?” he says, tapping the page. She got the habit of getting too excited and writing down the wrong digits. “You just…panicked.”

She sticks her tongue out at him. “I do not panic.”

“Yes, you do.” Still, she grins, and when she finishes the last problem on her exercise sheet, she ticks the box with a little flourish and looks genuinely pleased. “Well,” she says. “That wasn’t too bad.”

He nods, satisfied and moves to continue packing up. “Told you.” 

Right on cue, his stomach betrays him with a low, unmistakable growl. It echoes in the big room, making some kids snort in his peripherals. Heather’s eyes flick up. She snickers. “Someone’s hungry?”

He flushes and wrinkles his nose as he starts packing up his things faster. “Ignore that.” She watches him shove his notebook into his bag, amused. He turns, already scanning the shelves for Max, how hard is it to stay in one place–.

And Heather leans over to grab his arm. “Wait,” She smiles when he looks back. “You’re not even gonna give me a chance to take you out?”

He blinks. “What?”

Heather swings her bag over her shoulder, “Lunch is on me. Payment for being such a helpful tutor.” She grins. “What you feeling, Barbie?”

He lets out a short laugh. “You sure?”

“Yep.” She nods toward the shelves. “Bring the little twerp too. Why not.” Billy snorts and gestures for Max. She looks up reluctantly from her book when they approach, brows knitting together.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“We’re gonna grab a bite,” Heather says brightly. Max shoots Billy a look that very clearly says explain.

He shrugs. “You want free food or not?”

Max hesitates for half a second—then closes her book.

“Fine.”

{~~~}

Billy trails the Ford Mustang down the road, scowling as it deliberately crawls over every give-way sign, slowing him just enough to be obnoxious. Heather taps the brakes like she’s enjoying herself, dragging it out. If he were in front, he’d already be halfway there, dust in her wake and good riddance.

Max twists around in the passenger seat, completely ignoring his muttering, eyes bright with opportunity. “Can I get whatever I want?”

Heather eases off the accelerator again, and Billy answers without missing a beat, “Order the whole store for all I care.”

Max grins, victorious. “I’m getting a milkshake and an ice cream.”

The Mustang sweeps into the parking lot with unnecessary flair and settles crookedly across a bay. He pulls in beside it, reversing just close enough that Heather has to angle herself carefully when she climbs out. She sticks her tongue out as she passes the Camaro, smug as ever, and pushes through the diner’s swinging doors.

The place looks exactly like it sounds, Little Hippo. One of those dessert-heavy diners on the nicer side of town, with a teal awning and bubbly lettering painted wide across the windows. Inside, the air hits in an overwhelming cloud of cotton, sugar thick and cloying, grease underneath it, the kind of smell that coats the back of your throat. Billy squints, swallowing down the faint wave of nausea that comes with too many icing cakes and not enough ventilation.

Everything is so bloody bright. Vinyl booths in vibrant blue, tabletops crowded with little glass jars of sprinkles and sugar packets. A jukebox blaring in the corner, bleeding some cheerful tune into the room, something Max would love. 

Max slides into the booth first, claiming the corner seat and immediately dragging the little condiment caddy closer to her side. Billy squeezes in beside her, knees knocking the table as he settles, while Heather drops into the opposite seat without a shred of hesitation, already plucking menus from the rack and fanning them out.

“This place is the best,” she announces, flashing him a wink. “Perfect date spot, ya know.”

Billy makes a noncommittal noise and lowers his eyes to the menu, skimming. Eight dollars for a drink, what?!

Max flips hers open, face lighting up instantly. “They have brownies. And waffle sundaes.” Heather leans across the table, peering over Max’s shoulder. “Get both.”

“Do not,” Billy groans, not even looking up. He can feel her grin, utterly unrepentant.

Max’s smile falters as she looks between them, shoulders squaring. “You said I could!”

Billy points across the table at Heather. “First of all, I didn’t realize we were walking into a sugar-rush death trap. Second, she’s not the one who’s gonna be dealing with you bouncing off the walls on the drive home.”

Max bares her teeth in a grin, clearly taking that as a challenge. Before Heather can respond, a shadow falls across the table.

“Hey there!” a voice chirps. “What can I get you guys?”

Billy looks up—and halts. The waitress is looking down at her notepad, pen poised. Then she glances up.

Their eyes meet.

Her name tag catches, ROBIN.

Oh.
That girl.

Robin’s eyes widen just a fraction. Her gaze flicks to Heather. Then to Max. Then back to him. A flush creeps up from the collar of her uniform, spreading over her neck and into her cheeks, bright against her pale skin.

“Uh—” she says, the practised cheer wobbling. “A-are you… ready to order?”

Max doesn’t even breathe before jumping in. “Strawberry milkshake. Extra whipped cream. And—” she shoots Billy a look, daring him to object, “—a vanilla ice cream. With sprinkles.”

Heather tilts her head slightly, narrowing, not suspicious, exactly. She takes in Robin’s stiff shoulders, the way her grip tightens on the pen, how she still won’t quite settle her look anywhere comfortable. A slow, knowing smile curls at the corner of Heather’s mouth.

“Fries and a grilled cheese,” she says breezily. “And a Coke.”

Robin nods too fast, scribbling like her life depends on it. The pen squeaks against the paper. She doesn’t comment, just keeps writing, knuckles pale around the barrel.

She turns to Billy last.

“…And for you?”

There’s a pause. He figures she’s embarrassed. The uniform’s awful, pinstripes, ruffles, the whole thing. He’d rather run barefoot through gravel than wear that.

“Uh,” he says, clearing his throat. “Coffee. Black.”

Heather snorts immediately. “Wow. Thrilling.”

Billy doesn’t rise to it. He just shrugs, eyes flicking, traitorously, back to the menu still open near his elbow. The dessert page. The pictures. He closes it with a quiet tap and adds, casual as anything,

“And—uh. Maybe… a brownie. For the table.”

Robin lets out a breath that might’ve been a laugh, if it hadn’t caught awkwardly on the way out. She nods once, a little too hard, flips the page on her pad, and starts scribbling like the paper personally offended her.

“Great—okay—cool,” she mutters, mostly to herself.

Then she turns, she doesn’t look at any of them again. Just pivots and goes, slipping behind the counter and swinging through the kitchen doors so fast Billy actually has to bite back a snicker. The doors thwap shut behind her, the little window rattling in her wake.

Heather doesn’t move.

Billy feels it before he really registers it, that weight of a stare. He looks back at her.

“…What.”

She leans back in the booth, folding her arms with slow satisfaction, eyes glittering like she’s just spotted something deeply entertaining. “She’s into you.”

He blinks. “What? No.”

Heather clicks her tongue, unimpressed. “Blondie. She was literally tripping over herself the second you looked at her.”

He frowns and risks a glance toward the counter.

Sure enough, Robin is half-crouched behind the drink station, very obviously pretending to sort straws. She pulls one out, frowns at it, puts it back, then rearranges the same handful again like they might rearrange themselves differently this time.

Billy turns back fast, ears warm. “I don’t—” he sputters, waving a hand uselessly. “No. Ew. No.”

Heather’s grin only stretches wider. “Ohhh,” she drawls. “Not your type?”

His ears go so red. “I didn’t say that— I just— that’s —” He gestures helplessly, words abandoning ship. “Shut up.” Max makes an exaggerated gagging noise, pinching her nose like the air’s gone toxic.

“Uh-huh,” then Heather whips onto Max with zero warning. Lightly, like she’s asking about the weather, “Okay Gingey, what is your brother’s type?”

Max’s eyes go comically wide. She chokes on absolutely nothing. “I—uh—er—”

“Nope,” Billy cuts in immediately, snapping the menu down onto her head. Not hard. Just enough. “Do not answer that.”

Max yelps, clutching her head. “Ow! I didn’t even say anything!”

“That’s because you were about to say something stupid.”

Heather is delighted. “Wow. Defensive.”

“I don’t have a type,” Billy snaps, too fast.

“Sure you don’t,” Heather says sweetly. He squints at her, then shoves the menu back across the table. “Oh yeah? Fine. What’s your type, Heather?”

She hums, drifting past them to the diner window like she’s pondering the clouds. Sunlight glints through her hair, making a faint reflection in the glass.

“Pretty,” she says at last.

Billy snorts. “That narrows it down.” She looks back at him slowly, lips curling with lazy amusement. 

“Real pretty.”

He rolls his eyes. “Shocking.” Heather just smiles.

Max looks between them, brow furrowed, deeply confused and a little disturbed. “You people are weird.”

{~~~}

Max hits that particular strain of thirteen-year-old boredom where sitting still for more than five seconds becomes a personal injustice. She starts small, kicking the table leg, the dull taps knocking under the booth while Billy and Heather talk about classes, then escalates to exaggerated sighs, poking at the sugar jar like it might do something interesting if she antagonizes it enough.

He ignores her.

Then she escalates again.

He’s halfway through a remission on the best memorizing techniques when a rainbow sprinkle pings off his cheek. Another skitters across the tabletop. Max flicks them one by one with quiet, methodical focus, like she’s conducting an important experiment in projectile motion.

“Max,” he warns.

She grins and flicks another.

Billy opens his mouth to threaten confiscation, sprinkles or her free will on the line, when the diner shifts. A server laughs somewhere near the counter. Plates clatter. The jukebox clicks and hums, switching tracks in the corner.

The bell over the front door tinkles.

It’s nothing. Just background noise. 

Heather stills.

No dramatic freeze, but enough that Billy frowns. Her chatter cuts off mid-sentence, shoulders pull up, spine going straight like a wire’s been yanked through her. Her eyes locks somewhere over his shoulder, unfocused and sharp at the same time.

“What—” Billy starts.

Heather lunges, snatching the nearest thing she can reach. The obnoxiously large laminate snaps upright in front of her face like a shield.

“Don’t look back,” she hisses.

Billy frowns. “Why would I—” Her foot connects with his shin under the table. Hard. “Ow—what the hell?”

“Chrissy just walked in.”

He blinks. Okay. Weird reaction, but—

“She’s holding hands with Jason.”

His brows go up before he can stop them.  “What?”

Before his brain can catch up, Heather kicks him again. “I said don’t look.” Billy snatches up his own menu and flings it in front of his face.

Beside him, Max pauses mid–sprinkle flick. “…What are you doing?” she whispers.

“Hide,” Heather mutters, voice low and urgent.

“From who?”

“Just do it,” Billy hisses.

The bell jingles again as Chrissy and Jason pass their table, hand in hand. Max, now fully committed despite having no idea what’s going on, slowly raises her menu too, peeking just over the top like a suspicious meerkat.

“This is stupid,” she whispers. “They can see our legs.”

Heather slides down in the booth, menu fully covering her. “If we don’t acknowledge their existence, they won’t acknowledge ours.”

“That’s not how people work,” Max says, eyebrows knitting.

“Shh,” Billy  growls, jerking his head toward the door. “They’re gonna look this way.”

Max huffs and sinks lower, muttering, “Why are we hiding?”

“Later,” both Heather and Billy whisper at once. They sit there, three menus raised, perfectly still, the world’s most sincere attempt at camouflage, until the scraping of chairs and distant chatter finally drifts elsewhere in the diner.

Heather finally peeks over her menu. “…Okay. Crisis mostly averted.”

Max squints at them, confused. Billy lowers his menu, exhales, and reaches to clean the last stray sprinkle—only for Max to flick it directly at his forehead.

A waiter swings by their table depositing food and definitely not Robin—which makes Heather lift her eyebrows in a ridiculously exaggerated waggle.

Billy scowls at her.

She grins anyway, unfazed. He retaliates by stealthily snatching a fry off her plate. Heather barely reacts, nudging the basket closer to the middle.

He leans back, letting his gaze drift as inconspicuously as possible around the diner: shelves stacked with sugary treats, pastel posters, the jukebox still going quietly. Across the room, Chrissy and Jason are crammed into a booth, knees brushing, his arm slung way too comfortably along the backrest. Jason’s laughing loudly, head tipped back; Chrissy’s smile is smaller, more reserved, but she leans in just the same.

“Oh, I am so having a word with her later,” Heather mutters, already annoyed. “Because Jason? Really? She can do so much better.”

Billy rests a forearm on the table, shrugging. “They look…fine. Chrissy told me she likes Jason. What’s the big deal?”

Heather’s jaw tightens. She stares at her food. “Chrissy says a lot of things,” she grumbles. “Doesn’t always mean them.”

Billy flicks a glance back at the couple, then at Heather. “That’s… harsh.”

Heather exhales through her nose, softer now. “It’s just—” She pauses, chewing. “She hates making things awkward.” She nudges her straw in slow circles, eyes never leaving the pair. “And Jason likes being wanted. Doesn’t really matter who.”

Max, perched on her booth seat and with frosting smeared across her fingers and cheeks, watches the scene with disgust. “That’s dumb,” she blurts out. “Why doesn’t she just say no?”

He goes quiet, brow furrowing. Chrissy giggles at something Jason says, too quick, too bright, and Billy leans back in the booth, tilting his head. He leans forward stealthily, snagging another morsel off of Heather’s plate, and she hisses, momentarily distracted.

It’s just… awkward.

They eat in near silence, eavesdropping on the booth across, interrupted only by Max’s graceless clink of cutlery. Chrissy’s bright, clipped sounds drifts along, tangled with Jason’s booming guffaws. He’s loud, obnoxiously so, like the whole diner has been invited to his private comedy hour. Billy doesn’t even need to glance to know exactly where they are.

But he does anyway.

Jason has an arm slung lazily behind Chrissy, hand drifting a little too close to her sleeve, fingers tapping idly as he launches into a rambling recap of a movie he “totally digs,” pausing only to laugh at his own jokes. Chrissy hums along, offering occasional soft agreement, barely moving from her seat.

Heather rolls her eyes so hard Billy worries about vertigo. She snatches the fudge from his fingers and shoves it in her mouth, muting any further theft attempts. Max, oblivious, gulps down what remains of her milkshake and ice cream at an alarming pace. She leans back dramatically, clutching her stomach with an exaggerated groan.

Billy sets his drink down, exhaling with a mix of amusement and exasperation. He shoots her a pointed look.

“Ughhh,” Max whines, slumping sideways in the booth, fingers pressed against her stomach. “I think I’m dying.”

Billy snorts. “No, you’re not.”

“I’m serious!” she insists, eyes wide and dramatic. “It hurts!”

“That,” he says, leaning back, “is called consequences.” But he reaches across anyway, thumb brushing a smear of whipped cream off the corner of her mouth. “Slow down next time, shitbird.”

Max swats at his hand, but lazily, without any real force. She grumbles, cheeks puffed, but doesn’t pull away. “You’re mean.”

Heather leans back in the booth, balancing on two legs, food carton tipped precariously in her hand. “So,” she says casually, looking past Billy’s shoulder, “you and…” Her head tilts left, vague. “…thingy left way too early.”

Billy hums into his drink. “That party was already circling the drain.”

“Oh, please,” Heather scoffs. “You missed the best part.” Max’s head perks up immediately. She straightens, abandoning the sad dregs of her drink. “Like what?”

“None of your business, twerp.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “You literally left me. Everything you do is my business.”

Heather’s grin sharpens, wicked and knowing. “Your brother,” she tells Max, leaning in like she’s about to share state secrets, “is officially the new king of Hawkins High.”

Max looks Billy up and down slowly, her face twisting in disbelief. “…You?”

Billy takes a long, resigned sip and says nothing. Here we go.

“He did a keg stand,” Heather continues gleefully, “in front of everyone. Like, full-on showboat mode. The most macho, performative bullshit you can imagine—cheering, chanting, people losing their minds.” Max’s mouth curls into a dangerous little smirk.

“Fuck off,” He mutters, staring into the cup like it might save him.

Max’s laugh bubbles up from her stomach, tipping the glass dangerously as she leans forward. “No way. You did all that. Just… to be cool? That’s—you’re such a loser, Billy!”

Heather slaps the table, leaning back and snickering. “I swear, it was legendary. Pure art.” Billy grumbles at their ribbing, but despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitches.

Heather lets out a dramatic exhale, finally letting the subject drop. For the moment, at least. She pivots into bitching, which seems to be her natural resting state. “Also,” she says, already waving her drink like a prop, “the drive home was an absolute nightmare.”

He just raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, she ignores it. 

“Oh my god,” Heather continues, hunching forward, reliving every ridiculous detail. “Carol was unbearable. Totally her fault, by the way. She decided to be a party pooper and glue herself to her man for the entire party.”

Billy bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from chuckling when she adds, voice dropping conspiratorially, “Tommy was in the backseat the whole time. Completely out cold and snoring like a chainsaw. I swear, anyone looking in from the street would’ve thought we’d kidnapped a corpse.”

Max wrinkles her nose. 

“Carol did not appreciate my observations.” Heather curls her fingers into a ridiculous claw, shoulders hunching as she acts it out. “She’s all, ‘nooo, don’t talk about him like that’, clinging to his jacket like a house cat. I literally had to pry her fingers off him and shove her into the car myself.”

Heather’s smile turns a little evil. “We start arguing. She’s screaming at how much of a loveless hoe I am, all up in my face while driving.” Billy lets out a short, sharp sound before he can stop himself.

“I’m serious,” Heather says, chewing while stabbing the air for emphasis. “I had to grab the wheel and yank it back because she was too busy yelling to notice we were about to T-bone a tree.”

“Wait, now that you mention it,” She gives a long glance at him, “How were you not blacked out drunk? You had a lot to drink.”

He grins into his legal drink, “I can hold my weight.” Not true, he had to throw his guts out discreetly in a bush after. But who’s business is that?

Max stares at Heather. Something flickers across her face—maybe her respect dying in real time. Or maybe… not. It’s hard to tell with Max. She’d always had a weird admiration for chaos, especially when it came with confidence.

Either way, she doesn’t look away.

Billy shakes his head, “But at least someone said it. Those two are like conjoined twins. I swear I never see em’ apart.”

“Since middle school,” She confirms, shuddering. “They’re absolutely getting voted First to Get Married in the yearbook. Makes me ill.” Max pulls a face, twisting her mouth like she’s tasted something sour, clearly bursting with commentary, but keeps her trap shut.

Heather points at her anyway. “See? Even the child agrees.”

She doesn’t stop there. She keeps chattering, food forgotten, hands flying as she talks.

“Oh, okay—you missed when Munson lost it on Harrington,” she hums, still exasperated. “Apparently Tommy got his hands on… I dunno, some free sample or something, and he was waving it around like a trophy.” She gestures vaguely, “Everything after that gets kind of blurry. I was buzzing pretty hard. But I do remember Harrington storming up to Munson, all dramatic, whining about favoritism or some total nonsense.”

Billy sucks in a quiet breath, letting his gaze drift deliberately to the condensation sliding down his cup.

Whoops.

“And Munson just—” Heather straightens, her voice dropping flat, deliberate. “‘You testing me, Harrington?’ Like that.”

“Oh, and,” she snaps her fingers at him, pouting. “Dude, You really should’ve stayed a little longer. I don’t even remember what was happening, but.” she leans in, “—Jason starts shouting his lungs out. You would not believe what he was saying.”

Billy doesn’t look up, stare glued to his drink. Max squints at him, then flicks a quick look at Heather. “Well?” she demands, leaning forward a little. “What was he saying?”

He shoots her a dirty look. 

Heather lets out a slow, teasing grin, lingering just long enough for dramatic effect. “…He’s convinced Eddie Munson is a satanist.”

He immediately chokes on his drink, sputtering and coughing into his hand. Heather slaps the table, laughing. “Careful, Barbie!”

Max shakes her head, legs swinging beneath the table, sneakers thumping. She’s quiet for a beat. Billy knows that look, of cogs turning slowly in her head, filing stuff for later. She’s soaking it up, like this is some secret adult ritual she’s been allowed to witness.

“I don’t believe in that kinda crap,” she finally mutters, chin tilted up just enough to look defiant. Probably thinks that makes her sound cool. Level-headed. Mature.

Billy opens his mouth, already gearing up to scold her for the language, but Heather cuts in first. “No?” She says lightly. “Well. I think something’s going on.”

He raises a brow, incredulous. “With Munson?” She shakes her head. 

“No, he’s just a doozy.” Her smile turns sly, eyes twinkling. “I think it’s aliens.”

Billy stares at her. Deadpan.

Max mirrors him instantly. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Heather shrugs, completely unbothered. “Trust me, Red. You feel the forest at night, you’ll change your mind.”

He catches the flicker of something crossing Max’s face, a little spark of wonder. “Don’t even think about that,” he says sharply. Max grumbles but starts swinging her legs a little faster, betraying her excitement.

Heather sighs dramatically, stretching her arms over her head before letting out a loud, exaggerated yawn. She leans forward, elbows on the table. “You’re so boring. Let her live,” she says, looking between. “Tell you what, little girl—if your brother’s ever being a total wet blanket,” she adds, shooting him a pointed look, “you can come to me. I’ll even take you to the new mall when it opens.”

Max’s eyes light up, a smile tugging across her face. Billy catches it, bites back whatever lecture is queued up, and settles for a look instead.

“As long as you pay with your own money,” he says.

Her excitement visibly deflates. Billy huffs. “What? What are you even planning to buy, a pony?”

Heather whips back. “Wow. Can’t provide for her?”

He glances down at the five-dollar bill tucked in his pocket, then back at her, letting a small, wry smile slip. “Not exactly rolling in cash, no. And I’ve got other…important commitments.” His tone is half-serious. 

“I don’t really have the time anyway,” he adds, shrugging as if it’s nothing. He glances at Max, Billy knows she won’t tattle, but she has a talent for letting the wrong things slip at the worst possible moments. “Ms. Kelley says I’ve got to be productive. Make it look like I’m not a total freshman burnout.”

Heather perks up. “Wait—really?” She leans forward, bouncing slightly in her seat. “I need a to be busy too. We should apply to jobs together.”

“Absolutely not.”

She throws her head back, the sound carrying across the booth. “What? Because I’m too distracting?”

“No,” he fires back, the dry weight of his voice cutting through her laughter. “It’s because you’re a bitch.”

Heather beams, unapologetic, then shoots Max a sly look, like they’re sharing some little victory. “He loves me.” She’s on the last few pulls of her soda, straw wobbling in the last gulp, when she suddenly wheezes loud, impossible to ignore. 

“Oh my god—look,” She hisses, smacking his arm lightly.

All three of them swivel in perfect unison, attention snapping toward the diner door.

Chrissy pecks Jason on the cheek, quick and soft, almost imperceptible, and slips outside through the glass doors. Jason freezes mid-motion, hand hovering as if caught in mid-gesture, face flushing bright red. He grins, big and smug, clearly riding the high of the moment.

His head tilts slowly, the faintest hesitation, like he might glance back.

All three of them snap forward in perfect unison, suddenly very interested in literally anything else.

{~~~}

They linger talking over the remains the meal, him and Heather chatting relaxed more, now that the couple have left, Max decidedly not. She fidgets, shifts from side to side, and finally, with a barely-contained grin, drops to her hands and knees, crawling under the table like a dog. He kicks her when she grabs his knee for leverage because what the hell is she doing? Their in public. She pops up on the other side, hair mussed, full of mischief.

“Arcade,” she declares, stretching her arms and pulling him. “Come on.” Billy sighs, the long-suffering kind. They wait, scanning the diner, letting a few more minutes pass to be sure anyone they might know is gone, before finally sliding toward the counter.

Robin’s still there.

She looks like she’s been glued behind the register against her will, posture stiff, wanting be to anywhere else, which is funny because aint this her literal job?  Her cheeks are already pink, fingers hovering over the buttons like they might bite her. The second she spots them approaching, she straightens a fraction too fast.

Heather barely glances up, already half-tuned out, rifling through her purse and humming under her breath. 

Without looking, she shoves a smeared, sticky lip gloss tube and a crumpled painkiller sheet into his hands. Billy recoils instantly, fingers brushing the wet, tacky gloss. His face wrinkles in disgust, and promptly drops it to clatter on the counter.

Heather glances over, and shrugs, digging deeper into the chaotic abyss of her purse like it’s a treasure chest, completely unbothered.

Robin fidgets at the register, tapping her fingers on the buttons as if they’re stubborn puzzle pieces. She squints at the screen. “So—that’ll be…um…hold on—sorry, this thing’s…weird sometimes.” She glances up again, cheeks faintly pink, voice quieter now. “Do you…uh…want a receipt? You don’t have to. Some people like to keep them, I guess.”

Neither of them answer. Heather fishes a few bills from her purse and sets them on the counter. Robin freezes mid-sentence, eyes darting first to the money, back to Heather’s face, then sliding slowly and uncertainly over to Billy. Her brows pull together in a mix of confusion and disbelief.

“Oh,” she says, blinking. I—uh.” She pauses, voice dropping to a tentative whisper, “Isn’t… isn’t the guy supposed to pay?”

Heather’s mouth curls, a slow, sly grin spreading across her face. She leans a hip into the counter, tilts her head just enough to give Billy a long, teasing side glance. “Not this one,” she says, smug and deliberately provocative.

He lets out a soft huff, shaking his head. He crosses his arms, and allows the her stupid victory. He knows better than to waste energy here—besides, she invited him. 

Robin nods a little too fast, cheeks darkening further. “Right. Yeah. Of course. That makes sense.” She scoops up the cash, punches it into the register with renewed urgency, and suddenly finds the drawer very interesting.

Billy catches Heather’s triumphant grin from the corner of his vision and groans under his breath. Max, scowls at their stupidness, looking equal parts confused and mildly disgusted.

She trudges along behind them, dragging her feet as if the short walk to the door is an epic trial. The lazy sunlight slants across the parking lot, glinting off the metal of the Mustang and the Camaro. Heather  prances across the asphalt , keys jingling with each step. “Cya Monday, Barbie!” she calls over her shoulder, tosses him a grin and peels away. 

Billy leans against his car, one hand hooked around the open door, shaking his head with a quiet snort. “Bye, Heather,” he mutters, eyes following her until she disappears around the corner. Leaving him alone with Max, who’s already climbing into the passenger seat.

He slides in, shuts the door, and starts the engine, the familiar rattle and vibration settling in a small, grounding comfort. He eases the car forward, then catches Max staring far too intently at her knees.

“What.”

She shrugs, cheeks warming. “Nothing.”

The car rolls forward half a foot.

“Wait—” she blurts.

He slams the brake. 

“I gotta pee.”  She winces, fingers tugging at the cuffs of her hoodie. “I can’t hold it.”

“Oh my god. You seriously couldn’t have said something before we got in the car?” She shakes her head, red waves shirking around her ears. “Nope.”

He exhales through his nose, tilting his head back against the seat. “Ugh. Fine. Come on.”

They climb out of the car, Max already scampering ahead as he locks the Camaro and trails behind, muttering under his breath. The diner’s bathroom sits off to the side, two plain doors set into the wall beneath a flickering light.

“Don’t touch anything,” he says automatically. She sticks her tongue out and slips inside the women’s room.

He leans against the brick wall, arms crossed, one shoulder pressed to the rough surface. He watches the glass doors, listening to the low hum of the diner behind him. Old habits die hard—he’s always alert.

The door swings open. He straightens, frowning. “That was fast—”

And then he almost collides with her.

“Oh—” Billy jumps back half a step. Chrissy stands there, blinking up at him, hands tucked into the sleeves of her jacket. Her surprise melts into a soft giggle, just like always. “Oh! Hi,” she says. “Um—hey.”

He clears his throat. “Hey. Er—hi.” She tilts her head, studying him curiously. 

“What are you doing here?”

He jerks his chin toward the bathroom door. “Uh. Waiting.”

Her eyes follow his gesture. “…For the women’s room?”

He huffs. “For Max.”

Silence.

“...Heather paid for us to eat, so… yeah.” 

Chrissy giggles, covering her mouth with her sleeve. “You two seem to be getting along.” He sighs, leaning back against the wall. “That’s generous of you to say.”

She smiles again, but it wobbles at the edges. She shifts her weight, looks past him toward the parking lot like she’s debating whether to leave or say something else. A door swings closed with a quiet thud.

Before she can disappear completely, he blurts, “I, uh… saw you with Jason.”

She stills. “Yeah?”

He continues, a little awkward, scratching the back of his neck. “You guys… official?” Chrissy looks back to the rows of cars, to Jason somewhere out there. She bites her bottom lip, thinking.

“Um,” she says. “Not really.” Then she leans in, voice dropping to a whisper. “I was more scared he was gonna… y’know, say something about what I wore yesterday. So I agreed to go out with him today.”

He shifts, fidgeting slightly, uncomfortable in a way he can’t quite name. “Did it… work?”

She nods, but her smile is hesitant. “I think so. I mean—only tomorrow will tell.”

He nods slowly. “Oh… well. My family goes around the same time, actually.” He pauses, then adds, a little more casual, but steady, “If he annoys you, let me know. I’ll be around. Different services, but… we’re basically next to each other, right?”

Her face lights up, relief clear in her expression. “Oh—really?” She smiles, this time more unguarded. “Okay. Then I might see you.”

Before he can reply, the door creaks open behind him. He glances back on instinct, already bracing himself for Max to burst out demanding quarters for the arcade or declaring some new emergency. “I should go say bye to Jason,” she says, already stepping away. “But, see you around?”

He lifts a hand in a small, easy wave.  “Bye, Chris.” She gives him one last smile and heads off toward the cars, ponytail bouncing as she goes. Right on cue, Max steps out of the bathroom and squints after the retreating redhead. 

“Is that the same girl?”

He doesn’t even look at her. “Shut up,” Already steering her toward the car, “and get in.”

{~~~}

It’s edging into late afternoon, Billy can feel the clock ticking in his chest. Neil only let them come out on the condition that they were home before sundown, and that all the chores were done. Every single one. No shortcuts. It should work out, he tells himself. It probably will. 

And even if it doesn’t… well. That’s fine too.

At least he got a few hours to breathe. To revise somewhere that wasn’t there. Once they’re back, he’ll just keep his head down. Be quiet. Clean until there’s nothing left to clean. Sundays are for rest, which just means Billy’s running on a sped-up timer. 

He hands Max more spare change than usual, pretending it’s a reward or something. She grins too wide, suspicious but thrilled, and darts off toward the arcade doors before he can change his mind.

Billy sinks back into the car, stretching across the seat. He used to join the little twerp in her stupid games, holding down the lever, mashing the same button over and over to help her cheat a new high score. But now she insists she wants to do it ‘the old-fashioned way.’ eurgh.

The arcade’s a nightmare anyway. Hot, sticky, reeking of soda and pre-teen body odour, packed wall-to-wall with screaming kids. Just the thought of it makes his shoulders tighten.

Billy has little else to do. He thinks about wandering to the nearby stores, flicking through dusty cassettes or vinyls, maybe poking around the charity shops, picking up something warm, but none of it sticks. His gaze drifts to the back seat, where the folded blanket waits.

Nah. Better idea. He shimmies over, plunges a hand into the boot, and pulls out the latest book he’s been reading. He bunches up the blanket into a lumpy pillow. It’s cold, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to waste gas and turn on the heat.

Settling back, Billy thumbs the dog-eared page open. It’s not the worst way to kill an hour. And with the way he’s parked, the sun slants just right through the windshield, warming the pages and making the words easier to track.

He tugs his jacket tighter, shifts until the blanket sits just right, and lets himself sink. The low hum of the arcade seeps through the glass, muffled music, distant shouting, the thud of machines. Comfortable.

The words start to blur. Warmth pools in his chest. His grip loosens.

The book slips from his hand and lands on the floor with a soft plink.

{~~~}

“Billy. Billy!”

There’s a sharp bang on the window.

He jolts awake, heart whamming hard enough it hurts. For a second, nothing makes sense. He blinks, sees Max’s face pressed close to the glass, her voice muffled as she talks at him, eyes wide.

“Shit—”

He cracks his head on the roof as he scrambles upright, swearing under his breath as he fumbles with the door to let her in.

Max darts into the passenger seat, breathless. Billy slams the door, and the word late hits him all at once, heavy and cold. He glances at the sky. Too orange. Too low.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he mutters, hands shaking as he twists the key. “It’s late. It’s so late.” He rounds on her, panic bleeding into anger. 

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

Max huffs, defensive. “I lost track of time!” 

He groans and thumps his head back against the seat. “Fuckin’—shit, Maxine, we are so dead.”

She folds her arms. “It’s not dark yet.” That doesn’t help. It never helps. Neil’s going to throw a fit whether the sun’s down or not. Late is late. Excuses don’t matter.

Billy peels out of the parking lot, tyres squealing louder than he means them to. His eyes snag on a familiar head of dark hair near the curb, his neck twists on instinct, a flash of recognition sparking sharp and unwanted—Max lunges forward, blocking his view. “That’s my friend’s babysitter.”

“Whatever,” Billy snaps, jaw tight as he floors it, the arcade lights shrinking fast in the rearview mirror.

{~~~}

The drive home is silent.

Billy keeps his eyes on the road and his mind on the list, running through it again and again. Bins first—always the bins. Neil hates it when they’re full during dinner, says it smells, says it’s disrespectful to Susan’s cooking.

After that, sweeping. He can probably get away with leaving the kitchen for last if Susan’s busy. The bathroom, though, definitely the bathroom. That’s the first place Neil checks. 

He pulls into the cracked driveway and lets out a long, shaky breath. The spot where Neil’s truck should be is empty. Relief loosens something in his chest, he’s got time…for now,

“Keys,” he mutters. He tosses them aside and leans into the backseat as Max thunders up the front steps. He folds the blanket with quick, practised movements, shoving the rest of the junk out of sight

When he steps through the open door, the smell hits him first, cooking oil and onions. Susan must’ve gotten back early. She stands at the stove, humming softly along to the radio, a wooden spoon tapping the side of the pot in an easy rhythm.

He slips past her without stopping. Max waltzes down the hallway toward her room, loose-limbed and unbothered, no urgency in her mind.

He dumps his jacket, tucks his hair into the collar of his T-shirt so it won’t fall into his face, and gets to work.

Bins first. He drags them out, dumps them, snaps a fresh liner into place with a flick of his wrists. Sweep the hall, then the living room. He wipes down the shelves, the table, the corners where dust likes to gather, no matter how often he cleans. It’s almost impressive how quickly it comes back.

Bathroom next. Spray. Wipe. Scrub. He moves fast, too fast for anyone to interrupt, probably why Neil doesn’t ask Susan. Is what he tells himself.

Efficient. Billy knows exactly how much clean is clean enough.

He steps into the kitchen to toss the old bread, and Susan glances over from the stove. Gives him a small, encouraging smile, some kind of thank you, maybe. She likes the extra help.

Billy doesn’t smile back. He just moves faster.

Heat blooms under his skin as he rushes through the last of it, breath steady but shallow. His arms burn in that dull way, the ache that means he’s done enough, or close to. It’s worth it. By the time the floors shine, and the bathroom smells sharp and sterile, he straightens, rolling his shoulders, breath catching as he listens. 

He’s already bracing for it, the crunch of tyres in the driveway, the warning he never misses.

But it comes louder than that today.

The front door slams hard enough to rattle the picture frames, and Billy freezes mid-motion, cleaner bottle still in his hand. Alcohol, sharp and sour, cutting straight through the lemon sting of disinfectant.

Neil sways in the doorway, boots heavy on the linoleum as his gaze locks onto him, narrowing immediately.

“You didn’t mow the lawn,” he says. Not a question. An accusation.

Billy opens his mouth, then closes it again. He hadn’t been told to. It’s November. The grass barely grows. None of that matters. He sets the cleaner back on the shelf carefully, quietly, like sudden movements might set something off.

“I was—”

Neil takes a step forward. It’s enough.

“I—I forgot,” Billy finishes instead. He’s always such a fucking pussy. He ducks past, moving into the hallway under the excuse of grabbing something, literally anything. Behind him, Susan’s voice floats in from the kitchen, light but terse around the edges.

“Neil, maybe you should sit down,” she says. “You’ve had a long day. And… maybe slow down a little. You know how you get.”

Billy doesn’t stop, but he hears it anyway. She adds, gentle, “He’s been very helpful.”

Neil laughs. It’s short. Mean. “Don’t tell me how to run my house,” Voice dropping colder. The kind that makes the air feel thin. “And don’t tell me how much I can drink.”

Billy reaches the end of the hall just as Neil says, louder now, deliberate, “I’m going to have a word with him. In his room. He can’t keep neglecting his responsibilities.”

There’s a pause. Maybe long enough for Susan to do the math. Make a choice

“…Dinner will be ready in fifteen,” she says finally, mild as ever. Billy’s hand tightens around the doorframe. Max’s door is shut down the hall, music faintly leaking, stupid hip music clawing out from under.

Neil’s footsteps follow. Heavy. Unhurried. Certain.

Billy sighs once, steadying himself, and steps into his room. He’s ready, braced for it, but still flinches when the door shoves open behind him.

He sits on the edge of the bed, hands locked tight around his knees, fixed on that familiar spot just to the left of Neil’s nose. Looking down is disrespectful. Looking straight at him is a challenge. Billy learned the balance years ago.

“Boy,” Neil says, voice edged with irritation, “why didn’t you do your chores?”

He says nothing.

I did. It’s small and useless.

“Huh?” Neil snaps. “Can’t hear you. Give me a good reason why this house is a fuckin’ dump.” Billy’s eyes don't wander, even though he can see the bedroom door handle shining in the corner of his vision, polished clean, wiped down thrice until gleamed.

Quietly, carefully, “I’m sorry, sir.”

The sun has fully set now, sinking into blue-grey shadows. Neil steps closer, looming. “I hate when you mumble,” he growls. “Speak.”

Billy swallows. His voice comes out flat, stripped of anything that could be mistaken for tone. “I’ll finish it soon.”

“Soon?” Neil repeats, mocking, the word stretching and slurring. “Soon isn’t good enough.” He scoffs. “You’re always slackin’. Always got some excuse.”

Billy's attention flicks to the window without permission.
“…Now?”

Neil’s mouth curls. “Yeah. Fuckin’ now.” He sneers, spits out another familiar insult. The kind that tends to land somewhere between Billy’s ribs and his throat.

Hands clamp down on his arm, hauling him up. Billy doesn’t resist. Resistance only makes it worse. Neil marches him through the house, like he’s something being dragged out for airing. Susan’s figure is blur by the stove. She looks at them, but whatever she sees doesn’t stop her.

“Don’t come back inside until you’re finished,” Neil says, shoving him out onto the patio. Billy turns automatically, expecting the shed keys. His hand is already half-raised. The door slams shut instead.

A click. Final.

He stares at the wood for a long second, then exhales a shaky breath through his nose.

Right.

His dad just kicked him out again.

He stands there, staring at the shut door like it might change its mind, then snorts softly through his nose. 

This isn’t new. He’s not a rookie. Back in California, this used to happen all the time. Easier to lock out than deal with, apparently.

He considers the shed. The mower’s in there. He could just break the lock, get it done anyway. Prove a point.
Yeah, no. That’d only buy him a whole new kind of punishment.

The cold creeps in fast. Indiana doesn’t mess around once the sun’s down. He shivers, glancing down at his feet, flip-flops. Of course. His toes curl instinctively, gripping the flimsy rubber as if that’ll help. It doesn’t. His arms are bare, goosebumps already crawling up his skin, and he rubs at them absently.

Alright. Long night, then.

At least he knows the rules. Neil’ll let him back in by morning. He always does. They’ve got church, after all, gotta look respectable, gotta play happy family for God and the neighbours.

Billy circles the house, sticking close to the edge, trying and failing to avoid the damp dirt. His heel sinks in anyway. He grimaces but keeps going, shoulders hunched, breath fogging faintly in the dark.

When he reaches Max’s window, he leans over the weeds and knocks softly. Once. Twice.

Nothing.

He waits. Listens. Then, finally, the pink cotton curtains twitch. A moment later, Max’s confused face appears, eyes pinched like she’s trying to figure out if she’s hallucinating. She slides the window open enough to poke her head out.

She stares at him.

“…What the hell,” Billy doesn't say anything to that, doesn’t explain, nuthin. 

He just sticks his hand out through the dark, hopping in place to shake the numbness out of his toes. “Gimme my car keys,” he mutters. “They’re on the dresser. And be quiet while you’re at it.”

A gust of wind cuts straight through, and he hitches his shoulders up around his ears, licking his lips. “…And a jacket.”

Max blinks at him. “You’re going for a drive? Now?”

He nods. 

She disappears from the window, leaving him alone with the cold again. He rocks back on his heels, breath fogging, counting slowly, one, two, three. Trying not to think about how stupid this all is.

After a minute or two, she reappears. The window slides open and she hands him his keys and a denim jacket, careful not to drop them. 

“Wait.”

He turns back just in time for her to hurl a violently purple scarf at his face. It’s thick and ugly and unmistakably hers.

He snorts. “Max,”

Too late. She’s already leaning out again, stretching on her toes to jam a matching knit hat onto his head, complete with a ridiculous fluffy pom-pom. It was a Christmas gift from her granny last year. He swats at her half-heartedly, grumbling, but doesn’t take it off.

“Idiot,” Billy mutters, tucking the scarf around his neck anyway.

She grins, satisfied, and pulls the window shut.

Billy jogs for the car, sandals slapping against the pavement. He slides into the driver’s seat and winces as the engine turns over loud and rough, the sound ripping through the quiet night.

“So much for subtle,” he mutters, and pulls away anyway.

{~~~}

He drives without a plan, just following street signs and whatever road sounds nicest in the moment. It feels more fun that way. Less like running. More like wandering.

He turns off Cherry onto Old Cherry, then onto Mulberry. Jesus. Why was every road here some kind of food? 

Mulberry dead-ends near a small children’s playground, with a single rusted slide and a set of swings that creak in the wind. He parks across the street in the empty lot, gravel crunching loud beneath his tyres. Trees crowd the playground on one side, their branches knit together like clasped fingers, and on the other, a wide, open field stretches out toward the dark.

He kills the engine.

The silence crashes in all at once, thick and ringing. Billy lets out a slow breath. The field glows pale under the moonlight, silvered and still, almost pretty in a way that makes his chest ache. He squints at it, absently thinking—yeah, maybe someday.

 Maybe this would be a good place to bring someone. Sit on the hood. Neck a little.

The thought makes him grimace. Not now. Definitely not now.

He climbs into the backseat, tugging the blankets tighter around himself. His stomach growls, loud in the quiet, and he fishes around until he finds a crinkled packet of crisps and a couple of sweets he keeps stashed for nights like this. He eats slowly, listening.

The forest murmurs.

That’s the only way to describe it, leaves whispering, branches rubbing together, something shifting deeper in the trees. A low sound carries across the field, distant and rough. He stops mid-chew, heart giving a quick, stupid jump.

Obviously coyotes.

Heather’s voice pops uninvited into his head—aliens—and he snorts under his breath, shaking his head. God. He tucks the blanket tighter around his shoulders anyway, chin ducking down into the scratchy fabric. 

The back of the car smells faintly of oil and old leathered upholstery, familiar enough to be comforting. He focuses on that. On the steady quiet between noises. On breathing slow, like he’s been taught.

Eventually, the cold stops feeling sharp and morphs dull instead, his thoughts loosening, slipping sideways. The trees keep whispering, but it fades into the background, blending with the hum in his ears. Sleep creeps up on him the way it always does. Unasked for, uneven, but welcome.

{~~~}

Sunrise finds him stiff and aching, the cold lodged deep in his bones. Billy wakes with his jaw clenched and his fingers numb, breath fogging the inside of the car. For a moment, he doesn’t know where he is. Then he does, and the knowing settles heavy in his chest.

He drives back before the neighbourhood really wakes, parks right in front of his dad’s truck in a quiet apology. The dash blinks 6:00 a.m. on the dot.

Like practised clockwork, the front door opens.

No yelling. No lecture. Neil just steps out, expression flat, and presses the shed keys into Billy’s palm before turning back inside. That’s it.

He smiles, a little brief one, once the door shuts. He doesn’t let it linger. Max is going to complain about the noise later, at least that’s one way to get back at her. He starts the mower and pushes through the frost-bitten grass, hands shaking, teeth chattering, breath puffing out in quick white bursts. He works fast, neat lines, no missed patches. He always does.

The second he’s done, he bolts for the bathroom.

The shower is scalding, steam curling thick around him as he stands under it, shoulders hunched, letting the heat sting feeling back into his skin. He presses his forehead to the tile and breathes until the tremors ease, just a smidge.

Billy dresses quickly, his nice blouse, clean clothes, and almost makes it past Susan in the hall. She stops him, presses a sandwich into his hands without a word. 

He blinks, startled, then nods and takes it. Eats fast, barely tasting it, because if he slows down, it’ll disappear.

By the time they pile into the truck, his eyes are burning with exhaustion. Everything feels too heavy. His limbs. His head. The space in his ribs.

Billy’s always quieter on the pews. Max is slumped on his right, while Susan is between him and his dad. He folds his hands, bows his head, and prays softly. Not for much. Just that his mama is okay, wherever she is. That one day he can go back to California. That things can be different.

Amen.

Outside, the sun is up in the sky, a bit more cheerful, making everything a little better. He spots Chrissy heading into the building over with a cluster of people, Jason lingering off to the side. She catches his eye and gives him a thumbs-up. Billy grins back.

He turns and follows his family, back to Cherry lane. Back to what he knows.

Chapter Text

There’s music.

Loud, violently loud, crashing against the stattco rev of an engine. Nancy pauses mid-sentence, brow creasing. She turns to open the door, and Steve follows.

A cobalt Chevy Camaro tears through the morning calm, engine snarling like an angry beast. Heads turn. Conversations die. The car swings into a spot like it owns the place, music still blaring through half-open windows.

Some girls titter nearby and some guys whistle. Steve can’t look away.

The passenger door flies open and a ginger girl hops out, skateboard already under her arm. She scowls at no one in particular and pushes off toward the middle school building.

The driver’s door opens slower.

A jean-clad leg plants itself on the asphalt. Denim on denim. The engine revs once more. Unnecessary, obnoxious, and then cuts.

A boy steps out facing the other way, adjusts something inside, completely unconcerned with the audience he’s gathered. When he finally turns—

Blonde hair. Sun-tousled, like it belongs somewhere much warmer than Indiana. A face that’s almost soft, almost gentle, at odds with the car, the music, the confidence dripping off him.

His eyes lift.

“Here I am.”

Blue. Strikingly blue. 

They lock on Steve, just for a second. Nancy scoffs and looks away.

“Rock you like a hurricane.”

{~~~}

Steve presses the phone tighter to his ear, pacing the length of his bedroom.

“Nancy? Are you sure?”

Her voice comes through thin and tinny, warped by distance. Still calm. “Sorry, Steve. I can’t let my grades slip. Especially with… everything going on.”

He exhales, forehead bumping lightly against the wall. Her grades never slip. That’s kind of the point.

“B-but—”

“I’m sorry, Steve.”

The line goes dead.

He groans, letting his head rest there for a second longer than necessary.

They’ve only been dating a few months. But he’s known her longer than that, which has to count for something. Call him intense, call him old-fashioned but when Steve loves, he loves. He wants to know everything, fix everything, be the guy who shows up at the exact right moment. Knight in shining armour, sweep you of your feet. Big smiles earned the hard way.

Because Steve loves smiles. Especially hers.

And he knows Nancy. He really does.

She loves her books. Loves her friends. Loves her family, even if she pretends she doesn’t. And more than anything else, she loves being the best.

That part never bothered him. Things have always worked out for Steve. Good things come easily. If it’s meant to be, it’ll be, that’s just how life goes.

Which is why he knows.

This isn’t random stress.
It’s that Hargrove douche.

She’s never said it outright, but after one of her special classes she’d been huffy, distracted, poking at her lunch while Steve gently needled until she finally snapped. It was a class about politics, about how everything connects if you actually bother to look. Her words, not his.

She loves that kinda stuff. Geopolitics or whatever. Society and feminism. How it’s all one tangled web that needs tearing down and rebuilding properly.

Steve always agrees. He nods at the right moments. Sometimes she smiles at him for it. Most of the time she just rolls her eyes. Once, he said he thought men and women should just be equal. She smacked him on the head and called him stupid.

He still doesn’t know what he said wrong.

Then, she blurted it out. Some blond guy had shown her up in class. Said something smarter and the teacher liked it. Steve laughed. He couldn’t help it. In what universe was Nancy not the teacher’s favourite? He told her that and she glared at him. “No. They don’t think that, Steve.”

And for just a second, she looked… small.

He tried to fix it. Told her the guy probably just got lucky. No one beats her when it comes to school.

She sighed, staring at her tray.
“That’s just it. Hargrove made some good points. Stuff I hadn’t thought of.”

Record scratch.

“Hargrove?” Steve had said.

A flash of a memory. Blonde eyes, a lethal grin, the most annoying asshole he’s ever met.

“Steve? Steve?” She snapped her fingers. “Are you even listening?”

“Yeah,” he said automatically.

She didn’t believe him.

Under her breath, thinking he wouldn’t hear, she muttered, “I’ll have to do better.” That sad look again, the one that makes him want to pull her close, kiss it away. She never lets him.

Now, standing alone in his room, phone still buzzing with static in his hand, Steve nostrils flare at a thought.

Yeah.

Fuck Hargrove.

Steve shoves the crumpled papers off his desk. They flutter to the floor like they’ve given up too. This was supposed to be a study day. A Nancy day. Not… whatever this is.

He stares down at his notes, half-written formulas, messy annotations, a depressing excuse for revision. His foot starts tapping against the carpet before he even notices. He is stressed. If he screws up tomorrow’s exam, his parents are going to lose it. Grounded, for sure. Maybe worse.

A tutor.

He visibly shudders.

Sunlight pours in through the window, obnoxiously bright. Midday. A few months ago, he’d have been out by now, killing time with Tommy, Carol, the rest of them. Laughing. Doing nothing important and knowing it didn’t matter.

He scoffs and shakes his head, pushing down the dull, unexpected ache that comes with the thought. Funny how fast things change.

Hargrove shows up and suddenly everyone has  amnesia. Steve isn’t the guy anymore. Hargrove barrels into the school like a damn wildfire and people just… follow. 

He drags his chair back, cracks his spine, and grabs his pen like it’s a weapon. Fine. Whatever. He’ll study. He’ll grind through the next few hours, prove to Nancy, to his parents. He still has his shit together.

He leans over the desk, forces his eyes back onto the page.

Doesn’t stop thinking about Hargrove, though.

{~~~}

The phone rings hours later, sudden in the quiet.

The sun’s dipping a bit now, throwing long orange stripes across Steve’s desk. His stomach growls, loud enough to be annoying, and his eyes burn from staring at the same page for too long. He snatches up the landline without thinking, a spark of hope flaring in his chest.

Nancy.

She’s calling to apologize. To say she can’t focus either. They’ll meet up, trade notes, maybe study together after all. He’ll casually mention how much he got done, and she’ll soften, smile that small proud smile she saves for when he surprises her.

“Hey, Steve, my man!”

The spark dies instantly.

Steve groans and drags his thumb and forefinger over the crease lodged between his brows, like he can physically smooth his disappointment away. Not the voice he wanted. Not even close.

“What is it, Dustin,” he says, already tired.

He glances at the clock on his wall. Quarter to five. Mrs. Henderson had told him just yesterday he wouldn’t be needed until next week, had patted his arm, all warm and sincere, and told him to go have fun. Do teenage things.

Kind of hard to do that when your social life’s imploded.

Dustin doesn’t answer right away. Instead, Steve hears muffled voices through the line, Dustin talking to someone else. 

A girl, by the sound of it. Same age. He tilts his ear to listen closer. “Shit—shit, give me another coin!”

“…Are you at a payphone?”

Dustin groans into the receiver. “Yes, and I don’t have much time. Please, Steve, can you pick me up from the arcade? My bike’s got a flat.”

Steve opens his mouth to say no. To protest. To remind Dustin that he’s not on babysitting duty today.

“Okay? Thanks, bye!”

The line goes dead.

Steve stares at the receiver for a second, then lets it fall back into place with a dull clack. “Unbelievable,” he mutters. Nobody has the time to let him speak.

He looks back at his desk, the papers, the notes, the neat progress he’d been proud of. Then he glances at the window, at the fading light bleeding into evening.

…He deserves a break. At least long enough to grab something to eat. With a sigh, he grabs his keys and heads downstairs.

{~~~}

“Hey, Steve!”

Dustin comes barreling across the parking lot, arms windmilling like he’s trying to flag down a plane. Steve pulls the Bimmer into park, the lot’s mostly empty at this hour and rolls the window down just in time for the kid to skid to a stop.

“Where’s the bike?” He asks, already suspicious.

Dustin blinks. Then his face splits into an innocent little grin. “Uh. I don’t have one.”

“What.”

“I mean, not here,” He rushes to clarify. “I walked from the library. My mom dropped me off this morning.” Steve closes his eyes. Briefly. He can already see the whole stupid plan forming.

Dustin, emboldened by the lack of immediate yelling, keeps going. “So I was thinking maybe we could… hang out? Just until Mom comes to get me. Then you could drop me back at the library.”

Steve shoots him a sideways look. “Your poor mother wanted you to study, and you’re wasting time at the arcade. What happens if I tell her?”

Dustin’s eyes go wide. “Oh no no no—please don’t. I did study. I just came here to… investigate.”

Steve jerks his chin toward the building. “Investigate the new games?”

“No!” Dustin yanks his cap down lower, cheeks flushing. It’s so earnest it almost makes Steve feel bad. “I’m trying to uncover a mysterious identity.”

Steve opens his mouth to ask what that’s even supposed to mean, and then Dustin glances over his shoulder.

That’s when he notices her.

A redheaded girl stands a little ways off, arms crossed, posture stiff, her expression locked in a permanent frown like the world personally offended her. She looks… unimpressed. And alert.

“Dustin,” Steve says carefully. Dustin waves him off and calls out, “Max! Over here!”

The girl approaches, slow and cautious, eyes flicking around the parking lot like she’s expecting trouble. Steve tracks her gaze without meaning to.

His breath catches.

Because she’s staring straight at a familiar car.

Hargrove’s car.

The girl finally stops, casting one last suspicious look at the blue car before turning her stare on him. “Dustin says you know about aliens.”

“What?”

Dustin’s eyes go huge. “Please,” he stage-whispers. “She doesn’t believe me. And if she doesn’t believe me, she won’t help me improve my Pac-Man score.”

Steve considers strangling him. “There are no monsters,” 

“Steve!” Dustin whines, tugging on his sleeve. Max scoffs, already turning away uninterested. 

“Hey—” 

She stops and looks back, unimpressed. “You’re Hargrove’s sister,” Steve says. It comes out more like a statement than a question.

Her shoulders tense. “Step-sister.”

His gaze flicks, involuntarily, back to the car. “He in there?”

She squints at it. “I think so?” That’s all he needs. Steve nods once, says nothing else and she walks away. Dustin squints at him, head tilted. 

“Why are you being weird?”

He doesn’t answer. Dustin, undeterred, launches straight into a rambling complaint about how Steve has completely destroyed his chances of being cool, and also possibly his chances of love, because apparently this girl is “very important” and “Her name is Maxine, but everyone calls her Max because she’s rad.”

Steve snorts, barely listening.

Because Max is at the car now.

He watches her knock on the window. Watches too closely. His eyes stay locked on the scene when a frantic head of blond curls jerks upright inside, hair a mess like it’s been mushed in the back or frizzed from strenuous activities— hard to tell. Hargrove scrambles, lets her in, the door slamming shut.

The Camaro peels out almost immediately, tyres shrieking as it rockets down the road.

“Steve!”

Steve jumps. Dustin’s staring up at him, hands on his hips. “You better not be trying to steal my girl.”

“Man, shut the fuck up.” Steve flicks Dustin’s cap down over his eyes and slides into the driver’s seat. But even as he starts the car, his gaze drifts back down the road where the Camaro disappeared.

Something about that felt… off.

{~~~}

“Do you think she likes me?”

Dustin shoves another fry into his mouth, ketchup already smeared at the corner of his lip. Steve rolls his eyes and checks his watch. Half an hour, give or take, before he has to drop the kid off.

“I think it’s way too early to tell,” he says.

Dustin groans and lets his forehead thunk against the counter. “You are no help. You’re supposed to tell me how to, like—” he gestures vaguely, hands flailing, “—sweep someone off their feet.”

Steve sighs, scratching at his chin. He’d picked the diner because it was close. That’s it. Pure convenience. Unfortunately, the place is aggressively intimate. Low lighting, snug booths, some sappy pop song humming through tinny speakers. The kind of place you take someone you like.

Nancy would hate it.

He stabs a fry into the sauce a little too hard.

“Dustin,” he says, gentler now, “you don’t need some big move. Just be yourself.”

Dustin grumbles into his food. “Easy for you to say.”

Steve smiles. “What was that?”

“Nothing!”

He drains the last of his soda and lifts a hand, flagging down the waitress. She approaches like she’s being summoned for execution. Moody, dirty-blonde, expression set permanently to don’t. She levels him with a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

Steve blinks. Runs through every girl he’s dated. Every girl he’s smiled at in a hallway.

Nothing.

“Is that all?” she drawls.

He squints at her for a second longer than polite, then snaps his fingers. “Oh—you’re in my history class! That’s where I know you from.”

She lets out a long, suffering groan. “Wow. Dingus. What a revelation.”

“Hey, don’t be like that.” He slides a twenty across the counter, adds a little extra on top, and flashes a grin. “Bonus for customer service.” She snatches the cash and turns away immediately, muttering under her breath about weirdos flirting at the counter.

They step outside into the cooling evening, the fresh air nice after sugar. Dustin explodes the second the door shuts behind them. “Dude! Like that! You do it so easily.”

“Do what?” Steve asks.

“Flirt with the waitress!”

He scoffs, unlocking the car. “No, I didn’t.” Dustin climbs in, folding his arms with dramatic offence.

“Fine. Keep your secrets.”

{~~~}

Steve drops Dustin off just after sunset.

Claudia Henderson meets them at the library entrance, already apologising, hands fluttering as if Dustin’s behaviour might’ve personally offended everyone in the neighbourhood. She pulls Steve into a quick, slightly-too-tight hug, murmuring something about trouble and boys his age shouldn't bother.

Steve laughs it off, waves it away like it’s nothing. “He’s fine,” he says. “Really. He did his studying. Mostly.” Dustin sulks at him from behind, betrayed.

The drive home is quiet. Just the radio humming low and the streetlights blinking on one by one like they’re supposed to.

He eats at the counter, thinking absently about next week, about how his parents will be back in town for a few weeks. The house always feels fuller when they’re around. He pictures his mom bustling through the kitchen, his dad loosening his tie, asking half-interested questions about school.

Steve decides optimistically that he’ll wake up early tomorrow. Do one last review before the exam. Just to be safe. He won’t. But the intention feels good.

In his head, he’s already showing his mom the grade he’s aiming for. A solid B+. Definitely no Fs. No D-minuses either. That would be a nightmare. 

He brushes his teeth slowly, staring at his reflection. Smooths lotion over clean skin. Thinks briefly—hopefully—about that speaker set he’s been eyeing in the magazine. Maybe his dad will finally cave. He’s been responsible lately, right?

When he crawls into bed, the sheets are cool, the room softly lit by the bedside lamp. He thinks about Nancy.

About seeing her soon. About leaning in to wish her good luck, the way she always pretends she doesn’t care, but still softens when he kisses her. He smiles at the thought.

Steve pulls the covers up, nestling into the warmth, and lets his eyes fall shut. It will be fine.

{~~~}

The dream comes easy.

Steve is warm, wrapped up in it, tucked into someone’s gravity. There’s a body beside his, familiar in the way dreams make everything familiar. An arm draped over his chest. Fingers absentmindedly tracing shapes through his shirt. It feels right. Comfortable. Something he’s done a hundred times.

Nancy, his mind supplies easily.

He doesn’t question. Why would he? The closeness is gentle, unhurried. The air smells like laundry soap and summer. He shifts, noses closer, half-asleep even in the dream, smiling to himself.

Then he sees her eyes.

Blue. Bright. Almost painfully so.

Nancy’s eyes are blue, sure—but these are too blue. Clear and sharp and alive with something mischievous. They squint slightly when she smiles, lashes thick and dark, casting shadows against her cheeks.

His brain stutters.

Nancy?

The smile widens. Teasing. Playful. She knows something he doesn’t.

That’s not right.

As if responding to the thought, freckles bloom across her nose and cheeks, faint at first, then unmistakable. His breath catches. His hand tightens reflexively in the fabric of her shirt.

Nancy doesn’t have—

She leans back just enough for the light to shift, and curls tumble free. Blonde, messy, catching against her shoulders like spun gold. Pink lips curve, soft and knowing.

The blooming sunlight dims, and the person sharpens for just a fraction of a second.

Steve jerks awake with a sharp inhale, heart hammering like it’s trying to escape his ribs. His room snaps into focus, the lamp, the ceiling, the quiet hum of the house. He scrubs a hand over his face, sits up too fast, breath uneven.

“What the—” he mutters to the dark. His mind replays it anyway. 

Sleep does not come back easily after that.

{~~~}

Steve groans softly into his locker, forehead pressed against the cool metal. Inside the door, taped a little crooked, is the photo strip of him and Nancy. The one from after their second movie date. Four frames of bad lighting and worser poses. Her smile is small but real. His is huge.

He traces it with his thumb, just once.

He didn’t wake up early. Didn’t sneak in any last revision. Didn’t even have time to eat. His stomach twists at the thought, but he straightens when he feels her beside him. Nancy stands at the next locker, flipping through flashcards, brow furrowed in concentration. She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t say anything.

Steve swallows. Says nothing too.

The bell rings, sharp and unforgiving. He turns toward her, already leaning in, muscle memory kicking in—just a quick kiss, the one they always do before exams—

—but she’s already moving, bag slung over her shoulder.

“Good luck,” she calls lightly, waving without slowing down.

And she’s gone.

“Oh,” Steve mutters to no one. “Okay then.”

He shuts his locker harder than necessary, gathers his pens and pencils, and heads to class. The room feels too awake. He slides into a seat near the back, far from the clusters of people whispering and joking. The teacher’s already there, stacking papers with grim efficiency.

Steve shrinks a little. 

It’s fine, he tells himself. He revised. Mostly. Enough. He’ll be okay.

The door opens again.

Heather and Tina breeze in together, laughter trailing behind them, and Steve groans internally. Heather hates him. He fixes his eyes firmly on the window as they pass, but their voices carry anyway.

“How’re you feeling?” Tina asks.

Heather laughs. “Oh—great, actually. Billy tutored me in the library on Saturday.”

Steve blinks. 

“Really?” Tina says. “Was he good?”

Heather snaps her gum. “The best.”

Steve frowns, confusion prickling. Tutored? His brain tries—unhelpfully—to reroute that into something else. Hooking up, maybe. He grimaces at the image, but… library? Barely has time to think before a paper lands on his desk with a solid thunk.

He jumps.

“No spacing out, Steve,” Mrs Cyder says coolly. “These are important.” A few snickers ripple behind him. Heat crawls up his neck as he nods quickly, eyes dropping to the exam in front of him.

Yeah. Important.

He grips his pen, jaw tight, and tries not to think about blonde curls, or libraries, or the way Nancy didn’t look back.

{~~~}

The bell rings and the room exhales all at once. Pens clatter onto desks. Steve leans back in his chair and lets out a long breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding.

Okay. That wasn’t terrible.

He finished every question. Mostly. Some answers were a little…creative, but still. The teacher stops by his desk, lifts his paper, and gives a small, approving nod at the neatly filled pages.

Steve straightens. That helps.

He scans the hallway between classes, half-expecting to spot Nancy’s dark hair, maybe catch her eye, share a relieved grin, but she’s nowhere to be seen. The optimism dims just a notch as he heads toward science, hands shoved into his pockets.

Science is always a little weird.

Tommy’s there.

Steve doesn’t hate him, not really. He hates how things ended. Tommy always does this thing where he stiffens, huffs, and looks anywhere but at Steve when he passes their table. He pretends not to notice and slides into his seat beside his lab partner.

Angela.

Nancy hates her. Steve has never figured out why.

Angela grins when she sees him, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “So,” she chirps, leaning closer than strictly necessary, “how did you find the test? Did you get the last question?”

Steve frowns, digging through his brain. He’d already mentally shoved the exam into a locked box. “Uh… yeah, I think so? It was, like, a four-by-four column matrix thing.”

Angela laughs— a little too high, clearly delighted. “Yuh-huh. I didn’t get that. Maybe you could show me how?”

Steve smiles back, pleased. “Sure, I guess.” The teacher clears their throat pointedly from the front of the room, and Angela reluctantly turns back to her worksheet, still smiling.

Across the aisle, Tommy shoots Steve a dark look.

Steve blinks, then shrugs.

If Tommy doesn’t like him, at least Angela does.

{~~~}

Lunch is supposed to be the best part of the day.

Nancy sits across from him, shoulders hunched, brow furrowed, sandwich forgotten in her hand as she stares at a scrap of paper she’s filled with half-remembered equations.

“I think I messed up question seven,” she mutters. “Or maybe eight. No—seven had the conditional, eight was vectors—unless I flipped them.”

Steve pokes at his fries. “Hey. It’s over, Nance. You did great. You always do.” She hums noncommittally, already scribbling something else. 

“I should’ve checked my working. I rushed the last two. Why did I rush?”

His smile strains. “Er… to finish on time?” She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even look up.

The knot in his chest tightens. He wants to talk about literally anything else. Tomorrow. Movies. Her favorite book. The weather. Anything.

His gaze drifts, betraying him.

The popular table erupts in noise, laughter, shouting. He sees them in flashes. Hargrove throws an arm around Heather, nearly knocking her into Chrissy as they shriek. For a second, Steve feels something sharp and unpleasant twist in his gut. Disgust, likley. He looks away.

Nancy finally notices where his attention went and scoffs. “Honestly, it’s good they dropped you,” she says, offhand. “That whole group is a bunch of halfwits.”

Steve stiffens despite himself.

She keeps going, oblivious. “I mean—most of them, anyway.” She hesitates, lips pressing together. “I guess Hargrove isn’t, since he finished early. The teacher let him leave.” There’s bitterness there, thinly veiled. A cheer goes up from the table. Hargrove lands a bottle flip perfectly, the dumbasses hoot and whistle. Steve watches Tommy laugh, really laugh. At least someone’s having fun.

He turns back to Nancy. “So, uh. Tomorrow. After school. Maybe we could hang out? Do something. Just us.” She doesn’t answer.

Her eyes have drifted, past him.

Jonathan, two tables over, sitting alone. Hunched over a scrapbook of some sorts. Nancy’s gaze lingers a second too long.

There’s ugliness in Steve’s chest. Insecurity, hot and sudden. He hates it. Hates that it’s there at all. “Well,” he says, sharper than he means to, “if you’re that worried, maybe you should ask him to double-check your answers.”

Nancy snaps her head back to him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I just—” He cuts himself off, already regretting it. He’d promised himself he’d be better. Kinder. Less like this. “Forget it.”

“No,” she says, standing abruptly. “Say it.”

The bell rings.

Nancy grabs her bag. “You’re being ridiculous,” she says flatly, and then she’s gone, disappearing into the tide of students without another glance back.

Steve stays where he is, staring at her empty seat, heart pounding.

{~~~}

He doesn’t see Nancy for the rest of the day, which honestly? Fine. Better than fine. He doesn’t have the bandwidth to deal with her right now. He ignores the itch to check if she got home okay.

Gym bag slung over his shoulder, he heads for the locker rooms, already in a foul mood. First official practice of the year. Fantastic. Basketball, his least favourite obligation.

His dad had sold it to the coach as if it were a grand honour.  Host the Harrington progeny as captain, and all your woes will disappear! Now he's forced to be here for the third year in a row. 

The gym smells like rubber soles and old sweat. Everyone’s already here, split into shirts and skins. Tommy and Hargrove are in the middle of the court doing some idiotic hand-clap routine, laughing like they’re twelve. Coach is talking. No one’s listening.

Steve enters and claps his hands, sharp. Barks at them. “Line up.”

There’s a beat, then groans and eye rolls, but they do it. He feels the familiar, fleeting rush when they obey. Coach catches his eye and gives him a nod. Good. At least someone’s paying attention.

He scans the team. They’re good. Horribly so. He wishes he could siphon their talent and redistribute it into people who weren’t so—annoying. 

Coach runs them through drills. Passing patterns. Defensive slides. The usual. Sweat starts to bead along Steve’s spine as they break into scrimmage.

The whistle blows.

Steve takes the ball, dribbling forward—

Barely gets two steps forward before someone slides into his space.

Hargrove.

Of course.

Hargrove drops low, blocking him cleanly, knees bent, eyes gleaming with devilry. He grins, wide and unapologetic, and wiggles his hips back and forth like he’s settling into position.

A cat about to pounce.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Steve mutters.

Sneakers shriek against the court as he feints left. Hargrove mirrors instantly, glued to his body, close enough that Steve can feel the heat rolling off his bare chest. Sweat-slick skin, gold chain flashing under the lights, knocking into his back with little plink, plinks.

Every nerve in Steve’s body sparks in protest. He pivots. Hargrove pivots with him. “Dude,” Steve snaps, trying to drive past.

Hargrove stays with him, presses closer. “Steve, right?” 

Why is he talking?

Steve knows—knows—Hargrove knows his name. Everyone does. “I heard you used to run this place,” Hargrove murmurs, voice pitched low, almost amused. “That true?” They grapple for the ball. Elbows tangle. Hargrove shoulder bumps his chest.  Way too close.

“Focus on the game,” He growls.

Hargrove snickers, breath warm against his ear. “King Steve, they called you, huh?” 

“Shut up,” Steve tries to wrench the ball and himself free. 

Hargrove snaps his gum. Licks his lips—slow, deliberate. “Then ya’ turned bitch.” Steve shoves forward. Hargrove shoves back.

Then Hargrove’s leg hooks out, clean and dirty at the same time. Steve goes sprawling hard.

A foul. The whistle doesn’t blow.

“Are you—!” Steve starts, but Hargrove’s already gone, stealing the ball and sprinting down the court. The rest of the team surges after him like hounds chasing prey.

Hargrove sinks the shot, same under-the-leg flash from tryouts that makes the gym erupt. Coach finally blows the whistle. Hargrove looks straight at Steve from across the court and sticks his tongue out.

Steve drags himself up, jaw clenched. He’s not letting this guy get in his head.

They reset.

This time, Hargrove starts with the ball. Steve puts himself squarely in front, low and solid. 

Two can play this game.

Hargrove smirks. “Ohh. Playing tough now?”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Steve snaps. He hates how strained he sounds next to Hargrove’s easy lilts. Hargrove giggles—actually giggles—breathless and bright. 

“What?” That smile. Squinty eyes. Too white teeth. Something hot and unsettling coils in Steve’s gut. He hardens his glare. “You scared I’m gonna bench you now that I’m here?” Hargrove taunts.

Barrels past, shoulder-checking him straight to the floor.

Again.

“Play on!” Coach calls.

Hargrove scores. Fuck Steve’s life. He stays down, staring up at the ceiling, chest heaving. God, he’s going to bruise everywhere.

A shadow falls over him.

Hargrove crouches, holding out a hand. For half a second, Steve hesitates—then takes it. Hargrove hauls him up easily, grip strong, steady. Leans in close. 

“You were moving your feet,” Hargrove murmurs, eyes impossibly blue at this distance. “Plant them next time. Draw the charge.” Then he shoves Steve backwards, right back onto the floor. 

Jogs off like nothing happened. Fuckin’ prick. The whistle shrills. Practice is over.

Christ, has an hour passed already?

{~~~}

The water pounds against Steve’s shoulders as he scrubs his hair like it personally betrayed him. Fingers rake through curls, hard enough that his scalp starts to sting. He doesn’t care. He wants the noise. Wants his thoughts drowned out.

Laughter echoes through the locker room. Someone yells. Someone else chitters. Another shower clicks on.

Right next to him.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut. Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look. The water pressure shifts, heat blooming along his left side. He can feel someone there. Watching.

“Hey,” Hargrove says, cheerful as hell. “Don’t sweat it, Steve. Today’s just not your day, man.” Steve turns his face away, jaw painfully clenches. Ignoring blonde curls plastered to skin. Wet pinkish skin and a provoking grin.

Another shower sputters on across from them.

“Yeah,” Tommy says brightly. “Not your week, actually.”

Steve grumbles through his nose.

Tommy leans forward, water cascading off his head. “You and the princess fight for what, an hour? And she’s already running off with the freak’s brother.”

Steve freezes.

“What?” slips out before he can stop it.

Tommy’s grin stretches wide. “Oh shit. You didn’t know?” Hargrove says nothing.

“Skipped last period together,” He crows onwards, savouring it. “Left looking real cosy, from what everyone’s saying.” Tommy tilts his head. “But that's just a coincidence, right?” He echoes the words Steve had thrown across those many months ago.

He stares at the floor as the shampoo burns his eyes. Tommy laughs, steps away, bored now that the damage is done. The water roars in his ears. He considers, briefly, just staying here until the heat gives out.

“Hey.”

Steve smothers another jump. He forgot Hargrove was still there.

Hargrove’s voice is quieter now. He’s leaned closer, forearm braced against the tile, chest angled in just enough that Steve has to be aware of him. Soap slicks his shoulders. Water beads along gold skin.

“Don’t take it so hard,” Hargrove says.

Steve opens his eyes despite himself. Hargrove smiles, almost soft. “Pretty boy like you? You’ll survive.”

Pretty boy. Who says that? 

“There’s plenty of bitches in the sea,” Hargrove tacks on, voice dropping further. Steve’s face drops. 

“Am I right?”

He reaches past Steve and twists the tap. The water cuts off. Steve inhales sharply, cold crawling up his spine. He glares.

Hargrove laughs, taps his shoulder like they’re buddies, and jogs away, calling back,

“I’ll be sure to leave you some!”

Steve wacks the tap back much more viciously than he intended.

Chapter Text

'Get into AP
Start applying outside
Job
Get the fuck out'

“Where is my fucking hair brush, Maxine? I know you stole it!”

Neil’s been promoted. 

He slams his shoulder into Max’s bedroom door hard enough to rattle the frame. She’s sitting far too upright on her bed, hands folded in her lap, posture suspicious as hell. Her eyes narrow the second she sees him.

“Why would I have your disgusting, greasy brush?” she snaps.

Billy stalks over, looming, already reaching for her pillow. “Don’t fuck with me. I saw your busted one in the trash.”

She bares her teeth like a feral animal. “That doesn’t mean—” He shoves her back onto the mattress. She shrieks, flailing. “HEY—!”

It had been announced at dinner. 

Billy was at the sink, sleeves pushed up, drying the same plate over and over because it kept his hands busy and his mouth shut. Max had vanished the second she’d finished eating. Susan hovered by the fridge, warming milk because she said it helped her sleep. He always thought that was gross. Milk was supposed to be cold and quick. Not something you heated slowly and carried around in a mug like it was comforting.

Neil cleared his throat, and they both listened.

“I got some news,” he said, voice casual.

Susan perked up immediately. “Oh?” She smiled down at him, soft and ready. “What is it, honey?”

Neil took a sip of his coffee, because of course he was drinking coffee at eight in the night. “Harry had to step down. Wife’s sick.” He said dismissive, waving away the minor inconvenience. “So they asked me to cover his shifts.” 

Billy was still at the sink, but he could see movement in the reflection of the dark window. Susan frowned a little. “Oh… that sounds like a lot. What time will you be getting home?”

Neil shrugged, but he was smiling. That was the strange part. “Late. Earlier starts, too.” He paused.

“They also offered me his position. With the pay increase.”

Susan gasped. “Oh! That’s wonderful!” She crossed the kitchen and kissed his cheek, loud and wet. Neil laughed, pleased. She cooed something into his ear that Billy did not hear.

He stood there, back turned, still drying the same plate.

Sometimes, Billy felt really shitty, like one wrong turn and he’d be throwing up his entire day onto the floor. He could imagine it right then and there. Sticky wet chunks that would spatter on the floor, pulling everyone's attention to him. A mess that he’d definitely get punished for making, that he’d spend an hour or so cleaning. 

That would be better. Better than watching his father be normal.

Watching him smile, joke, accept praise. 

It messed with the neat little box Billy kept him in. The one labelled monster. The one that made things simple. Because monsters didn’t laugh like that. Monsters didn’t get promotions, kisses, or words of love.

Billy never did.

They kept talking. Neil mentioned starting earlier; the only thing Billy picked up was that he would have to be quieter at night when he snuck into the kitchen to eat. Later nights, too, which meant waiting longer before the cupboards were safe to use.

He’d adjust, it’d be fine.

A chair scraped behind him.

“Well?” Neil said. “Nothing to say?”

Billy flinched before he could stop himself. He turned slowly. Susan was still there. “You’re not going to congratulate your own father?” Neil went on, voice razored with mockery. “Or are you still sulking like an ungrateful brat?”

Billy swallowed.

“Congrats, sir,” he said. Neil’s smile widened anyway. Satisfied. He pushed back his chair and left the room without another word.

~

“Move, you bitch!” 

“Get out of my room, I don’t have it!” Max screeches as Billy shoves her again. She goes sprawling into her ugly butterfly sheets, kicking wildly. He jams a hand under her pillow. Nothing.

“Liar.” 

She huffs, but stalls when he shoots her a smug look. Billy reaches down between the bed and the wall. She launches at him again, nails out. “Go away!”

His fingers close around plastic.

“Ha!” He yanks the brush free, triumphant.

Maxine howls and tackles him, but he’s already sprinting, laughter ripping out of his chest as he bolts down the hallway and slams his bedroom door behind him. She pounds on it, screaming threats.

{~~~}

Billy flicks the little leaflet Ms Kelly shoved into his hand earlier, snapping it back and forth so it makes a loud whipping sound in the lunch hall. Heather grabs for it. 

He jerks it out of reach at the last second, grinning, and flips it open to the second page. A picture of a woman in an aggressively serene pose stares back at him. Arms raised, one leg bent, surrounded by plants and candles like she’s on the cover of a magazine.

‘LOOKING FOR INSTRUCTORS.
Training provided. Must have previous experience in teaching.’

Heather snorts, leaning over his shoulder. “Kill me now.”

Billy sighs and keeps flipping.

“Who would ever waste their time doing that?” Tommy’s voice cuts in from across the table. Carol stops mid-sentence, visibly annoyed, and shoots him a look. Heather snaps her gum, too loud, on purpose, and smiles at Tommy with all her teeth.

“Because, Tommy,” she says slowly, dragging out the last syllable like she’s explaining something to a child, “some of us don’t want to be podunk losers forever and actually plan on doing something with our lives.”

Billy lifts the laminated sheet to his face, hiding his grin.

Tommy scowls, cheeks going red. He turns back to Carol immediately, muttering something defensive. Carol pats his hand like the good woman she is. 

“Why don’t you guys check the bulletin board in the library?” Chrissy pipes up from his other side. She’s got her notebook open, scribbling furiously, copying chunks of Patrick's essay that's due next period, word-for-word. “There were tons of listings when I was there. Especially with that new mall opening.”

Heather recoils like she’s been offered poison. “Absolutely not.” Billy sighs again, her pickiness is starting to become a real problem. Still, when she digs through her bag and pulls out a fresh stick of gum, she tosses one to Billy. He catches it, slightly less irritated.

“We need jobs that sexy people get,” she declares. “Because we’re sexy.”

He starts coughing on the stick in his mouth.

“Retail,” Heather continues, dramatically, “is for ugly people.”

Patrick clears his throat, smacking Billy's back. “You could try waiting tables? You get tips. My mom owns that restaurant down Cornwallis, by the motel. Sometimes she lets me help out—it’s kinda fun.”

Billy composes himself, wiping the wetness that's accumulated in his eye. “Fuck no, I ain’t serving people.”

Heather rolls her eyes. “That cuts out, like, half of our options, y’know.” He shrugs. She drops her forehead onto the table with a groan. “Ugh. We should be models. That’s where we truly shine.”

“Not sure there’s a big demand for that around here, sugar,” Billy says dryly. She lifts her head just long enough to flip him off. He finally takes pity on her and passes over the sheet, and she starts flipping through, scanning with exaggerated seriousness.

“I need something chivalrous,” she announces. “Maybe I could volunteer at the library. That makes you look smart.”

“Name five books,” Jason shoots back without looking up.

“Fuck off, I’m not a nerd.”

Billy arches an eyebrow.

She flips to the last page and pauses.

There’s a photo of a decent-sized indoor pool. Deck chairs lined up neatly, everything gleaming and new. Probably opening soon. In winter, for some insane reason. But Billy’s eyes slide past the picture and down to the pay. Double digits, nice. He leans over and taps the numbers with two fingers. Heather follows his gaze, then looks up at him, eyebrows lifting.

“Huh,” she says. “That’s… actually decent.”

Chrissy reaches out. “Can I see?”

Billy hands over the leaflet without a fight, already doing the math in his head.

{~~~}

He’s in his new science class, and thank god—thank god—there’s a substitute. Some guy in a rumpled button-down who barely looks up from the attendance sheet. He mutters something about worksheets and absolutely does not make Billy stand up and introduce himself. He slides into his seat and exhales, slow and quiet, like he’s been holding his breath since first period.

He sits between Carol and Heather.

Which is… fine. He doesn’t need that to matter. But it does. Heather snatches his new timetable the second he sits down, Carol leaning in from the other side like they’re about to diagnose him with something terminal.

“Did you get any say in this at all?” Carol asks, already unimpressed.

Billy shakes his head. “Nope.”

He doesn’t tell them about being called into Ms Kelly’s office before the results were even out. About the way his hands had gone cold, the certainty settling in his gut that this was it. If he was being called before, then that must mean he’d done shit, that he was gonna fail and that he was never going back— 

Ms Kelly’s smile had cut straight through that spiral, almost conceited on his behalf.

His timetable, however, is a disaster.

They’ve kept his English, his AP classes, all the vocational stuff that doesn’t matter whether he passes or fails. Everything else has been reshuffled. New fucking rooms, routes, and teachers. New people he’s got to start conversations with, and the whole cycle of piss-take all over again. 

At least science has people he knows.

Heather hums thoughtfully as she scans the page. “Okay, so you’re still in Chrissy’s English, but not her study session, hers is before mine.” She squints. “Maths… no idea who else has Thompson. You might be alone for that.”

Billy shrugs. She keeps going, pen appearing from nowhere. “And science—you’re with meee,” she sings. Before he can stop her, she circles the class in red ink and draws a little heart next to it.

“Hey! What the fuck?” Billy goes for the paper, but she’s already pulling it back, pleased with herself. Carol snorts. Heather scans further down and freezes. Then she breaks into a grin. “P.E., " she laughs. “Oh my god. You’re in Harrington’s class.”

“What?” He finally snatches the timetable back. “No I’m not.”

Carol leans over to check. “Yeah. They switch gym if you switch to honors.” Billy groans, dropping his head onto the desk. 

“Oh, and Health Class,” Heather adds brightly, continuing her vandalism. “You’re with Patrick. How nice.” She dots the i with another heart. Billy stares at his ruined timetable, then at the two of them, then back down again.

They do absolutely fuck all for the rest of the hour, which is great. He figures that’s the rule of it: the smarter you’re supposed to be, the less anyone actually cares. The substitute drones on about inherited traits. Something about fur patterns. No one is listening.

Heather finishes the stupid crossword they’d been passed down from the front, pushing the paper back and forth between them. She starts huffing and puffing after a few minutes and shoves her pen away with a sigh. It skids across the desk toward Billy.

He flicks it right back at her.

She stares at it for a second, offended that he hasn’t taken the bait, then straightens in her seat with exaggerated dignity. Without warning, she starts doing something weird with her hands—fingers twisting, palms turning—murmuring under her breath.

“Dub. Dub. Dub.”

Over and over.

Billy squints at her. He abandoned the worksheet ages ago and is just circling random words now, trying to make anything interesting.

“What?” he asks.

“Dubs dubs,” Heather says serenely, offering zero explanation. 

Carol looks up from her paper and immediately mirrors Heather’s hand shape, but cleaner, more deliberate. Her ring and pinky fingers tuck together, index and middle fingers crossing just so, leaving a neat V-shaped gap in the middle.

Billy stares.

What the hell are they doing?

Carol glances at him expectantly.

He hesitates, then tries to copy her. His fingers feel too long and stiff, like he’s trying to perform surgery instead of… whatever this is. His attempt looks wrong immediately. Carol cackles.

“What am I doing?” Billy asks them both, still staring at his hands like they’ve betrayed him.

Carol sighs, as if he’s exhausting. “You put this one behind this one.” She switches finger positions to demonstrate—now her middle and ring fingers interlock, pinky and index sticking out at awkward angles.

Billy copies her again, brow furrowed. “Am I doing it?” He turns his hand slightly. “Like this?”

He messes it up.

“Like—this?” Tries to fix it, and messes up again.

Heather keeps whispering “dub dub dub” like she’s summoning something.

“What are you doing?” Carol asks again when he screws it up for the fourth time. He says nothing and tries again. Finally, somehow, his hand mirrors theirs.

“This?” he asks cautiously.

Carol nods, then reaches over and presses his thumb flat against his palm. “Push that down.”

Billy laughs. “This?” His hand looks ridiculous now. Some kind of mutant claw.

“And turn it around,” she adds.

He does, twisting his wrist, still chuckling. “Okay, but what’s it supposed to be?”

Carol leans back and stage-whispers as loudly as the classroom allows, “A double-U.” She traces the shape with her finger.

It clicks.

“Ohhh,” Billy says, loud. “Ohhh!” Some of the kids in front give him looks.

Heather snaps back to life. “Big W.”

Carol smirks. “You’re so dumb.”

“You’re dumb!” Billy shoots back. Did he just waste five minutes on this? “Why didn’t you just say what the fuck you were doing?” 

She scoffs, already bored again, and looks back down at the crossword. “T… L…” she mutters. “What animal part is that?” Billy stares at her for half a second, feeling something inside him strain dangerously.

He smacks the pen out of her hand.

“Tail,” he hisses. “Dumbass.”

{~~~}

The bell rings, and they claim a spot by the lockers. Five minutes before the next class begins.

Carol leans back against the metal, Heather perched half-sideways beside her, while Billy squints down at his timetable. “Okay,” he mutters, tracing a finger down the page. He’s real fucking bad with directions. “Room… two-oh-seven? Or is that—no. That’s yesterday.”

Heather laughs, “You’re hopeless.” Before he can argue, Tommy drifts past on his way to class, backpack slung low. Carol lights up instantly.

“Tommy!” She grabs his sleeve and yanks him in without warning. He stumbles, laughs, and immediately forgets wherever he was supposed to be going. They fall into each other like magnets, arms around waists, foreheads touching.

Heather lets out a long, suffering groan. “Urgh,” she huffs, moving away so quickly that the door squeaks. She turns to Billy and jerks her chin toward them, making a face that clearly says Can these two get a room?

Billy barely cares. He’s still frowning at his paper, lips moving silently as he tries to decode his next class. Then Heather’s expression changes.

She squints past him.

“Oh—ew,” she says suddenly, pointing over his shoulder. Billy turns.

And there they are.

Harrington, pressed back against the lockers, Wheeler practically climbing him. Her hands are fisted in his sweater, his mouth tilted down into hers like they’ve forgotten they’re in a public hallway full of witnesses.

A collective groan ripples through their little group. Billy’s stomach twists, sharp and unpleasant. He immediately labels it annoyance and shoves it down. Obviously. Who wouldn’t be annoyed? Tommy pulls back from Carol, scowling. “Time and place, Jesus.”

Billy snorts. “Oh, please. You two are practically conjoined.” Carol snaps her gum and grins.

“What? You don’t enjoy the show?”

“Not when you inhale each other’s faces,” 

Heather gags theatrically. 

The second bell rings, final warning, and everyone starts moving back into motion. Wheeler and Harrington break apart reluctantly, laughing, hands lingering way too long before they separate and disappear into the crowd. Billy folds his timetable, finally spotting the right room. “Okay,” he says, already stepping back. “I’m gone.”

Heather waves him off. Carol barely notices, too busy tugging Tommy along with her. Billy heads down the hall, that weird tight feeling lingers in his chest.

It’s nothing.

{~~~}

Billy doesn’t say goodbye to anyone.

They’re let out five minutes early, and the teacher reached the conclusion that trying to teach Religious Studies to a room full of exhausted teenagers who do not care is a losing battle. Good man.

Besides, why would he linger?

His new group probably wouldn’t notice if he vanished. So he doesn’t give them the chance. He heads straight for the parking lot, keys already in hand. He’s gotta pick up Maxine, drop by Meldav’s to pick up the groceries Susan’s needs and wash his gym clothes all before Neil gets back. He’s just pulling his door open when—

“Hargrove!”

He turns.

Eddie Munson is weaving across the lot toward him, long strides uneven, like his legs can’t agree on a rhythm. There’s a jitter to him, restless energy barely contained, curls bouncing with every step.

Billy leans against the open car door and watches him approach, unimpressed but curious. Munson finally stops in front of him, shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, rocks back on his heels.

“You gave it to Tommy.”

Billy blinks. It takes a few moments for him to catch on to what the other is saying. “Oh,” he says. “Yeah. My old man’s annoying about smells.”

Munson lets out a short, amused huff, shaking his head. “Man. You really should’ve told me. Caused me a whole lotta grief back there.”

Billy scoffs. “Yeah. I heard.”

Munson sighs, dramatic and mournful, like he’s personally betrayed by the universe. “Now Hagan’s got it.”

Billy tilts his head, smirking. “Not a fan?” Seems like a lot of people don't like them.

Munson snorts. “Hell no.”

He shrugs. “We're in the same circle. What makes me different?” The guy looks at him for a second, then shrugs back.

“You’re nice,” he says easily. “He’s… not.” That does something unexpected. Billy looks away, suddenly very interested in the chipped paint on his car door. Munson clears his throat, already backing up. “Anyway. I’ll see you around, California. Maybe I’ll give you a discount next time.”

He pauses, grinning. “Maybe not.”

Billy laughs despite himself, calling after him as Munson turns away, “More likely not!” Munson lifts a hand in farewell without looking back.

He gets into his car smiling, starts the engine, and pulls out

Billy pulls out of the high school lot and heads for the middle school, he parks in his usual spot, engine idling, just in time to hear the high school bell ring in the distance. Through the thin line of trees separating the two campuses, he watches students spill out like ants from a cracked sidewalk.

Heather’s large bun paired with Chrissy’s bright hair makes it easy to spot the pair posted up by the brick wall near the side entrance, already mid-conversation. Carol comes out next with Tommy, and they walk hand in hand. Billy rolls his eyes and looks away. But when he looks back, something completely different is happening.

Suddenly, Jason is right in front of Chrissy, touching up on her way too much. He sits up straighter, eyes going straight to Heather. The lot of them turn into a little blur with how fast everyone’s moving.

Heather’s body language sharpens instantly, hands flying as she starts pointing, jaw moving a mile a minute. Jason stands tall, all broad and defensive in posture. Chrissy’s stuck in the middle, eyes wide, hands moving forward as she pushes Heather away.

Jason grabs Chrissy’s wrist, not hard but enough, and steers her toward his own car. Heather shouts something after them that Billy can’t hear, clearly furious. The apparent new couple doesn’t look back. They peel out of the lot.

Billy stares after them. 

Heather stands there for a moment, seething, before stalking toward her own car. He doesn’t know where the fuck Patrick is, and Carol looks like she could give less of a two shits about the outburst.

Tomorrow is going to be… interesting.

The middle school bell rings.

Billy turns back to the other side, scanning the kids who pour out, loud and small, with backpacks bouncing against their legs. He settles back in his seat and waits. A car pulls in and parks directly beside him.

He frowns.

There’s an entire parking lot. 

He watches as the woman steps out, nice coat, big hair. She catches him looking.

She smiles.

Billy blinks, thrown. Does she think he’s a dad? He nods awkwardly and gives a half-assed wave, already regretting it.

Her smile brightens.

She walks away.

…Okay.

Time stretches painfully.

Most of the children clear out. Maxine is taking her sweet fucking time, and Billy has to pretend very hard that the woman does not exist when she comes back with her ugly kid and definitely tries to catch his eye again. He stares straight ahead like his life depends on it.

Finally—finally—she stomps out of the school doors, scowl locked in place, a random boy trailing after her. She snaps something at him and yanks her backpack higher on her shoulder, storming toward the car. The kid stops short, clearly thinking better of it, and retreats back inside.

Max slams the passenger door.

Billy stares at her. “Um,” he says slowly. “What the hell was that about?”

Silence.

He starts the engine. “Max.” 

If looks could kill, the poor bird pecking at the floor by her window would be twice over dead. He indicates and turns to the main road. “Max”. 

She coils tighter in the seat.

“Maxine.”

Nothing.

He's getting a little pissed off. 

“Was that kid bothering you?”

“No!” she snaps.

He brakes hard in the middle of the road, and she has to throw her hands out in front to stop from face planting into the glove box. A car honks behind. “Don’t fucking shout at me!” Billy yells.

She still says nothing.

The rest of the drive is silent.