by Julie Frayn
She strode across the stage. In the five years since the murders, after countless hours in rehab, she’d mastered walking with a prosthetic leg with barely any sign of a limp, thanks to her love of running. Only in the back yard at first, a few too many spills to take it out in public. But in no time, she was sprinting down the street, or jogging on the track at school. She’d even been fitted for a running blade.
The principal stood centre-stage, a scroll tied with blue ribbon in her left hand, her right hand ready for Billie to shake. “Congratulations, young lady. You should be proud of your achievements.”
Billie shook the woman’s hand and accepted the scroll. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Especially in your situation. Good for you to overcome such adversity.”
Billie blinked. The woman couldn’t leave well enough alone. Had to tack on some pity and top it off with a cliché to boot. Why couldn’t they just accept that she was smart? Why did her missing leg, her dead parents, her purely and utterly crappy life get to take credit for her hard work? If they wanted to give credit, maybe they should thank all of her friends who turned their backs. The boys who wouldn’t give her the time of day. It afforded her a lot of spare time to study and work. Time that other kids her age were using to drink and party, experiment with drugs, and get laid. Yep, her grades were the result of boredom and the shunning of teen society because they just didn’t know how to deal with her missing leg, her all-encompassing grief.
“Billie?” The principal tugged her hand free. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, ma’am. Just basking in the glow of the moment.” Billie exited stage right to the sad and pathetic pop of pity applause and the heavy slap of her grandmother’s hands clapping at a frenetic pace.
Billie walked up the aisle of the auditorium. Ronald, still in skinny jeans, still an asshole, there to support his senior buds and unlikely to graduate next year when he was supposed to, stuck his leg out in front of her and smirked.
She glared at him, veered around him, and kicked his foot on the way by.
He covered his mouth with his hand. “Gimp,” he said into a fake cough.
Billie stopped, backed up, bent down, put her mouth next to his ear. “Shit head.” She didn’t hide it in a cough. And she didn’t whisper. But she did say a silent apology to God for swearing out loud.
Students shifted in their seats, gripping their diplomas. Well, not real diplomas. Just a copy of the commencement agenda rolled into a scroll and tied with a royal blue ribbon. The real things would be mailed months later after the board of education confirmed exam results and ensured that the students had, in fact, graduated. Billie watched kids stride, dance, trip, moonwalk across the stage. She played a little game of who’s going to fail? Most were good to go on, but a few would definitely be receiving a different kind of notice. The “you’re ten credits short” kind. The girls who gave up studying to see who could get pregnant first. Reproductive Russian roulette followed by quickie abortions. Condoms were so 1987 after all.
Once all the students had received their diplomas and all the families who’d run up the aisles to snap pictures after being asked to stay seated were back in those seats, the principal addressed the convocation.
“Every year, an honour student is chosen as valedictorian. It is about more than brains and grades, about more than how many advanced placement classes they successfully complete. We also factor in outside circumstance.” She paused, her palms on the podium, and swept her eyes over the crowd for dramatic effect. “This year we are very honoured to have chosen a remarkable young woman to deliver your valedictory address. She graduates with a four-point-oh grade point average. Her success in AP English, AP Creative Writing, and AP Social Studies give her a leg up at her chosen university. But there is so much more to this student than good grades.”
Billie shook her head. A leg up? Seriously? She closed her eyes and clutched her note cards. Shut up, shut up, just shut the hell up. Let it be about grades. Leave it at that and just shut up.
“This student has overcome immense obstacles. Both of her parents were taken from her under tragic circumstances. That same circumstance resulted in the loss of her leg at the tender age of ten.”
Billie opened her eyes. Eleven, you stupid bitch. She mentally backspaced over the principal’s last two sentences. She just had to pull the cripple card. May as well just shine a big ol’ spotlight on Billie’s prosthesis and tell them she only got to be valedictorian because the administration felt sorry for her.
“This young woman has endured unthinkable pain, emotional and physical. I’ve never met a more focused individual. She buried her grief and her pain in her school work, and as a result, she is graduating a year ahead of schedule with the highest honours ever bestowed upon a Grantham High graduate.” The principal beamed at the crowd, pleased as punch over her emotional introduction. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Wilhelmina Fullalove. Or, as we all like to call her, Billie.”
As they like to call her? That was her name, for God’s sake. Long before she got cast in this high school chainsaw musical.
Billie stood. The entire audience murmured and shifted. Parents and guests clapped, some students too. A few hisses followed her to the stage. She mounted the first step, her heart in her throat and her nerves on edge.
Just don’t trip, Billie. Don’t give them the satisfaction.
She made it to the podium, looked out upon the crowd, and forced an outside smile.
Ronald booed. A few people giggled.
Billie straightened her note cards and cleared her throat. “Thank you, Mrs. Guilfoyle.” She glanced at the notes, at the words of encouragement for her fellow graduates. The idiots and the bitches and the assholes. Even the nerds picked on her since she drew fire away from them, gave them an opportunity to be little dicks in a big dick world. They deserved no encouragement. Not a damn one of them.
She set down the cards. “As has been pointed out to you in great detail, I’ve had a pretty tough life so far. The first ten years weren’t so bad. Although my love for God, my preference for books over boys, and of course the fact that my parents were working-class poor and couldn’t afford to buy me the latest fashions, wouldn’t let me wear makeup before fifth grade, or hang out after dark stalkin’ the ‘hood,” she lifted her elbows, made peace signs with both hands and pointed down at the podium — her attempt at hip-hop cool. “Well, all those things put a big ol’ bully target on my brainy forehead. Even before my parents were gunned down and murdered in a dark alley, before those same gunmen shot me and stole one of my legs, forced me into a life lived wearing titanium and rubber, yes, even before all the trials and tribulations that Mrs. Guilfoyle kindly confessed to this auditorium of mostly strangers — my life at school sucked.”
She dismembered the microphone from the stand and stood beside the podium. “Enter high school. A lot of the same students I went to elementary and junior high with, but hey, a whole bunch of new faces. Maybe among them I’d find a kindred spirit. A decent soul.” She bit her bottom lip. “One single friend.”
The room was silent. They’d expected an uplifting soliloquy. An inspirational speech. They weren’t planning on anguished tears or an angry tirade.
Fuck ‘em. Fuck ‘em all.
“But not one student could find a way to look past this.” She lifted her robe and skirt, tapped the leg with the microphone. The dull thud echoed in the auditorium and the microphone squealed. “Pretty scary stuff, eh? Titanium instead of bone. Rubber instead of skin. How very intimidating. But I assume that’s what it was. They were intimidated. Surely these students,” she swept her other hand over the crowd, “your loving, well-behaved sons and daughters. Surely, they weren’t so cruel and uncaring as to make the life of a girl who didn’t choose her fate unliveable? Or at the very least, unenviable.” She paced in front of the podium. “Well, moms and dads, here’s the bad news. They are so cruel. They are so uncaring. So kudos to you for raising them well. Kudos to
the school system for keeping me safe. The valedictory address, historically, offers advice to graduating students.” She held the microphone in both hands. “So here’s your advice.”
The students stared at her, many with open mouths.
“Grow the hell up. And stop being assholes.” She tossed the microphone onto the podium and stalked off stage past the principal, whose face was crimson.
Friday
BILLIE HELD HER BREATH. Bruce pressed his frame against her back, her ass perfectly cupped by his groin, his arms over hers, holding her steady. She trembled in his embrace.
“Take a firm grip of it. No, not too tight. Gentle but firm. That’s it. Now squeeze slowly.”
Billie squeezed. Her arm jerked up and she snapped her neck back. The top of her head connected with Bruce’s chin. A hot piece of brass flew to her right and bounced off the protective wall. The casing bounced on the cement and landed near her toes.
She spun around, the echo of the shot still ringing in her ears, and removed her protective glasses. “That was amazing. Oh, God, my heart hurts, it’s beating so hard.”
Bruce rubbed his chin. “Sounds about right.” He guided her shooting arm away. “Always point it at a safe angle, preferably downrange. Never at my junk. And take your finger off the trigger. It should be outside the trigger guard until you are ready to shoot.” He punched a button and the target swooshed toward them.
When it hit the end of the line and clicked to a stop near her, Billie scowled. “I didn’t even hit the guy.”
“Sunshine, you didn’t even hit the paper.” He took the Glock from her hand. “Your feet should be further apart, shoulder width. Get the shoulders over your hips. I prefer the Isosceles stance, your arms are straight and elbows locked.” He slid her glasses back on her nose.
Bruce smacked the button and sent the target flying back to the far wall. He faced the target, held up the pistol, and fired four rounds in quick succession.
Warmth and moisture flooded Billie’s panties. Her body jerked with each ping of brass casing against the concrete floor.
Bruce brought the target closer.
“Hah, you only hit him once.”
Bruce cocked his head and smirked. “No, love. I hit him all four times. In the same spot.”
Her jaw dropped open. She poked one finger through a hole in the paper man’s heart. “Holy cow. I want to do that.”
“Then get over here and practice. But first, more ammo.”
“It only holds five bullets?”
“Ten. But I only loaded five.” At the press of a button, the magazine dropped into his hand. He set it on the counter and pulled the chamber back, turned the gun upside down.
“I thought there were only five?”
“Just to be sure. Always be sure.”
He handed her one magazine and five bullets. “Push the rear of the bullet down and slide it back.” He picked up the other magazine and demonstrated.
Billie took a bullet from the box. It was cool in her fingers, smooth and icy. “This one has a hole in it.” She pointed to the tip.
“Hollow point. Mushrooms on impact.”
“Is that good?”
“It’s not good or bad. Just depends on what you want from your ammo. The range prefers you use them because they don’t damage the backstop like a full metal jacket will. In real life, hollow points decrease penetration, less likely to be a through-and-through, and won’t do damage to anything but the target.” He grinned. “Assuming you hit it.”
“Ha. Ha. Ha.” The first bullet didn’t want to go in. He showed her again — push, slide. On the third try, she found the sweet spot and the bullet slid into the magazine. She did another, then a third. Soon, her thumb was black and aching. “Does this come off? Or get any easier?”
Bruce licked his finger and rubbed the black from Billie’s thumb. “Yes, and yes. You’re picking it up fast. The last two are the hardest.” He took her magazine and turned it around. He pursed his lips. “Impressive. You loaded all ten. Now, slide it in, and click into place. Just smack it with the heel of your hand.”
She took back the magazine and picked up the gun. “You’re making me horny.”
He laughed. “Yeah, guns and sex. Good combo. Not.” He pressed his lips close to her ear protection. “Although watching you handle my piece has me wanting you to handle my other piece.”
She grinned, slid in the magazine and smacked its bottom, clicked the slide release and faced the target.
“Focus on your front sight.” Bruce used his foot to gently kick her legs farther apart. “Bend your knees slightly.” He put one hand on her belly and the other on the back of her shoulders, tipping her forward a bit. “Your target should be a bit blurry. Now, straight arms, elbows locked.”
Billie nodded.
“And squeeze.”
Billie moved her finger from outside the trigger guard onto the trigger. She squeezed. The recoil jerked her arms but she held stance. She squeezed again, again, a fourth time, a fifth. When the gun let out a hollow click on the eleventh pull of the trigger, she let out her breath, moved her finger from the trigger and set the gun on the counter. She slapped the button and eyed the target as it raced toward her. Ten holes in the paper. Five in the gut. Three in the shoulder. One in the groin. And one in the heart.
“And that, Billie Sunshine, is how it’s done.” Bruce kissed her cheek.
She picked up the other magazine. “Again.”
Monday the 27th
BILLIE STEPPED FROM the subway station and leaned against the brick of an office building. If Anthony Gerard Dickinson was in the same spot, she wanted to be as prepared, as composed as possible. Show no fear, that’s what her father used to tell her.
Didn’t do him any damn good.
She headed up the street to where she’d found Gold Tooth the day before. She neared the concrete steps that led into the Dilly Diner. There he was, half a block up, same place, same lump of dirty fabric. He looked like a massive mound of steaming dog shit. She set her jaw and strode toward him.
She stopped directly in front of him, casting him in shadow. She crossed her arms and gave him the meanest glare she could muster.
He nodded his goofy head like he had Parkinson’s or something, held up his cup and shook it. He leered at her and squinted his eyes.
She blinked a long blink and focused.
He just sat there grinning at her. No leer. No squint. Just crow’s feet around his crazy eyes, deepened and weathered by the sun and the elements. Just how long had he been on the street? And why had he chosen this spot to take up residence?
He lifted the cup a few more inches and shook it again. When she didn’t budge, he brought it back down and looked to the left of her for other donors. His gaze swept right and he hesitated, staring at her legs. He glanced up in a sharp jerk. He cocked his head and examined her face. His wide eyes took on a familiar wild look.
All confidence and bravado drained from Billie’s bones. She turned and hurried away. Maybe she’d have to start riding the subway to the next stop and doubling back to the office. It was only a few more blocks. And the walk would do her good.
Billie hung up the phone and stared at her untouched lunch. The lobster bisque had gone cold and the thought of swallowing even one bite of turkey on rye turned her stomach to stone. She put the lid on the soup and swept it all into the garbage can under her desk. Her favourite lunch from the best deli in town, ruined. Forever linked to the realities of a conversation with the former Crown Prosecutor — now Judge — Robbins.
Model prisoner he’d said. Repentant and filled with remorse. Never missed a group session and was even counselling young offenders. This led to early parole, he’d told her. And just why was she never invited to any of these hearings? Not asked to speak to the evil he’d helped bestow upon her parents? The hell he’d made of her life?
“And put you through all that again?” Robbins said. “Billie, it wouldn’t have helped. He was eligible. There was n
o reason not to grant parole. And you’d never come to any hearings prior, never even requested information about him.”
“I didn’t know about the hearings. And I didn’t know I was allowed information. For God’s sake, I was only eleven. Shouldn’t someone have told me?”
“I’m sorry, Billie. That would be up to your legal guardian.”
So it was her grandmother’s fault.
“Besides. He found God. I know how important that is to you.”
This smug representative of failed justice presumed to know her? Twenty-two years later? He’d never even checked up on her. Even the cop, a buddy of her father’s, who led the investigation had kept in touch for a few years. He was still trying to find the guy with the gun when he dropped dead at his desk. Massive coronary. Billie had carried guilt for years that maybe his unwavering devotion to her case, his pigheaded persistence to catch the murderer had been his undoing. But his waistline and heavy breathing assured her that it was his own doing. Bad food choices. Lack of exercise. The cop lifestyle, that’s what killed him.
Since his death, the case had gone cold. No new leads. No new evidence. The only evidence was bottled up inside of Dickinson’s head. He knew the shooter. But he’d never identified him.
It was time he told her.
Bat Head
NICK FRASER PASSED A JOINT to Todd, his best friend and partner in crime, as Nick’s mother always said. It used to be just a lame cliché. Another pile of crap that his mother spewed on a daily basis. Two-peas-in-a-pod kind of crap. Like biscuits and butter. Mutt and Jeff, Frick and Frack, Thing One and Thing Two. Her bullshit knew no bounds.
But partners in crime came true. After their stint in juvie, they graduated from grab-and-run shoplifting and palming shitty Wal-Mart jewelry to pawn for chump change to drug deals in dark alleys, liquor store hold ups, and snatching purses from stupid bitches who just sling their bags over their shoulders. Easy pickings — one slice of a sharp knife through the strap and those bags were gone before the dumb broads knew what hit ‘em.