Twisted

by Emma Chase

  playing, so she figured my father could give Billy lessons too. But—here’s the thing—before my dad got around to giving him even one lesson? Billy already knew how to play. He was a prodigy, like Mozart. A true musical genius.

  He can be really annoying about it sometimes.

  “Billy!”

  I throw my arms around his neck. He squeezes me tight at the waist and my feet leave the floor. My voice is muffled by his shoulder. “God, it’s good to see you!”

  I know you think he’s a dick. But he’s not. Really.

  You’ve only seen him through Drew-colored glasses.

  Billy pulls back, his hands on my upper arms. It’s been about eight months since I saw him last. He’s toned and tan—healthy. He looks good. Except for the beard. I’m not digging the beard. It’s thick and shaggy—reminds me of a lumberjack.

  “You too, Katie. You look . . .” His brow furrows. And his smile turns into a frown. “Goddamn. You look like day-old shit.”

  Yep, that’s Billy. He always did know just what to say to a girl.

  “Wow. With lines like that, you must be beating them off with a bat in LA. By the way—you know there’s a rat hanging off your face?”

  He laughs and rubs his beard. “It’s my disguise. I need one now, you know.”

  On cue, a boy who looks to be about ten approaches us hesitantly. “Can I have your autograph, Mr. Warren?”

  Billy’s grin widens. And he takes the offered pen and paper. “Sure thing.” He scribbles quickly, hands the autograph back, and says, “Don’t stop dreaming, kid—they really do come true.”

  After the starstruck boy walks away, Billy turns back to me, eyes sparkling. “How fucking cool is that?”

  He’s the hottest thing in music these days. His last album stayed at number one for six weeks—and there’s big Grammy buzz for this year’s awards. I’m proud of him. He’s right where I always believed he could be.

  Still, I tease, “Careful. You still have to get that big head back out the door.”

  He chuckles. “What are you doing here? I was supposed to come to the city to see you guys next week.”

  Before I can answer, a face appears out of thin air on the other side of the glass door.

  Scaring the ever-loving shit out of me. “Ah!”

  It’s a light-haired woman with huge, unblinking brown eyes. Kind of like ET in the blond wig.

  Billy turns. “Oh—that’s Evay.”

  “Evie?”

  “No, E-vay. Like eBay. She’s with me.” He opens the door and ET girl walks in, hands folded tightly at her waist. She’s wearing black leggings and a Bob Marley T-shirt. The word skinny doesn’t even come close. She reminds me of one of those skeletons in biology class, with a thin, flesh-colored coating.

  She’s kind of pretty—in a concentration camp kind of way.

  “Evay, this is Kate. Kate—Evay.”

  In the professional world, handshakes are important. They give prospective clients a sneak peek at how you do business. They can make or break a deal. I always make sure my grip is firm—strong. Just because I’m petite and a woman doesn’t mean I’m gonna get stepped on.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Evay.” I hold out my hand.

  She just stares at it—like it’s a spider crawling out of the shower drain. “I don’t make direct female-to-female contact. It depletes the beautification cells.”

  O-kay. I glance at Billy. He seems unperturbed. I hook a thumb over my shoulder. “So . . . do you guys want to eat? How about a booth?”

  When Evay answers, her tone is airy, dazed, like a concussion victim. Or an acting coach—be the tree.

  “I have my lunch right here.” She opens her palm to reveal an assortment of capsules that make my prenatals look like baby candy. “But I need water. Do you have clear water from a snowy mountain spring?”

  Wow.

  Somebody call Will Smith—aliens really have landed.

  “Uh . . . we don’t get much snow around here, this time of year. We have Greenville’s finest tap water, though.”

  She shakes her head. And she still hasn’t blinked. Not one freaking time.

  “I only drink snowy mountain spring water.”

  Billy raises his hand. “I’m jonesin’ for some onion rings.”

  I smile and put in his order. “Sure.”

  Evay sniffs the air, like a squirrel before a storm. Then she looks a little petrified. “Is that grease? Do you cook with actual grease?”

  I take a step back. She might be one of those wacked-out, PETA-loving vegan people who are offended by animal byproducts—and the prospect of being doused with red paint isn’t too appealing at the moment.

  “Ah . . . yes?”

  She covers her nose with bony fingers. “I can’t breathe this air! I’ll break out!” She turns to the door.

  And waits.

  Guess females aren’t the only thing she doesn’t make contact with.

  Billy opens it for her and she scurries out. I look at him, flabbergasted. “Okay, what the hell was that?”

  “That was a Californian. They’re all like that. I think it’s from too much sun . . . and weed. They make Dee Dee look fucking mundane. Plus Evay’s a model, so she’s an extra-large kind of weird. She won’t smell grease, but she smokes like a chimney.”

  That’s why I’m happy I live in New York.

  Where the normal people are.

  Well . . . lived, anyway.

  I walk behind the counter to get a take-out box for Billy’s rings. He rests his elbows on the counter, leaning over. “So where’s Dr. Manhattan?”

  He means Drew. You know—after the arrogant, inhuman, blue physicist in the Watchmen comics?

  “He’s not here.”

  Billy looks surprised. Pleasantly so. “No kidding? I didn’t think he let you out of his sight, let alone out of the state. What’s up with that?”

  I shrug. “Long story.”

  “Sounds promising. Hey—let’s hang out later. Catch up. I have to get Evay back to the hotel for her nap, then I’ll swing back and pick you up.”

  My eyes squint. “Her nap?”

  He lifts his chin defensively. “Yeah. Lots of people sleep twelve hours during the day.”

  I hand him his onion rings. “I know. They’re called vampires, Billy.”

  He laughs.

  And then my mother walks out of the kitchen. “Billy! Amelia said you were visiting.”

  She hugs him and he kisses her cheek. “Hey, Carol.”

  She looks disapprovingly at his beard. “Oh honey, you have such a handsome face. Don’t cover it up with all . . . this.”

  My mother is such a mom, isn’t she?

  Billy defends his facial hair. “Why’s everyone hating on the beard? I like the beard.” Then he holds out a hundred-dollar bill. “For the onion rings.”

  She shakes her head and pushes his hand back. “Your money’s no good here—you know that.”

  A crash of breaking glass comes from behind the kitchen door. And George Reinhart’s voice: “Carol!”

  My mother clicks her tongue. “Oh, dear. George is trying to work the dishwasher again.”

  She runs off to the kitchen. Billy and I share a laugh. Then he hands me the hundred-dollar bill. “Slip this into the register when your mom’s not looking, okay?”

  It’s tough when you get to the point in your life—like we have—when you’re able to help the parentals financially, but they’re too stubborn to accept.

  “Sure thing.”

  He taps the counter. “Okay, four o’clock, I’ll pick you up. Be ready. And don’t wear any power suit or shit like that—this is a strictly jeans and sneaks kind of mission.”

  That’s what I’d planned on. But still I have to ask, “Why? What are we gonna to do?”

  He shakes his head at me. “You’ve been gone too long, Katie-girl. What else would we do? We’re goin’ womping.”

  Right. Silly me. Of course we are.

  Billy leans ov
er the counter and kisses my cheek quickly. “Later.”

  Then he grabs his take-out and walks out the door.

  Have you ever gone for a ride in your car, after your last final exam or the beginning of a long weekend from work? And the road’s wide open, your sunglasses are on, and your favorite song is blaring out of the speakers?

  Good. Then you know just what this feels like.

  Womping.

  How to explain it? I’m sure there’re various names for it, depending on where you live, but here, that’s what we call it. It’s like mountain climbing . . . only . . . with a car. Or a truck. Or any other automobile with four-wheel drive.

  The goal is to scale a hill, the steepest you can find, and get as vertical as you can, as fast as you can, without flipping the car. It’s fun—in a stupid, dangerous, adrenaline-junkie kind of way.

  Don’t worry about my delicate condition. Billy’s truck is an off-road vehicle with safety harnesses instead of seatbelts. So even if we flip? I’m not going anywhere.

  We’re riding out to the hills right now, full speed ahead. Ohio isn’t exactly known for its hilly terrain, but there are a few spots where these abound. Lucky for us, Greenville is near them.

  The windows are open, the sun is bright, and it’s a comfortable seventy degrees. I yell above the sound of the stereo, “So . . . another new car?”

  Billy smiles and rubs his hand lovingly across the dash. “Yep. And this baby’s unpolluted by my cousin’s evil handiwork.”

  I roll my eyes. I definitely need to check out Billy’s financial portfolio. The wind whips my hair around my face. I push it back and yell again, “Don’t be that guy.”

  “What guy?”

  “The guy that has a different car for every day of the month. Spend your money on more practical things.”

  He shrugs. “I told Amelia I’d buy her a house. As long as she doesn’t tell Delores where it is.”

  Billy and Delores love to rag on each other.

  The song on the radio changes, and Billy turns it up to maximum volume. He looks at me. And he’s smiling.

  We both are.

  Because, once upon a time, it was our song. Not in a romantic way. In a teenager, rebel-without-a-cause kind of way. It was our anthem; our “Thunder Road.”

  Alabama sings about getting out of a small town, beating the odds, living for love. We belt out the lyrics together.

  It’s great. It’s perfect.

  Billy pushes the gas pedal to the floor, leaving a cloud of dust behind us, and I remember how it feels to be sixteen again. When life was easy, and the most pressing matter was where we could hang out on a Friday night.

  They say youth is wasted on the young—and they’re right. But it’s not the youths’ fault. No matter how often they’re told to appreciate the days they’re living, they just can’t.

  Because they have nothing to compare it to. It’s only later, when it’s too late—when there’re bills to pay and deadlines to make—that they realize how sweet, how innocent and precious, those moments were.

  The singer croons about Thunderbirds, and driving all night, and living your own life. Billy’s first car was a Thunderbird. You got a glimpse of it in New York, remember? It was a junker when he bought it, but he fixed it up himself on weekends and during the many days he blew off school.

  I lost my virginity in its backseat. Prom weekend. Yes—I’m a statistic. At the time, I thought it was the epitome of romance, the peak of perfection.

  But—again—I didn’t have anything else to compare it to.

  Billy loved that car. And I’d bet my business degree he’s still got it in his garage in LA.

  Still singing, I hold on to the harness straps with both hands as Billy spins the car into a 360-degree turn. It’s a terrific maneuver. You floor the gas pedal, jerk the steering wheel, and pull up on the emergency break. It’s the best way to do a donut—as long as the transmission doesn’t drop out the bottom of your car or anything.

  Dust billows up from the ground, and dirt scatters across the windshield. It’s always been this way with us. Comfortable. Uncomplicated. Well—at least when we were here in Greenville, it was.

  As I went through college and business school, we drifted. Became less Bonnie and Clyde and more Wendy and Peter Pan. But out here, when it was just the two of us and the rest of the world didn’t exist, we could be those kids again. Kids who wanted the same things, who dreamed the same dreams.

  The wheels spin and Billy peels out across a flat, unpaved piece of land. And it feels like we’re flying. Like I’m free. Not a care in the world.

  And the best part? For the first time in almost four days, I don’t think about Drew Evans at all.

  Chapter 11

  By the time we make it back to Billy’s motel room, it’s dark. We stumble through the door—tired and dusty and laughing. I plop down on the couch while Billy picks up a piece of paper from the kitchenette counter.

  “Where’s Evay?”

  He holds up the note. “She took a car back to LA. She said the unprocessed air was invading her pores.”

  “You don’t look too broken up about it.”

  He gets two beers from the fridge and shrugs. “There’s more where she came from. No shit off my shoe.”

  Billy picks up the guitar lying across the coffee table and strums a few chords. Then he reaches under the cushion and takes out a clear plastic baggie. He tosses it to me. “You still roll the best joints this side of the Mississippi—or has the establishment completely assimilated you into the collective?”

  I smirk and pick up the bag. Rolling a good joint takes concentration. Use too much weed and it’s just wasteful—too little and you defeat the purpose.

  It’s a relaxing process. Like knitting.

  I lick the edge of the paper and smooth it down. Then I pass it to Billy.

  He looks at it admiringly. “You’re an artist.”

  He puts the joint between his lips and flips open his Zippo. But before the flame touches the tip, I snap the metal cap closed.

  “Don’t. I could get a contact high.”

  “So?”

  I sigh. And look Billy straight in the face. “I’m pregnant.”

  His eyes go wide. And the joint falls from his lips.

  “No shit?”

  I shake my head. “No shit, Billy.”

  His turns forward, staring at the table. He doesn’t say anything for several moments, so I fill the dead air.

  “Drew doesn’t want it. He told me to have an abortion.”

  The words come out detached. Flat. Because I still can’t believe they’re true.

  Billy turns back to me and hisses, “What?”

  I nod. And fill him in on the more sordid details of my departure from New York. By the time I’m finished, he’s on his feet, pissed off and pacing. He mumbles, “That motherfucker owes me a gun.”

  “What?”

  He waves me off. “Nothing.” Then he sits down and pushes a hand through his hair. “I knew he was an asshole—I fucking knew it. I really didn’t take him for a Garrett Buckler, though.”

  Every town has two sides of the tracks—the good side and the not-so-good side. Garrett Buckler came from the good side of Greenville, with its automatic sprinklers and stucco-sided McMansions. He was a senior, our sophomore year in high school. And from the first day of school that year, Garrett was focused on one thing: Dee Dee Warren.

  Billy hated him on sight. He’s always been distrustful of people with money—money they didn’t earn themselves. And Garrett was no exception. But Delores blew Billy off. Told him he was being ridiculous. Paranoid. Said she wanted to give Garrett a chance.

  So she did. She also gave him her virginity.

  And four weeks later, behind the bleachers at school, Delores told Garrett she was pregnant. Apparently we Greenville women are quite the Fertile Myrtles.

  Don’t spit on us—you might knock us up.

  And yes, despite all the sex education Amelia gave
us, it still happened. Because—here’s the thing a lot of people forget about teenagers—sometimes they just do stupid things. Not because they don’t have the education or resources, but because they’re too damn young to really understand that actions have consequences.

  Life-changing ones.

  Anyway, as you can imagine, Delores was terrified. But like any moon-eyed, romantic, adolescent girl, she figured Garrett would be there for her. That they’d get through whatever was coming together.

  She was wrong. He told her to fuck off. He accused her of trying to trap him—said he didn’t believe that the kid was even his.

  History’s a lot like shampoo that way—rinse, repeat, and repeat again.

  Delores was crushed. And Billy . . . Billy was fucking furious. I was with him the day he stole a white Camaro from the Walgreen’s parking lot. I followed him in the Thunderbird to a chop shop in Cleveland, where he got paid three hundred dollars for it.

  Just enough to pay for the abortion.

  We could’ve gone to Amelia, but Delores was just too ashamed. So we went to the clinic ourselves. And I held Delores’s hand the whole time.

  Afterward, Billy dropped us off at my house. Then he went looking for Garrett Buckler. When he found him, Billy broke his arm and fractured his jaw. And he told him if he ever breathed a word about Delores to anyone, he’d come back and break his other four appendages—including the one between his legs.

  To this day, it’s the best-kept secret in Greenville.

  “You know what? Fuck him. You make good cash, so you sure as shit don’t need his money. And as for the whole dad thing? Overrated. You had a father for like, five minutes . . . me and my cousin never did. And the three of us turned out great.”

  He rethinks that statement.

  “Okay—maybe not Delores. But still—two out of three ain’t bad. We could—”

  I cut him off. “I think I’m gonna get an abortion, Billy.”

  He goes silent. Totally. Utterly.

  Completely.

  But his shock and disappointment pound loudly—like a big bass drum.