Chapter 10
“Katie Brooks in a cowgirl uniform. Is this for real, or some freakishly vivid acid flashback?”
I was six years old the first time I laid eyes on Billy Warren.
Around the same time that Joey Martino was abandoning Amelia in that hotel room? her younger sister, Sophie, was being kicked out of the house.
Because she was pregnant too.
Apparently the elder Mrs. Warren subscribed to the Mommy Dearest style of parenting—wire hangers and all. Anyway, five years later, Sophie died in a drug den from a meth overdose. The state took custody of Billy until they were able to track down his only living relative, Amelia Warren.
Delores stayed with us for the weekend while her mother drove to California to get him. Amelia walked into the group home and saw a small, hollowed-eyed little boy in a ripped black T-shirt. And from that moment on, Billy was hers—even though she hadn’t given birth to him.
For the first four months that Billy lived with Amelia and Delores, he didn’t speak. At all. he followed us around, did everything we did. When we played school he was the chalkboard, when we dug for buried treasure, he was our pack mule.
But he didn’t talk.
And then one day Amelia was running errands on Main Street, and they passed a pawn shop. Billy stopped in his tracks. And stared into the front window.
At a shiny red guitar.
Amelia went in and bought it for him. By this time I was pretty good at 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. “God damn. 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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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, Katiegirl. What else would we do? We’re goin’ womping.”
Right. Silly me. Of course we are.
Billy leans over 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 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 an unpaved, flat 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.