Nevermore
Nevermore
Whenever Richard Cory went down to town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentlemen from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
Billie Joe had blue hair this week because his stepfather said it was stupid. Billie Joe went over to Mike's house and bleached his hair with peroxide, then used blue Kool-Aid and food coloring on it.
Billie Joe had a Sex Pistols shirt on today because his stepfather told him couldn't wear it. He lifted it from the mall along with the eyeliner his stepfather claimed was 'queer'. Mike's sister helped Billie use it and Mike laughed every time he screwed it up.
Billie Joe looked sad this week. Mike couldn't figure that one out.
---
"Hey, fag." One of the jocks that was in the running from prom king leaned against the locker next to Billie's.
Mike frowned and Billie rolled his eyes. "No points for originality, Johnson."
"Hey, who's the top and who's the bottom?" Johnson sneered.
"Someone's really interested in gay sex." Billie snapped back. "Doing research?"
Mike snickered behind his hand. Eric glared at him and then at Billie Joe again. "You'd better watch it Queer Boy."
"Yeah, yeah." Billie waved his hand impatiently.
Eric smirked at the stack of magazines on the shelf in Billie's locker. "What are those? Playgirl?" The second his fingers got close to Billie's locker, the younger boy slammed the door on it.
Half of the hallway turned to stare at the quarterback cursing and cradling his hand.
Billie gave a bit of sadistic grin. "Oh, yeah. There's a game tonight, isn't there? Why don't you go tell Coach a fag broke your fingers?"
Mr. Russell, the English teacher (and the only teacher Billie halfway liked) pushed through the crowd of teenagers. "Johnson, Armstrong. Principal's office. Now."
Billie smiled and shut his locker (on no one's fingers this time) and spun the combination lock. "Sure thing. See ya, Mike."
Mike rolled his eyes and head for Algebra. He would have offered to get Billie Joe's assignment. However, as Billie's math book was currently being used to hold his window open, he doubted it would matter.
---
Meanwhile, Billie Joe was weaving another story. His philosophy was that if you were going down you might as well get as much fun out of it as possible.
"I was just standing there talking with Mike--"
"--your boyfriend." Eric interrupted.
"Not my boyfriend. I know you're saving yourself for him."
"Fucking queer."
"Language, Mr. Johnson." Mrs. Ryans, the principal, said tiredly. "Mr. Armstrong, what reasoning could there be for slamming your hand in someone's locker door?"
"Oh, you know. He tried to kiss me and all--"
"Bullshit!"
"Mr. Armstrong." the principal said impatiently.
"He was trying to take my magazines." Billie said, rolling his eyes. Like that version was interesting. "So, do I get suspended or expelled?"
"Neither."
Both Eric and Billie stared at her. "I slammed his fucking hand in my locker! The quarterback's hand! And I don't even get suspended?"
"Seriously, Mrs. Ryans, I think everyone would benefit if--"
"Quiet. Mr. Johnson. Nurse, now."
Billie sat there glaring, arms crossed as the principal scribbled Eric a pass.
"You're going to see the guidance counselor." she informed Billie.
"You're kidding." He'd rather apologize to Eric. Or kiss Mike at an assembly. Or a million other things.
"No, I am not kidding. And fi there's a repeat incident, you'll be seeing a lot more of Miss Kice. And I'll know if you didn't make it to her office." she warned, handing Billie a pass.
He walked as slowly as possible, untying and retying the laces of his boots. He stopped int he doorway of the math room to flip off Mike. As slow as he was, it only took him ten minutes to enter the guidance office. It was full of plants. A quick glance informed him none of them were pot.
"Billie Joe?" a female voice asked from a closet. A plain faced woman in her early thirties poked her head out.
He laid his pass on the table without a word, just a quick nod of his head. The woman emerged with a stapler in her hand. She pointed at another door. "I've got to take care of some papers. It'll only take a minute. Go have a seat."
Billie shrugged and opened the door. More plants, no marijuana. He sat down in the seat further from the plants. He entertained himself for a minute pondering if Miss Kice had ever used them to strangle students.
Then she breezed into the room, sitting down in her seat, across from Billie Joe. "Upset about the lack of suspension?"
Billie shrugged.
"I see you were expelled about a week ago from another school. Want to tell me about it?"
"I cursed at a teacher."
"Any reason for that?"
"He was an idiot." Billie snapped. "Let's his students get away with murder and calls me queer for piercing my ear."
"Isn't that the same reason for your fight with Eric?" Miss Kice asked.
"Yeah. People are stupid. I'm not gay. Just because I hang out with Mike so much . . ."
"Mike?"
"Pritchard. We met in Junior High. He transferred schools with me." Billie said. He thought it was 'fucking sweet' Mike had switched schools. He never thought it was anything more.
"Best friends?"
Billie nodded. "Yeah."
"Big thing switching schools for someone. You two must be really close." Miss Kice commented.
"We're not dating!" Billie snapped.
"I wasn't implying you were." she said coolly. "It's no small thing to uproot for someone."
Billie Joe shrugged and looked out the window. "Why do you have so many plants?"
"Grew up in the country. I need vegetation." she said simply. "You lived her your whole life?"
"Rodeo. Then Berkeley. But I've been here longer. I hate plants." Well, most plants.
"Why?"
Billie ran a hand through his blue hair. "I don't know. I mean, they live. They sit there and you have to take care of them and then they die. What's the point?"
"The point is they live."
Billie rolled his eyes. "I'm not suicidal. Plants don't really live. They just sit there. Except Venus flytraps. Those are cool. You should get a couple of those."
Miss Kice smiled. "Why don't you tell me why you and Eric fought, Billie Joe?"
"He put his hand in my locker. My locker. Not his."
"Are you usually that possessive of your space?"
Billie glared at her. "Guys like that try to walk all over guys like me. I don't let them. Besides, what the hell does he need guitar magazines for? Like he can even read."
"Language."
"Why are people so worried about swearing?" Billie asked, an edge in his voice. "Kids smoke in the locker rooms and have sex in closets. Worry about that." He didn't mention he was one of the kids who smoked in the locker room . . . and the parking lot . . . and the shop.
"We're discussing you, Billie. Unless you're one of those kids--"
"I'm not." he lied with a bored tone to his voice. "I'd pick the teacher's lounge."
Miss Kice smiled. "Who do you live with, Billie?"
"Mom, her husband. Holly's a senior."
"Your mother's husband?"
"My stepdad." Billie said shortly. "I don't want to talk about him."
"Did your parents divorce?"
"My dad died when I was ten. Mom married him when I was twelve. He's a dick."
"Language."
"Fine. He's a penis." Billie snapped.
Miss Kice's expression was unreadable. "Are there lots of fights at home?"
"Just me and him mostly. Mom and me get along. Holly's never there." Billie said all of this blandly as if he were reading from a book.
"What are the fights about?"
"I said I didn't want to talk about him." Billie snarled. "So drop it."
"I can't help you if--"
"I don't need your help. I didn't ask to be here."
"Well, you are here. Until the end of the day. Minus lunch."
"I won't talk about him." Billie insisted. "You can't make me."
"I know." she admitted. "Why don't you pick the subject then?"
"I don't care."
"You said you had guitar magazines." Miss Kice recalled. "Do you play?"
"Yeah. I'm in a band." Billie's voice brightened slightly at this. "Mike's bass and I'm guitar and I sing and another guy does drums. Sweet Children."
"Do you do covers?"
Billie made a face. "Once in awhile. I write. And Mike helps me sometimes. It's mostly me."
"You write songs?" Miss Kice asked. "That's impressive."
"Don't patronize me. I don't like it." Billie said, slumping down in his seat again.
"I wasn't." she said. "It is impressive. With your age and the fact that you're flunking English." Her voice was slightly coy at that last remark.
Billie grinned. "School sucks. If you're going to play music why does it matter if you pass English? I don't care about Shakespeare. He doesn't help me write."
"Do you like any subject in school?"
Billie thought for a minute, biting the inside of his lip. "Shop, I guess. Taking stuff apart. Art's not bad. You can do whatever you want in there. Mr. Vens doesn't care."
"You're a sophomore?"
Billie nodded and pulled his foot into his lap, playing with the laces. "Yeah."
"What do you usually do after school?"
"Practice. Work. Whatever." Billie shrugged.
"Where do you work?" Miss Kice asked.
"At this cafe. My mom works there. Mike and I clear off the tables."
Miss Kice crossed her legs. "Drinking? Drugs? Smoking?"
Billie smirked. "Even if I did that stuff do you really think I'd tell you?"
"Nothing leaves this room, Billie Joe." the guidance counselor said seriously.
"Whatever. I'm still not telling you. You think you can talk to me for a half hour and get me to spill my life secrets? I'm not five, you know. A piece of candy and bullshit doesn't work on me. Language, language. I know."
"Could you write something?" Miss Kice asked.
"No." Billie said quickly.
"Why not? It might be easier for--"
"I can't write something for you." Billie said. "I can't write something for anyone. I only write for myself. That's it. End of deal and discussion."
She nodded. "Tell me something you've written then. If it's a song, I'm assuming you have it memorized."
Billie rolled his eyes. "Can I have a pen?"
Miss Kice handed him a pen and a piece of paper.
Billie scribbled out a few line from '409 in Your Coffee Maker' and handed it to her.
It should seem obvious to you
Your screams & cries are never going to work
And all of your time gets wasted
In my daze
"Why'd you write it?"
"I put 409 in my teacher's coffee in middle school and she kept yelling at me and I didn't really care." Billie said, shrugging. "They're stupid. They think if they wave their hands around enough and yell enough and beg enough that you'll actually care. It's dumb. I don't care about school. I never will."
"409 in her coffee?" Miss Kice asked.
Billie shrugged. "Not enough to kill her or anything. Mike couldn't stop laughing."
"Did you do it to impress Mike?"
Billie gave her a weird look with an eyebrow raised. "I did it because my teacher was stupid and 409 was the only thing to put in her coffee." He put on an arrogant smile. "I impress Mike naturally." It was meant as a joke.
---
Mike couldn't take notes. Which was pissing him off because he really didn't understand the English assignment. But Billie Joe had mouthed 'guidance office' when he stopped in front of the math room and Mike had been worried ever since.
"Mr. Pritchard? Can you tell me the irony of 'Richard Corey'?"
Mike looked at Mr. Russell. "Sure. Everyone thinks he's happy and then one night he goes home and blows his fu--. I mean, blows his brains out. Kills himself. Everyone was jealous and the guy's unhappy. Irony."
Well, everyone knows Billie Joe's unhappy and hates irony, so I guess I don't have to worry about him blowing his brains out.
Mike went back to doodling names of songs Billie had written on the page he was supposed to be taking notes on. He really hoped the guidance counselor chick let Billie out for lunch. He hated when Billie ditched school. He never had anyone to eat with. He usually just left the grounds and had a cigarette. It was the same at their last school. And junior high.
Billie and Mike against the world. Which was fine. Until Billie was missing and it was just Mike against the world. Mike wasn't as good at it as Billie Joe.
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
---
"Do you want to get expelled?"
Billie Joe shrugged. "If it happens, sure. Cool, whatever. I'd rather just get suspended."
"Don't you worry about getting held back?"
Billie laughed. "Yeah, right. With Mike nagging me? No. I do just enough to pass and he forces me to take whatever final. Mike gets straight A's."
"Really? How did you two end up meeting?"
"Cafeteria." Billie Joe said. "Someone said something to me and Mike tripped them. I got a detention for him the next week."
"So, you've always had this . . . temper issue."
Billie shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. Not when I was a little little kid, but . . . later." After Dad got diagnosed.
"W-We couldn't afford the treatment." he said. He'd never even told Mike this. "And I hated anyone who could just throw money away. And Mike wasn't like that. He went to the funeral with me. He goes with me every year."
"It's normal to fight against a loss. What you're feeling is--"
"You don't know what I'm feeling." Billie snapped. "Don't compare me to some stupid statistic you read in a medical journal three years ago. Or a case study. It's not comparable."
Miss Kice sighed as the bell rang. " That's lunch. I expect you up here when it's over. No, you will be up here. Otherwise you'll just fail my expectations."
Billie Joe chanced a grin at her. Not too bad.
---
"So, they're making you bullshit some counselor chick instead of suspension?"
"I'd rather be suspended." Billie said, throwing the food from his tray into the trash untouched. "I want a smoke."
Mike took one look at the 'lunch' on his tray and decided a cigarette would probably be a better meal anyway.
They went outside and scaled the fence easily enough. Then they sat on the curb and Billie pulled the cigarettes from his pocket. He always carried them. He said he didn't want to put a scratch on Mike's record.
They sat there for awhile, not really talking. "Does it suck that bad?" Mike finally asked. "The counseling thing?"
"Yeah." Billie said. "They think that if they talk to you for five minutes they know you. She's already tried to put me in a mold. And she's got fucking plants everywhere. She's really fucked up."
They both laughed, but it was kind of forced and Mike held out the lighter for Billie's third cigarette. "You know . . . you can talk to me . . . I mean, if you needed to or whatever."
Billie grinned and exhaled. "Awww . . . don't go getting all mushy on me, Mikey." But he smiled, a real smile for the first time in awhile. "You're my best friend. I know I can talk to you."
"You don't." Mike said bluntly.
"I know." Billie gave a half smile. "Just because I can do something doesn't mean I will."
"Yeah, it's only a guarantee if you can't do it." Mike joked.
The bell rang and Billie swore, putting out his cigarette. "Meet me after school, okay? By my locker?"
"Yeah, sure. You crashing at my place tonight?"
Billie grinned. "Duh. It's my birthday. You really think I'm going to spend it at home?"
"Won't your mom want to see you?"
"I'd rather shoot myself than see him on my birthday. What's wrong? You don't want me?"
But that sentence was echoing in Mike's head. 'I'd rather shoot myself . . .'
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
---
"It's your birthday." Miss Kice said when Billie came into her office. "I read your file."
"Yeah, so? I know it's my birthday. I'm fifteen." Billie said, shrugging.
"Do you have anything planned? Your family do anything? A tradition maybe?" She was prying, but she so desperately wanted Billie Joe to open up. That was why she took this job. Kids like him. Kids who refused to talk. If she could open them up, even a little, she did her job right.
"I'm not going home tonight. I'm going to Mike's."
"Your parents know about that?"
Billie Joe smirked. "I left a note on the table. Mom'll find it when she gets home from work."
"Do you usually do that? Not get permission from your parents?"
"The only parent I have is my mom. And it wouldn't matter anyway. I'd be home with him until she got off work. I'd rather peel my own skin. And no . . . I don't cut."
"You think you have therapists, counselors . . . all figured out, don't you? You think I have you all figured out."
Billie Joe shrugged. "It's always the same. Talking, trying to get inside my head, deciding I'm a lost cause and moving on. Same cycle. I just got sick of going in circles."
---
Mike was in Art. He hated this class. He only took it because Billie Joe was in it. Their schedules were identical except for an AP Biology class Billie wasn't in. He glanced at the teacher's desk. Like he cared anyway.
Mike opened his math book and flipped to page 132. Might as well get his homework done. Billie Joe wouldn't be in the mood to watch him do it tonight.
But instead of figuring out quadratic formulas, he found himself writing the last two lines to 'Richard Corey' over and over.
He was worried about Billie Joe. He'd been worried all week. Ever since his best friend came into class with that bruise and wouldn't tell him where it came from. Ever since he was going out of his way doubly to piss of his stepdad . . . ever since his eyes turned to a darker shade of green.
But Billie Joe would tell him if something really bad was going on. Right?
---
Billie Joe and Miss Kice were having a war of silence. Neither was saying anything, just sort of looking at each other.
God, he's difficult.
Billie's thoughts were slightly different. Oh, I wish I were an Oscar Meyer wiener . . . that is what I'd truly like to be. Because if I were an Oscar Meyer wiener . . . everyone would be in love with--- Oh fuck it. God, she's a bitch.
Billie won the silence war.
"You smell like smoke."
He smirked. "Do I?"
"If you're a singer, you shouldn't smoke."
"Frankly, I don't give a shit what you think I should or shouldn't do." He had a smirk on his face she wish she could rip off. If she made an inch of progress he turned into an obnoxious brat.
"That's part of your mentality, right? You pretend not to care and then lash out when you really do? Is that what happened with Eric Johnson?" Her voice wasn't all that sweet anymore.
"Oooh, snideness from the guidance counselor." Billie said, rolling his eyes. "I don't care. It's part of the whole punk thing. Do whatever the fuck you want, consequences be damned."
"What is punk?"
"Honesty."
"That might be the first real thing you've said all day."
---
Mike was staring out the window, tapping his pen on his notebook. This was his last class.
"Mr. Pritchard?" the teacher asked. Mike jumped and looked up. What was up with the teachers calling him Mr.? Wasn't that what you were supposed to call the teacher? "Are you with us?"
"Yeah, sure. Whatever. George Washington." It sounded like something Billie Joe would say. Mike turned back to the window as the class laughed.
"We're talking about World War II."
"Hitler then." Mike said without turning his head.
"We're talking about the people in the extermination camps, not Hitler."
"Well, you picked a depressing subject." Mike said, looking at the history teacher. "I'd rather not participate. See, I'm mentally unhinged and discussing people dying has a tendency to make me come unglued."
That was definitely Billie Joe talking.
Fortunately, the bell rang.
Mike grabbed his books, dodging the teacher on his way out. Billie's locker, Billie's locker. The blue-haired boy was waiting when Mike got upstairs. "Homework?" Billie Joe asked.
"Fuck it." Mike said, throwing his history book into Billie's locker. "It's your birthday. I'll do it during study hall."
Billie smiled and grabbed his book bag. "Got vodka." he muttered. "Stole it from the liquor cabinet."
Mike grinned. "Good call."
---
Stoned. Drunk. Thank God no one was home. Especially when Billie Joe lost it like he never did on a high. Mike always said things he never meant to, but Billie was pretty good about keeping his secrets secret.
"You a virgin?" he asked.
Slowly, Mike nodded. "Yeah."
"I'm not." Billie said bluntly. "I lost it last weekend."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Mike asked.
Billie looked at his hands. "I didn't want to lose it last weekend."
* * *
"Stop it." Billie Joe said, pushing at the hands that held onto his hips.
"You need to get those pants off." the drunken voice said.
"No."
He was rewarded with a backhanded slap across the face. "Shut up. You're a fucking fag and you want it. Just shut the fuck up."
"Leave me alone." Billie was struggling, but it wasn't working. He was five foot four and thin as hell and his arms were fucking sticks.
"Not a chance in hell. And if you don't shut up I'm going to tear you."
Billie froze. He knew what that meant. He knew he couldn't face anyone if he couldn't even sit down. They would ask questions. God, fucking Mike would asking questions.
"Goooood boy." the man slurred. "Good boy."
* * *
"You . . . you didn't want to?" Mike asked. "What does that mean?"
"Got raped." Billie said. "Is there anymore vodka?"
"By who?"
Billie grinned. "I'll give you three guesses."
"This isn't funny, Billie Joe." Mike snapped. "Stop making it into a game."
"Isn't life just one big fucked up game?" Billie asked. "You turn the wheel and it always says 'lose a turn' or 'go back three spaces'. Only when you go back three spaces you're in your mom's bed and her husband's got his cock in you."
Mike froze. "Greg? Greg raped you?"
Billie Joe gave a sort of giggle that turned into a dry sob. And that turned into a real sob. He threw his arms around Mike's neck and started bawling into his shoulder. "God, it hurt so bad. And he wouldn't stop kissing me. And it was my mom's fucking bed!"
"Y-You have to tell someone." Mike whispered, running his fingers through Billie's hair, his other hand rubbing his back.
"I told you." Billie mumbled through his tears. "I told you. You're the only one I trust. And you can't tell. Promise me you won't tell, Mike. Promise."
"I-I promise."
But Mike knew this was a promise he'd have to break.
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
---
Billie Joe slept in Mike's arms that night, his head under Mike's chin. Mike stayed up all night, thinking.
Would it help Billie Joe if he told? Would it really? Or would the police just fuck it up and then Greg would keep doing it or do it worse? Would Greg do it again anyway?
And then Mike knew what he had to do.
---
He wasn't very good at this. Billie Joe was usually the one who lifted everything. But he managed to steal some snotty lady's purse and found about three hundred dollars inside.
Bus tickets.
"I can't leave my mom." Billie said. "And Holly. What if he does something to them? And Mom'll freak. You know that. And you can't just leave everything. It's not fair! It's not fucking fair."
---
I didn't know. Honest I didn't. He went home and he said he was going to get some clothes and then come to my place. I didn't know. I swear to God I didn't.
I was waiting in the driveway in the truck I couldn't legally drive. And I heard the yell and the scream and I was halfway to the door when I heard the gunshot.
Fuck! Oh, God. Billie! My voice wouldn't work. I wrenched the door open. And there was Billie Joe, standing with a gun in his hand and staring at the man lying dead on the floor and he was crying and the blood was running.
"H-He came toward me. He was going to do it again. It was just there, Mike."
"Give me the gun, Billie."
He did. I went to the bathroom and wiped it, then wrapped it in a towel. "Come on."
"Mike, I just killed him."
"I know. But we have to get out of the house."
"Self-defense." he mumbled.
He took the gun from me as we heard sirens. Fucking neighbors can't mind their own business. He threw the towel on the floor and got his prints on the gun.
The cops opened the door and Billie dropped the gun.
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
---
He got off. His mother couldn't talk to him for a month. She understood, but she didn't. It was hard for her. Holly moved out.
Billie moved in with me and dropped out of school. He told Miss Kice though and he visits her once in awhile.
He kissed me last month. On the cheek. Said he felt like it.
I don't understand. Billie Joe's gone. I don't know who took his place.
But he was getting better. And then . . .
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentlemen from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
Billie Joe had blue hair this week because his stepfather said it was stupid. Billie Joe went over to Mike's house and bleached his hair with peroxide, then used blue Kool-Aid and food coloring on it.
Billie Joe had a Sex Pistols shirt on today because his stepfather told him couldn't wear it. He lifted it from the mall along with the eyeliner his stepfather claimed was 'queer'. Mike's sister helped Billie use it and Mike laughed every time he screwed it up.
Billie Joe looked sad this week. Mike couldn't figure that one out.
---
"Hey, fag." One of the jocks that was in the running from prom king leaned against the locker next to Billie's.
Mike frowned and Billie rolled his eyes. "No points for originality, Johnson."
"Hey, who's the top and who's the bottom?" Johnson sneered.
"Someone's really interested in gay sex." Billie snapped back. "Doing research?"
Mike snickered behind his hand. Eric glared at him and then at Billie Joe again. "You'd better watch it Queer Boy."
"Yeah, yeah." Billie waved his hand impatiently.
Eric smirked at the stack of magazines on the shelf in Billie's locker. "What are those? Playgirl?" The second his fingers got close to Billie's locker, the younger boy slammed the door on it.
Half of the hallway turned to stare at the quarterback cursing and cradling his hand.
Billie gave a bit of sadistic grin. "Oh, yeah. There's a game tonight, isn't there? Why don't you go tell Coach a fag broke your fingers?"
Mr. Russell, the English teacher (and the only teacher Billie halfway liked) pushed through the crowd of teenagers. "Johnson, Armstrong. Principal's office. Now."
Billie smiled and shut his locker (on no one's fingers this time) and spun the combination lock. "Sure thing. See ya, Mike."
Mike rolled his eyes and head for Algebra. He would have offered to get Billie Joe's assignment. However, as Billie's math book was currently being used to hold his window open, he doubted it would matter.
---
Meanwhile, Billie Joe was weaving another story. His philosophy was that if you were going down you might as well get as much fun out of it as possible.
"I was just standing there talking with Mike--"
"--your boyfriend." Eric interrupted.
"Not my boyfriend. I know you're saving yourself for him."
"Fucking queer."
"Language, Mr. Johnson." Mrs. Ryans, the principal, said tiredly. "Mr. Armstrong, what reasoning could there be for slamming your hand in someone's locker door?"
"Oh, you know. He tried to kiss me and all--"
"Bullshit!"
"Mr. Armstrong." the principal said impatiently.
"He was trying to take my magazines." Billie said, rolling his eyes. Like that version was interesting. "So, do I get suspended or expelled?"
"Neither."
Both Eric and Billie stared at her. "I slammed his fucking hand in my locker! The quarterback's hand! And I don't even get suspended?"
"Seriously, Mrs. Ryans, I think everyone would benefit if--"
"Quiet. Mr. Johnson. Nurse, now."
Billie sat there glaring, arms crossed as the principal scribbled Eric a pass.
"You're going to see the guidance counselor." she informed Billie.
"You're kidding." He'd rather apologize to Eric. Or kiss Mike at an assembly. Or a million other things.
"No, I am not kidding. And fi there's a repeat incident, you'll be seeing a lot more of Miss Kice. And I'll know if you didn't make it to her office." she warned, handing Billie a pass.
He walked as slowly as possible, untying and retying the laces of his boots. He stopped int he doorway of the math room to flip off Mike. As slow as he was, it only took him ten minutes to enter the guidance office. It was full of plants. A quick glance informed him none of them were pot.
"Billie Joe?" a female voice asked from a closet. A plain faced woman in her early thirties poked her head out.
He laid his pass on the table without a word, just a quick nod of his head. The woman emerged with a stapler in her hand. She pointed at another door. "I've got to take care of some papers. It'll only take a minute. Go have a seat."
Billie shrugged and opened the door. More plants, no marijuana. He sat down in the seat further from the plants. He entertained himself for a minute pondering if Miss Kice had ever used them to strangle students.
Then she breezed into the room, sitting down in her seat, across from Billie Joe. "Upset about the lack of suspension?"
Billie shrugged.
"I see you were expelled about a week ago from another school. Want to tell me about it?"
"I cursed at a teacher."
"Any reason for that?"
"He was an idiot." Billie snapped. "Let's his students get away with murder and calls me queer for piercing my ear."
"Isn't that the same reason for your fight with Eric?" Miss Kice asked.
"Yeah. People are stupid. I'm not gay. Just because I hang out with Mike so much . . ."
"Mike?"
"Pritchard. We met in Junior High. He transferred schools with me." Billie said. He thought it was 'fucking sweet' Mike had switched schools. He never thought it was anything more.
"Best friends?"
Billie nodded. "Yeah."
"Big thing switching schools for someone. You two must be really close." Miss Kice commented.
"We're not dating!" Billie snapped.
"I wasn't implying you were." she said coolly. "It's no small thing to uproot for someone."
Billie Joe shrugged and looked out the window. "Why do you have so many plants?"
"Grew up in the country. I need vegetation." she said simply. "You lived her your whole life?"
"Rodeo. Then Berkeley. But I've been here longer. I hate plants." Well, most plants.
"Why?"
Billie ran a hand through his blue hair. "I don't know. I mean, they live. They sit there and you have to take care of them and then they die. What's the point?"
"The point is they live."
Billie rolled his eyes. "I'm not suicidal. Plants don't really live. They just sit there. Except Venus flytraps. Those are cool. You should get a couple of those."
Miss Kice smiled. "Why don't you tell me why you and Eric fought, Billie Joe?"
"He put his hand in my locker. My locker. Not his."
"Are you usually that possessive of your space?"
Billie glared at her. "Guys like that try to walk all over guys like me. I don't let them. Besides, what the hell does he need guitar magazines for? Like he can even read."
"Language."
"Why are people so worried about swearing?" Billie asked, an edge in his voice. "Kids smoke in the locker rooms and have sex in closets. Worry about that." He didn't mention he was one of the kids who smoked in the locker room . . . and the parking lot . . . and the shop.
"We're discussing you, Billie. Unless you're one of those kids--"
"I'm not." he lied with a bored tone to his voice. "I'd pick the teacher's lounge."
Miss Kice smiled. "Who do you live with, Billie?"
"Mom, her husband. Holly's a senior."
"Your mother's husband?"
"My stepdad." Billie said shortly. "I don't want to talk about him."
"Did your parents divorce?"
"My dad died when I was ten. Mom married him when I was twelve. He's a dick."
"Language."
"Fine. He's a penis." Billie snapped.
Miss Kice's expression was unreadable. "Are there lots of fights at home?"
"Just me and him mostly. Mom and me get along. Holly's never there." Billie said all of this blandly as if he were reading from a book.
"What are the fights about?"
"I said I didn't want to talk about him." Billie snarled. "So drop it."
"I can't help you if--"
"I don't need your help. I didn't ask to be here."
"Well, you are here. Until the end of the day. Minus lunch."
"I won't talk about him." Billie insisted. "You can't make me."
"I know." she admitted. "Why don't you pick the subject then?"
"I don't care."
"You said you had guitar magazines." Miss Kice recalled. "Do you play?"
"Yeah. I'm in a band." Billie's voice brightened slightly at this. "Mike's bass and I'm guitar and I sing and another guy does drums. Sweet Children."
"Do you do covers?"
Billie made a face. "Once in awhile. I write. And Mike helps me sometimes. It's mostly me."
"You write songs?" Miss Kice asked. "That's impressive."
"Don't patronize me. I don't like it." Billie said, slumping down in his seat again.
"I wasn't." she said. "It is impressive. With your age and the fact that you're flunking English." Her voice was slightly coy at that last remark.
Billie grinned. "School sucks. If you're going to play music why does it matter if you pass English? I don't care about Shakespeare. He doesn't help me write."
"Do you like any subject in school?"
Billie thought for a minute, biting the inside of his lip. "Shop, I guess. Taking stuff apart. Art's not bad. You can do whatever you want in there. Mr. Vens doesn't care."
"You're a sophomore?"
Billie nodded and pulled his foot into his lap, playing with the laces. "Yeah."
"What do you usually do after school?"
"Practice. Work. Whatever." Billie shrugged.
"Where do you work?" Miss Kice asked.
"At this cafe. My mom works there. Mike and I clear off the tables."
Miss Kice crossed her legs. "Drinking? Drugs? Smoking?"
Billie smirked. "Even if I did that stuff do you really think I'd tell you?"
"Nothing leaves this room, Billie Joe." the guidance counselor said seriously.
"Whatever. I'm still not telling you. You think you can talk to me for a half hour and get me to spill my life secrets? I'm not five, you know. A piece of candy and bullshit doesn't work on me. Language, language. I know."
"Could you write something?" Miss Kice asked.
"No." Billie said quickly.
"Why not? It might be easier for--"
"I can't write something for you." Billie said. "I can't write something for anyone. I only write for myself. That's it. End of deal and discussion."
She nodded. "Tell me something you've written then. If it's a song, I'm assuming you have it memorized."
Billie rolled his eyes. "Can I have a pen?"
Miss Kice handed him a pen and a piece of paper.
Billie scribbled out a few line from '409 in Your Coffee Maker' and handed it to her.
It should seem obvious to you
Your screams & cries are never going to work
And all of your time gets wasted
In my daze
"Why'd you write it?"
"I put 409 in my teacher's coffee in middle school and she kept yelling at me and I didn't really care." Billie said, shrugging. "They're stupid. They think if they wave their hands around enough and yell enough and beg enough that you'll actually care. It's dumb. I don't care about school. I never will."
"409 in her coffee?" Miss Kice asked.
Billie shrugged. "Not enough to kill her or anything. Mike couldn't stop laughing."
"Did you do it to impress Mike?"
Billie gave her a weird look with an eyebrow raised. "I did it because my teacher was stupid and 409 was the only thing to put in her coffee." He put on an arrogant smile. "I impress Mike naturally." It was meant as a joke.
---
Mike couldn't take notes. Which was pissing him off because he really didn't understand the English assignment. But Billie Joe had mouthed 'guidance office' when he stopped in front of the math room and Mike had been worried ever since.
"Mr. Pritchard? Can you tell me the irony of 'Richard Corey'?"
Mike looked at Mr. Russell. "Sure. Everyone thinks he's happy and then one night he goes home and blows his fu--. I mean, blows his brains out. Kills himself. Everyone was jealous and the guy's unhappy. Irony."
Well, everyone knows Billie Joe's unhappy and hates irony, so I guess I don't have to worry about him blowing his brains out.
Mike went back to doodling names of songs Billie had written on the page he was supposed to be taking notes on. He really hoped the guidance counselor chick let Billie out for lunch. He hated when Billie ditched school. He never had anyone to eat with. He usually just left the grounds and had a cigarette. It was the same at their last school. And junior high.
Billie and Mike against the world. Which was fine. Until Billie was missing and it was just Mike against the world. Mike wasn't as good at it as Billie Joe.
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
---
"Do you want to get expelled?"
Billie Joe shrugged. "If it happens, sure. Cool, whatever. I'd rather just get suspended."
"Don't you worry about getting held back?"
Billie laughed. "Yeah, right. With Mike nagging me? No. I do just enough to pass and he forces me to take whatever final. Mike gets straight A's."
"Really? How did you two end up meeting?"
"Cafeteria." Billie Joe said. "Someone said something to me and Mike tripped them. I got a detention for him the next week."
"So, you've always had this . . . temper issue."
Billie shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. Not when I was a little little kid, but . . . later." After Dad got diagnosed.
"W-We couldn't afford the treatment." he said. He'd never even told Mike this. "And I hated anyone who could just throw money away. And Mike wasn't like that. He went to the funeral with me. He goes with me every year."
"It's normal to fight against a loss. What you're feeling is--"
"You don't know what I'm feeling." Billie snapped. "Don't compare me to some stupid statistic you read in a medical journal three years ago. Or a case study. It's not comparable."
Miss Kice sighed as the bell rang. " That's lunch. I expect you up here when it's over. No, you will be up here. Otherwise you'll just fail my expectations."
Billie Joe chanced a grin at her. Not too bad.
---
"So, they're making you bullshit some counselor chick instead of suspension?"
"I'd rather be suspended." Billie said, throwing the food from his tray into the trash untouched. "I want a smoke."
Mike took one look at the 'lunch' on his tray and decided a cigarette would probably be a better meal anyway.
They went outside and scaled the fence easily enough. Then they sat on the curb and Billie pulled the cigarettes from his pocket. He always carried them. He said he didn't want to put a scratch on Mike's record.
They sat there for awhile, not really talking. "Does it suck that bad?" Mike finally asked. "The counseling thing?"
"Yeah." Billie said. "They think that if they talk to you for five minutes they know you. She's already tried to put me in a mold. And she's got fucking plants everywhere. She's really fucked up."
They both laughed, but it was kind of forced and Mike held out the lighter for Billie's third cigarette. "You know . . . you can talk to me . . . I mean, if you needed to or whatever."
Billie grinned and exhaled. "Awww . . . don't go getting all mushy on me, Mikey." But he smiled, a real smile for the first time in awhile. "You're my best friend. I know I can talk to you."
"You don't." Mike said bluntly.
"I know." Billie gave a half smile. "Just because I can do something doesn't mean I will."
"Yeah, it's only a guarantee if you can't do it." Mike joked.
The bell rang and Billie swore, putting out his cigarette. "Meet me after school, okay? By my locker?"
"Yeah, sure. You crashing at my place tonight?"
Billie grinned. "Duh. It's my birthday. You really think I'm going to spend it at home?"
"Won't your mom want to see you?"
"I'd rather shoot myself than see him on my birthday. What's wrong? You don't want me?"
But that sentence was echoing in Mike's head. 'I'd rather shoot myself . . .'
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
---
"It's your birthday." Miss Kice said when Billie came into her office. "I read your file."
"Yeah, so? I know it's my birthday. I'm fifteen." Billie said, shrugging.
"Do you have anything planned? Your family do anything? A tradition maybe?" She was prying, but she so desperately wanted Billie Joe to open up. That was why she took this job. Kids like him. Kids who refused to talk. If she could open them up, even a little, she did her job right.
"I'm not going home tonight. I'm going to Mike's."
"Your parents know about that?"
Billie Joe smirked. "I left a note on the table. Mom'll find it when she gets home from work."
"Do you usually do that? Not get permission from your parents?"
"The only parent I have is my mom. And it wouldn't matter anyway. I'd be home with him until she got off work. I'd rather peel my own skin. And no . . . I don't cut."
"You think you have therapists, counselors . . . all figured out, don't you? You think I have you all figured out."
Billie Joe shrugged. "It's always the same. Talking, trying to get inside my head, deciding I'm a lost cause and moving on. Same cycle. I just got sick of going in circles."
---
Mike was in Art. He hated this class. He only took it because Billie Joe was in it. Their schedules were identical except for an AP Biology class Billie wasn't in. He glanced at the teacher's desk. Like he cared anyway.
Mike opened his math book and flipped to page 132. Might as well get his homework done. Billie Joe wouldn't be in the mood to watch him do it tonight.
But instead of figuring out quadratic formulas, he found himself writing the last two lines to 'Richard Corey' over and over.
He was worried about Billie Joe. He'd been worried all week. Ever since his best friend came into class with that bruise and wouldn't tell him where it came from. Ever since he was going out of his way doubly to piss of his stepdad . . . ever since his eyes turned to a darker shade of green.
But Billie Joe would tell him if something really bad was going on. Right?
---
Billie Joe and Miss Kice were having a war of silence. Neither was saying anything, just sort of looking at each other.
God, he's difficult.
Billie's thoughts were slightly different. Oh, I wish I were an Oscar Meyer wiener . . . that is what I'd truly like to be. Because if I were an Oscar Meyer wiener . . . everyone would be in love with--- Oh fuck it. God, she's a bitch.
Billie won the silence war.
"You smell like smoke."
He smirked. "Do I?"
"If you're a singer, you shouldn't smoke."
"Frankly, I don't give a shit what you think I should or shouldn't do." He had a smirk on his face she wish she could rip off. If she made an inch of progress he turned into an obnoxious brat.
"That's part of your mentality, right? You pretend not to care and then lash out when you really do? Is that what happened with Eric Johnson?" Her voice wasn't all that sweet anymore.
"Oooh, snideness from the guidance counselor." Billie said, rolling his eyes. "I don't care. It's part of the whole punk thing. Do whatever the fuck you want, consequences be damned."
"What is punk?"
"Honesty."
"That might be the first real thing you've said all day."
---
Mike was staring out the window, tapping his pen on his notebook. This was his last class.
"Mr. Pritchard?" the teacher asked. Mike jumped and looked up. What was up with the teachers calling him Mr.? Wasn't that what you were supposed to call the teacher? "Are you with us?"
"Yeah, sure. Whatever. George Washington." It sounded like something Billie Joe would say. Mike turned back to the window as the class laughed.
"We're talking about World War II."
"Hitler then." Mike said without turning his head.
"We're talking about the people in the extermination camps, not Hitler."
"Well, you picked a depressing subject." Mike said, looking at the history teacher. "I'd rather not participate. See, I'm mentally unhinged and discussing people dying has a tendency to make me come unglued."
That was definitely Billie Joe talking.
Fortunately, the bell rang.
Mike grabbed his books, dodging the teacher on his way out. Billie's locker, Billie's locker. The blue-haired boy was waiting when Mike got upstairs. "Homework?" Billie Joe asked.
"Fuck it." Mike said, throwing his history book into Billie's locker. "It's your birthday. I'll do it during study hall."
Billie smiled and grabbed his book bag. "Got vodka." he muttered. "Stole it from the liquor cabinet."
Mike grinned. "Good call."
---
Stoned. Drunk. Thank God no one was home. Especially when Billie Joe lost it like he never did on a high. Mike always said things he never meant to, but Billie was pretty good about keeping his secrets secret.
"You a virgin?" he asked.
Slowly, Mike nodded. "Yeah."
"I'm not." Billie said bluntly. "I lost it last weekend."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Mike asked.
Billie looked at his hands. "I didn't want to lose it last weekend."
* * *
"Stop it." Billie Joe said, pushing at the hands that held onto his hips.
"You need to get those pants off." the drunken voice said.
"No."
He was rewarded with a backhanded slap across the face. "Shut up. You're a fucking fag and you want it. Just shut the fuck up."
"Leave me alone." Billie was struggling, but it wasn't working. He was five foot four and thin as hell and his arms were fucking sticks.
"Not a chance in hell. And if you don't shut up I'm going to tear you."
Billie froze. He knew what that meant. He knew he couldn't face anyone if he couldn't even sit down. They would ask questions. God, fucking Mike would asking questions.
"Goooood boy." the man slurred. "Good boy."
* * *
"You . . . you didn't want to?" Mike asked. "What does that mean?"
"Got raped." Billie said. "Is there anymore vodka?"
"By who?"
Billie grinned. "I'll give you three guesses."
"This isn't funny, Billie Joe." Mike snapped. "Stop making it into a game."
"Isn't life just one big fucked up game?" Billie asked. "You turn the wheel and it always says 'lose a turn' or 'go back three spaces'. Only when you go back three spaces you're in your mom's bed and her husband's got his cock in you."
Mike froze. "Greg? Greg raped you?"
Billie Joe gave a sort of giggle that turned into a dry sob. And that turned into a real sob. He threw his arms around Mike's neck and started bawling into his shoulder. "God, it hurt so bad. And he wouldn't stop kissing me. And it was my mom's fucking bed!"
"Y-You have to tell someone." Mike whispered, running his fingers through Billie's hair, his other hand rubbing his back.
"I told you." Billie mumbled through his tears. "I told you. You're the only one I trust. And you can't tell. Promise me you won't tell, Mike. Promise."
"I-I promise."
But Mike knew this was a promise he'd have to break.
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
---
Billie Joe slept in Mike's arms that night, his head under Mike's chin. Mike stayed up all night, thinking.
Would it help Billie Joe if he told? Would it really? Or would the police just fuck it up and then Greg would keep doing it or do it worse? Would Greg do it again anyway?
And then Mike knew what he had to do.
---
He wasn't very good at this. Billie Joe was usually the one who lifted everything. But he managed to steal some snotty lady's purse and found about three hundred dollars inside.
Bus tickets.
"I can't leave my mom." Billie said. "And Holly. What if he does something to them? And Mom'll freak. You know that. And you can't just leave everything. It's not fair! It's not fucking fair."
---
I didn't know. Honest I didn't. He went home and he said he was going to get some clothes and then come to my place. I didn't know. I swear to God I didn't.
I was waiting in the driveway in the truck I couldn't legally drive. And I heard the yell and the scream and I was halfway to the door when I heard the gunshot.
Fuck! Oh, God. Billie! My voice wouldn't work. I wrenched the door open. And there was Billie Joe, standing with a gun in his hand and staring at the man lying dead on the floor and he was crying and the blood was running.
"H-He came toward me. He was going to do it again. It was just there, Mike."
"Give me the gun, Billie."
He did. I went to the bathroom and wiped it, then wrapped it in a towel. "Come on."
"Mike, I just killed him."
"I know. But we have to get out of the house."
"Self-defense." he mumbled.
He took the gun from me as we heard sirens. Fucking neighbors can't mind their own business. He threw the towel on the floor and got his prints on the gun.
The cops opened the door and Billie dropped the gun.
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
---
He got off. His mother couldn't talk to him for a month. She understood, but she didn't. It was hard for her. Holly moved out.
Billie moved in with me and dropped out of school. He told Miss Kice though and he visits her once in awhile.
He kissed me last month. On the cheek. Said he felt like it.
I don't understand. Billie Joe's gone. I don't know who took his place.
But he was getting better. And then . . .
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.