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CHAPTER FIVE Self-Made Shallow Grave
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November 1984.
BILLY HARGROVE WAS becoming a problem.
Much to Rhiannon's disdain, he kept trying to approach her about what happened at the party. She had managed to avoid him so far, mostly by sitting away from him in class or walking in the opposite direction whenever they crossed paths in the hallway. Part of her had hoped he'd be too drunk to remember — but then again, it was hard to forget someone sinking their teeth into your neck.
She thought about how she would respond to him, the various stories she could concoct that were believable enough to explain her actions. When he finally did confront her, she offered her best lie: "Look, I had a very strong brownie. I was fine for a second and then the next thing I knew, your neck was a breadstick. Weird, right?"
It was a stretch. She knew it was, but she didn't have anything else.
He looked like he didn't quite know what to make of that. She left before he had the chance to interrogate her. Luckily for her, he hadn't told anyone about her little mistake.
In truth, spending time with Billy made her realize he was the actual fucking worst. Worse than Tommy and Carol, which was saying something. Hatred oozed out of him, a vengeful, restless ouroboros aching to be projected onto the world; someone could so much as breathe the wrong way and he'd have it out for them. She, against her better judgment, made him the latest target in her plan, but she regretted getting to know him. Most of all, she wished she hadn't dragged him into the bathroom at the party (a fact she won't ever talk about again).
"You'll never guess what I overheard when I was eavesdropping on Tina and Amber."
"Are you serious?" Rhiannon asked, reaching for her makeup bag. She stood at her locker now, beside Priscilla since their lockers were adjacent.
