Billy Carter

Chapter 1: Bad Boy

"What have I fucking told you about pinching my beer?" Steven, my step-dad, roared at me. He's a tall, intimidating man with short, messy brown hair; angry, blue, bloodshot eyes and a muscular body that wasn't just for show. He was hungover and not happy - but he's rarely happy anyroad.
"To n-not to!" I said, scrambling back in a failed effort to dodge him. His fist came down hard across my cheek, and I tripped backwards over a chair. My head began pounding once it hit the hard wooden floor, and my cheek ached dully as I rolled onto my back, closing my eyes and groaning. Dad crouched down in front of me and grabbed the collar of my shirt, dragging me to my feet. I grabbed his hand to try and pry his grip off, but he's so much stronger than me.
"Exactly, you little shit!" He shook me roughly and I stared fearfully into his hate-filled eyes, my heart pounding almost painfully. "So answer me this; why do you keep pinching them?"
"'C-cause I can't buy my own!" I stammered, tears threatening to fall.
"And why's that?"
"I'm only f-fifteen."
"Y-you're o-o-only f-fifteen!" He mimicked me in a high voice. "You know what else that means?"
"That I-I, uh... Shouldn't b-be... Drinking...?"
"You're doing bloody brilliant today, Billy. So, if you're not allowed to drink, why do you pinch my beers?" I didn't know how to answer this one. "Five... Four... Three..."
"B-because I want to drink." I said quickly.
"Well I want to fucking kill you sometimes, but I don't because it's against the law. So why can't you stop nicking my bloody beer?!" He asked, clenching his teeth and shaking with rage.
"I can, I will, I-I'm sorry!" I told him. "I'm so sorry Dad, please!" I felt the walls closing in around us, singling me out and leaving me trapped and defenceless. I was panicked, and rightfully so.
"Yeah right," he scoffed. "You never learn, you useless little prick! You owe me everything, you know that? You and your mother were homeless before me, you had nothing before me! And right this second your mother is working her arse off to help me out and what are you doing? You're stealing my fucking beer!" He shoved me hard against the wall and leaned so close our foreheads touched. I was nearly hyperventilating now. "We would be so much better off without you! Your mother would be so much better off- why are you here Billy? Why?!" he shouted in my face. "You're like a parasite! Useless, worthless and draining us of everything we've worked so hard for! You're mother had dreams before she got stuck with you, you know! She was gonna study to be a doctor at fucking Oxford University! She was only eighteen, she had the world at her feet and you stole it all away! She could be a doctor right now, working her dream job; we could have a nice house in the countryside, some kids of our own. Life without you sounds pretty fucking good, doesn't it?" He shook me again and the back of my head hit the wall painfully, causing a couple of tears to roll down my cheek. He didn't really need to get physical when all he had to do to destroy me was say things like this. "You gonna cry, faggot? Useless fucking pussy! You don't deserve us, you don't deserve anybody! You're just a burden, dead weight! You always have been and you always will be, you're pathetic. I'd tell you to go kill yourself but then we'd have to waste money on a funeral no one would come to anyway," he growled, finally letting go of me. I sank down onto the floor feeling empty, broken and ashamed. He was right, after all - I was useless, hopeless. "Get the fuck out of my house, now!" he bellowed. As he pointed to the front door I flinched hard, thinking he was going to hit me again.
He didn't need to tell me twice. I grabbed my school bag and guitar case and left in a hurry, already trying to forget the incident and move on.
I tried to make myself as small as possible on the train to school so as not to disturb anybody else and blinked back tears as I inwardly chided myself for stealing from my own father. He was right, I took him for granted - Mum and I'd be completely lost without him.
I need to pay him back for the beer, I thought to myself. I need to set this right.
I started humming quietly to myself, to soothe my racing heartbeat and busy mind. I dug my earphones out of my bag and plugged them into my phone. I pressed shuffle on my "Favourite Beatle Songs" Playlist and hugged myself, lost in a daydream, until I finally reached the station closest to my school. By then the negative events of this morning were boxed up, locked, forgotten and buried in the back of my mind. Down deep. Where they'd never resurface. Ever.
"Billy! You're late! Get to home-room now!" Mr. Skinerd yelled at me from across the garden as I entered the school grounds. His sudden shouting made me flinch and the anxiety I'd thought I'd conquered for this morning resurface. Usually I take an earlier train so that I'm not late, but obviously this morning hadn't gone entirely to plan. But this is the main reason why I like to be on time - so that Mr. Skinerd doesn't have a reason to yell at me. He's a grumpy bastard, that one - with a severe mint addiction. He likes to nitpick me in particular. I'm not sure why, but I think it's because he's sort of mates with Mum, he reckons he has higher "expectations" of me.
"Yessir." I called back, then I grumbled to myself; "fucking plonker." I headed to my home-room, cutting through the flower gardens and lawns and getting yelled at by the grounds-keeper. The school I go to is pretty modern, but not in a flashy showoffy way - though Principal Connors is pretty chuffed with the new office building. Everything's simple and structured and symmetric. The three "S"s of sophistication. Maybe that's four.
"You're late," Mrs. Fredericks - my homeroom teacher - told me without looking up when I tried to slip unnoticed into the classroom. Now, I don't know why Mrs. Fredericks is still here. She's in her seventies (at least) and she's off her trolley. She's the head Religious Education teacher and she's very strict/devout. She's got these thin, slimy-looking fish-lips and beady eyes that stare me down and make me feel small. She doesn't like me very much at all. Well actually, I don't know if she doesn't like me so much as she doesn't trust me. Long story short, I set an alter cloth on fire in the school chapel once. I swear it was an accident but she doesn't believe me. Another time I accidentally knocked a porcelain statue of the Virgin Mary holding little baby Christ off the communion table and poor infant Jesus was sheared clear off his mother. I also spilt Eucharist wine and it stained the carpet.
To sum it up she now thinks I'm inhabited by the Devil/very disrespectful, but I'm really just clumsy and unlucky.
"I know, I'm sorry," I sighed, and kept my head down to avoid her glare. I sat down next to Anthony Jameson - one of my four closest friends - and dropped my bag ungraciously onto the floor. I plastered my cheeriest smile onto my face and began my usual Oscar-worthy performance of relaxed light-heartedness. It would work eventually - I never used to put much stock into the "fake it 'til you make it" phrase, but I've found it's actually pretty effective. "How are you this fine morning Mr. Anthony Jameson?" I asked merrily. He had his bag on the table and his own guitar on his lap; he was practicing Stairway To Heaven. Tony's sandy hair was delicately styled (by his pillow, much like my own black hair), his green eyes frowning as he concentrated. He's an attractive specimen of the male sex. He has an oval face and a tough, fairly muscular body. He's got big arms, and those are appealing to women and gays alike. He's very good looking, and I don't care what your sexual orientation is, you've got to admit he's pretty fucking fit.
"Oh, ace, Bill," he replied sarcastically. "I've got an English assignment due in today that I didn't get to finish last night because I was so exhausted that I passed out at my desk. And you? Shit, that's a nasty bruise." He reached forwards but it caught me off-guard and I jerked back without really meaning to.
"Don't touch it!" I snapped defensively. He grimaced and his hand fell back to his side.
"Don't get your knickers in a twist. You know you wouldn't be all bruised up if you'd stop getting into fights," he told me. "Hey, have you seen Cyn this morning?" He was talking about Cynthia Addams, my very best girl-friend. We've known each other since we were four and met at kindergarten and we've always gone to school together and been in most of the same classes.
Anyroad, Cyn is one of the most beautiful girls in the whole of London. Probably the whole UK. Probably the whole world, actually. That thing I mentioned about gender and sexual orientation not mattering because anyone can acknowledge that Tony's hot? That applies to Cynthia too. But she's even more beautiful on the inside. She's very caring and kind. She always carries tissues in case I get a blood nose (which happens fairly regularly - it doesn't take much to trigger one).
According to Cyn and her girlfriends, I'm easy on the eyes too. I've got thick black hair, long eyelashes (that Cynthia's said she's jealous of), very pale, almost grey eyes, nicely shaped lips, a defined jawline and razor sharp cheek bones. Apparently I'm best described as a "pretty boy". I get it, I guess, but I'm also too skinny, too awkward and lanky, not very muscular, my shoulders aren't quite as broad as I'd like and I could do with braces or some other dental work - my teeth have been knocked around a bit over the years. My nose isn't straight either - it leans to the right of my face (Dad's right-handed). It's also why I'm prone to nosebleeds.
"Nah, I haven't seen Cyn," I told Tony. "Why?"
He focused back on his guitar and shrugged nonchalantly. "She just said she had something she wanted to ask you is all."
"Like what?" I asked suspiciously. He just shook his head and shrugged again without looking up.
"She'll ask you when she sees you," was all he said, and I couldn't get any more information out of him before the bell rang. Tony and I jumped up, grabbed our bags and guitars, and hurried out the door, eager to escape the creepy watchful gaze of Mrs. Fredericks. We have homeroom pretty much ten metres from the music classrooms, so we were the first people from our class to arrive.
Trent Keynes, my third-last best friend, was next to arrive. He walked up whacking his drumsticks on any and every surface he came across. Tables, benches, drinking-fountains, students - none were safe.
"Alright, motherfuckers?" Trent grinned at us. His brown hair was gelled up in a small Mohawk and his brown eyes sparkled mischievously. Trent's famous (or infamous, depends who you ask) for his sense of humour. He's often teasing, joking or playing pranks on us - some are better received than others. "Shit Billy, what happened to your beautiful, beautiful face?" Trent teased playfully.
"What do you think? He got into another fight of course," Tony answered.
"Did not, I just tripped over is all. I was running late for the bus so I was running around the house and tripped on my skateboard. I hit my head on the table," I told them. They both raised their eyebrows at me. "Honest!"
"Sure. So who is it giving you a hard time? It's not ol' Kenny Leary again, is it?" Trent asked.
"No! Well we had a skirmish at Rose's party last Saturday, but I won that one. Gave him a concussion and everything," I told him with a grin. "Made him cry and everything."
"Good!" Trent clapped me on the back. "That fucker deserves it," he said.
"Yeah, he probably deserves it, but that doesn't mean you can start fistfights with that wanker! It doesn't make you much better," Tony said sternly.
"Oh, fuck off." I rolled my eyes.
"Yeah Tones, why do you always have to be devil's advocate? Kenny's a fucking idiot," Trent backed me up.
"Listen, I don't like him either, but Bill, you'll get expelled or something if you keep getting into fisticuffs with him. Just ignore him," Tony advised.
"But you weren't there, you didn't hear what he said about mum!" I argued.
"Well I guess that's fair... But seriously Bill, you've got to stop getting into fights - I don't care who's starting them. You know if she was here right now Cynthia would be agreeing with me," Tony pointed out.
"Oh, that reminds me! Billy, have you seen Cynthia yet? She has something to ask you," Trent told me, clearly excited.
"I haven't, not yet, but Tony told me she's after me about something too," I told him. "What's it about?"
"You'll see."
"See what?"
"Be patient, William."
"You're all insufferable."
"Who's insufferable?" Natalie asked, walking up to wait at the door like us. Nat's a petite brunette with a fierce attitude and a pretty face. She's kind natured and she's got a wicked sense of humour. Jennifer and Victoria were with her, and Jennifer headed straight for Tony. Those two have been going out for two years and their relationship is still going smooth. Jenny's a gorgeous leggy blonde, and if she wasn't with Tony I'd be all over her. Victoria stood by Jennifer, but only to be closer to me - I've overheard conversations between those girls about me, and Tony even told me that Jenny asked him to get me to chat up Victoria. Tony had said he'd try, but that was just to keep her happy. I mean, there's nothing wrong with Victoria; she's pretty and nice - even if she is a toff and a tad boring at times - but I'm just not all that interested in a relationship at the moment. I have bigger problems and honestly, it's not like I'm much good at relationships anyroad. I'd just hurt her somehow. And besides, I don't really like her that much.
"These two buffoons. Apparently Cyn wants to ask me something and neither of them are telling me what it's about," I explained. Jenny turned to Tony, frowning questioningly.
"You know, about that thing we discussed?" Tony answered his girlfriend's unspoken question and put his arm around her shoulders, giving the side of her head a little kiss.
"Oh!" Jenny said.
"What thing?!" I exclaimed.
No one would tell me anything, which was frustrating and anxiety-causing. What would she want to talk to me about that was so extraordinary that everyone else had to put on this whole show for? Tommy and Greg joined us then - two best friends who might as well have been joint at the hip - and there was easy conversation while we waited for Cyn and our music teacher to turn up.
"Fuck, it's chilly." Tommy complained, rubbing his hands together and hopping from foot to foot to get his blood flowing.
"Uh huh. Autumn's definitely here," I agreed, hugging myself and kinda rubbing my shoulders.
Finally Mr. Haris Roberts came along to let us into the classroom. He's in his mid-thirties like Mum, and he's pretty handsome too. His mother's Greek (hence the name Haris) and he's got her tanned skin, dark hair to his chin and dark eyes. He's one of Mum's friends and he's been around since I was doing backflips in Mum's uterus, so we're pretty familiar. He's kinda like an uncle to me - or a father figure, even.
"Good morning Haris," I greeted him with a cheeky grin. He smiled back briefly, then started scolding me.
"It's Mr. Roberts at school, Junior," he said sternly. "Now please tell me you remembered your Summer homework today?" he asked as he set about unlocking the door.
"Aw, shit!" I exclaimed as I remembered leaving it on my desk in my bedroom.
"Language," he reminded me, opening the door and letting us in.
"I'm sorry!" I told him, honestly. "I completely forgot!"
"I still have to fail you on it, Bill," he told me, sighing as he walked over to his desk. I followed hot on his heels, ready to plead my case.
"But I promise I'll bring it tomorrow, just give me one more chance, please?!" I begged.
"I can't Billy, I've given you three chances already, that homework was due on Monday," he pointed out. "You aren't off to a good start for the year, Bill. Go sit down, I have to grab my laptop from my office. Is Cynthia here today?"
"Yeah, she must be running late," I told him, sighing defeatedly.
"Alright then. Go on, sit down." He went through another door down a hallway that led to his office - I know that 'cause I've been there tonnes of times.
I dragged my feet over to a desk by the door so I could keep an eye out for Cynthia, wondering how I was going to hide this new failing from Dad. When I finally saw her coming - through the glass door - I sat up straight, my impatience and curiosity reaching boiling-point.
Cynthia has naturally red hair. Her hair's really curly too, and she has gorgeous blue eyes. She's thin and not much shorter than me.
She opened the door and came in, greeted by me as I stood directly in front of her and grabbed her shoulders.
"Jesus, Billy-"
"What are you going to ask me?"
"Huh?"
"Tony and Trent said you were going to ask me something - what? Why? What is it?"
"Oh, it's nothing, I just-"
"Take a seat you two," Harris ordered. Cynthia sighed.
"I'll tell you in a second," she assured me, walking past to take a seat with the others. I shot Harry an annoyed glare that he only raised his eyebrows at, then I took a seat on the other side of Cynthia. Victoria sat in the row in front of me with Natalie, and while the two faced us and leaned on our desks, I noticed Victoria's top button was undone and I had an uninterrupted view of her cleavage.
It was distracting to say the least.
"Hey Billy, are you seeing anyone?" Jennifer asked me suddenly, drawing my attention regretfully from Victoria to her.
"Nuh, I'm blind," I told her, still feeling irritated that I didn't know what was going on. It was driving me mental, like bugs crawling under my skin. Jenny rolled her eyes but the others giggled and snickered.
"I'm serious," Jenny sighed frustratedly. "You on the pull?"
"I don't know - I guess," I told her. "Why, are you up for it? Getting tired of Tony, huh? He's pretty dull, isn't he?" I teased. Tony stuck his tongue out at me.
"No!" Jenny laughed. "I was just curious. I like to be in the know, you know?"
"No."
"Ugh, Billy..." she sighed exasperatedly. I grinned at her and leaned back on my chair, putting my hands behind my head. Harry returned with his laptop and sat down at his desk to start marking us all as present. Once he was finished he addressed us as he looked around the room at us all:
"Alright ladies and gentlemen and William. Now that we're all here," - we have a really small music class - "we can get started for the day. I was thinking that for your next assignment we could do a live performance one lunchtime. I know some of you - Tony, Trent, Cynthia and Billy - are actually starting a band together."
"What?" I exclaimed, and accidentally tipped over backwards in my chair. That was certainly news to me - I'd turned them down on the offer at least a dozen times.
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," Cynthia told me as I clambered to my hands and knees and everyone else laughed.
"I told you guys a hundred times that I can't!" I exclaimed. Trent groaned frustratedly.
"Oh, come on! Please Billy? Why not?"
"For the last time; Dad was made redundant, Mum's working for minimum wage and we need some way to pay the bills. I can't quit my jobs," I told him impatiently.
"Where do you work?" Victoria asked me interestedly.
"The video store Monday and Tuesday, the grocery store on Wednesday and Thursday, and Don's Diner on Fridays and Saturdays," I told her, and turned back to Trent and the others.
"But Billy, we'd get paid for gigs and stuff," Trent told me. I rolled my eyes again.
"It's not enough! I'd love to do the band thing, but I need money now - guaranteed money. I don't work so I can buy video games or guitars or anything for myself; I work to support Mum and her duff husband," I explained grumpily. "I'm fucking snookered."
"I'll tell you what - Cyn, Trent and I have all been thinking," Tony started.
"That can't be good," I muttered. They chose to ignore me.
"And we came up with an idea." Cyn added. I looked at them doubtfully.
"What if we gave you our combined wages to equal what you'd be earning for however long it takes us to make it big?" Tony proposed. Talk about adding insult to injury!
"Tony, get fucked," I snarled. They all looked put out, but not like they'd been expecting much else.
"Billy, language!" Harry snapped at me, while he was fucking around on the computer. I rolled my eyes and slumped back in my chair moodily.
"Aw, look!" Trent gestured wildly at me and gave Tony a playfully-accusing look. "Now you've gone and made him shirty!" he spoke angrily, but he was smiling.
"I'm not shirty!" I objected.
"Now he's pouting-"
"I'm not pouting!"
"That's enough from both of you," Harry interrupted tiredly. "If none if you like my performance idea why don't you start coming up with some of your own ideas for your next assignment?"
"No way, you get paid to do that," I told him. He gave me a look.
"I'll let you hand in your homework tomorrow," he told me.
"Deal!" I jumped at the chance, just like I'm sure he knew I would.
"But if you forget again tomorrow that's the end of it," he warned me.
"Fine. I won't forget."
"Good."
"So, are you guys coming to my party on Saturday night?" Jennifer asked the group.
"Yeah," Trent and Cynthia answered. Tony, as her boyfriend, was automatically going.
"Well, it depends," I sighed. "I mean I want to, but I'm not sure if I can go."
"Why wouldn't you be able to?" Jenny asked.
"Dad found out I was pinching his beers," I told her, pulling a face. "I don't think he'll let me go."
"So just do a bunch of chores or something," Jenny told me, shrugging.
"That wouldn't help, I do chores anyway. I'll have to sweet talk him or something," I sighed.
"Bribe him," Trent said. I frowned at him. "I don't care what you do, sneak out or whatever - just come," he shrugged.
"Well I don't wanna make it worse," I told him, rolling my eyes.
"Why, what's he gonna do to ya? He's not even your real dad."
"Yeah but-"
"He's not?" Victoria asked, interrupting my argument.
"No, he's my stepfather," I told her, but she spoke to me again before I could resume my debate with Trent.
"Who's your real father?" she asked me.
So, my actual, biological father, whoever he is, knocked up Mum when she was barely eighteen - literally, she'd just had her birthday the day before. But wait! It gets worse. She got in contact with him, told him she was pregnant and never heard a peep from the tosser since. I've never asked about him because I don't want to know. He ran out on us, and whoever he is, I'll never forgive him for it. Then, Mum's super religious fuck-head parents kicked her out of the house when they learned she was pregnant, and have never spoken or acknowledged her ever since - and by extension, me. I've never met them, and again, I don't really care to. As a result Mum had to drop out of her first year of university - she was studying to become a doctor at Oxford - and lived on the streets, since none of her rich snotty friends could be associated with someone like that. Eventually she bumped into a nineteen year-old Harris Robert's on the street. They knew each other because although they went to different Highschools, they'd had a few friends in common. He took her in and looked after her while she was pregnant with yours truly. They've been very close ever since. Harry is actually also the person who gave me my first guitar - a Gibson acoustic - when I was six, for my birthday. I named it Tig, short for Tigger, my favourite Winnie the Pooh character (I was only six, after all, and I'd stuck a bouncy Tigger sticker on the front. Tigger was still on there, but he'd been joined by some Sex Pistols' stickers and Green Day and The Beatles - just to name a few.)
Anyroad, even with Harry's help it was an uphill battle for Mum, struggling to find employment and look after a baby. Then she met my now step-father, Steven Carter. He was charming and nice and most importantly to Mum, he adored me. He took her out for dinner, babysat me while she worked, and helped Mum pay the bills, so when he proposed Mum said yes. They married when I was one, almost two. That was when everything changed. Mum had known that Dad struggled with some debt and alcoholism before they got married, but it was only about a year before it sunk it's teeth back into him really deep and the stability she thought they'd have crumbled before her eyes. Even now, nearly fifteen years later, I'm working three jobs after school, Mum's practically working two full-time minimum wage jobs with all the overtime and extra shifts she takes on, and we've barely got our heads above water, and it is hugely due to the fact that Dad can't put down the bottle and can't keep a job for more than two or three months. He has had good patches though - he sobers up and it's good for a few months, but eventually he thinks "I'll just have one beer" and then he's back at square one. Mum doesn't know about dad's more violent tendencies, though. I don't want to bother her about it, to be honest. She has enough on her plate already, and she'd probably overthink it. I'd hate to worry her, and it's really not that bad. I could avoid it if I just behaved. Besides, Dad isn't completely bad; maybe just twenty-percent. After all, he bought me my second guitar - a TV-yellow Gibson Les Paul Junior (Harry's recommendation) - for my tenth birthday. He'd saved all year to get me that guitar. I love my guitars, they're my babies, and I look after them really well. Fuck, I look after them better than I look after myself.
Besides, Mum loves Dad and I love him too. He cares about us and loves us and he's the reason we have a house over our heads to begin with.
But you can see why I hate going into details about my family. After hearing this story most people think my Mum's a dumb irresponsible whore, my biological father's a sleazy jerk, and my step-father's an alcoholic couch potato, and there's no way I'm ever going to amount to anything. Suddenly everyone realises how poor my family is: how worn my shoes are, that most of my clothes are ill-fitting and how familiar I am with the lovely ladies that volunteer at St. Vinnies. And after that happens the pity kicks in and everyone's nice to me and volunteering to shout me lunch and saying "nah it's cool you'll pay for me next time" but everyone knows that I won't because I can't and I stop getting invited to things because everyone knows I can't afford it and they don't want to embarrass me or encourage me to spend money I don't have.
So no, I wasn't going to tell Victoria all that - my dirty laundry is my own, thank you very much.
So instead I said: "Let's just say that he's uninvolved and leave it at that."
Apparently that wasn't good enough.
"But why? Is he in jail?" Jenny elbowed Victoria and gave her a look to say "shut up".
"Well I wouldn't know, I don't talk to him," I snapped irritably at her. "And he sure as fuck doesn't want to talk to me." She had the decency to look sorry, then she delicately cleared her throat to speak again.
"My cousin's dad isn't around much," she said. "They live here in London but he's commuting to Chelmsford for work, so he has to leave early and doesn't get back until late." I tried so hard not to roll my eyes, but in the end I could only hide it by looking down and slumping in my seat.
Tony is one of the few who knows about my family drama/financial issues (others who know include Cyn, Trent, Oliver (I'll get to him later), Jenny (Tony told her), all their parents and the majority of my teachers) so he helpfully changed the subject to take the attention off of me.
"So what are we doing today Mr. Roberts?" Tony asked loudly.
"Planning your next assignment, like I mentioned before," Harry said, and gave Tony a look that said "I've already told you this, why aren't you already working on it?"
"Hang on, that was for Billy so you wouldn't fail him on his homework!" Trent complained, and I shot him a glare.
"Alright, then it's his assignment to figure out your next assignment and it's your assignment to help him with his assignment because... Teamwork," Harry said. Trent frowned at him, Harry smiled, and Trent shrugged. Trent doesn't usually argue with teachers, but Harry doesn't hold grudges and he's definitely the most popular teacher in the school. He's relaxed, reasonable, and he teaches well too - and by that I mean you don't want to doze off when he's teaching (but even if you do, he'll let you sleep and won't hold it against you).
"Alright then," Tony said.
"Right," Victoria opened up her notebook and grabbed a red pen from her pencil case. She wrote something (I couldn't read it) in cursive, then picked up her blue pen and made a dot-point. "So any ideas?" she asked everyone.
"We could learn a new song," Cyn suggested. Victoria nodded and wrote that down in more cursive letters.
I frowned at the squiggly, curly penmanship, trying to read it - once I finally got past the shape of the word all I could see were random swirls and spirals that wouldn't stop moving and were starting to make me feel ill. I flipped to a page in my book to compare it to my own handwriting, hoping that might help. I couldn't make sense of that either; all I saw were untranslatable shapes scribbled across the page, not always staying between the lines. I sighed frustratedly and narrowed my eyes at the page, determined to figure it out. I just pretended it was a puzzle, or a code, like the ones Mum does in the newspaper. I slowly muddled my way through the first paragraph and by then everyone else had come up with a suggestion for our assignment except for me, so they started ganging up on me.
"Come on Billy, you gotta have one idea," Natalie told me. "This is your assignment, after all."
"It's a rubbish assignment! An assignment to pick your assignment? What kind of Inception bollocks is that? Look it doesn't even matter, that's plenty of ideas." I pointed to Victoria's book. Everyone gave me a frustrated look and I threw my hands up dramatically. "Fine! I think for our next assignment we should watch Inception."
More critical looks.
"Oh I don't know, I'm not a teacher! Usually I just write my name at the top of the page and that's my work done."
"Come on, that's tosh, Billy. You've got to have one idea," Cynthia told me.
"Well I don't."
"Oh, come on Bill!"
"But we've already got a bunch of ideas, we don't need any more, we'll just pick one of 'em."
"Fine then. Go on, pick one." Cynthia tossed Victoria's book over to me. I sighed and stared again at the page, but I couldn't make sense of it and it was frustrating me. I became anxious about it, imaging what everyone would think of me if they knew I struggled this badly to read.
It's not that I can't read, it's just that I find it really hard. I can't focus, it's like the letters jump around, move, reverse themselves and swap with each other. Sometimes I struggle to read, understand or even say words that I already know - other times I get the letters mixed up (like p, q, b and d, or o, c, and e) and it's really difficult to figure out what the word is supposed to be. Victoria's cursive script certainly wasn't helping me to recognise the different letters properly, and the form of it all being a list meant that by the time I figured out the second bullet point I'd forgotten the first - I kept skipping lines too.
"Any time now, Bill," Cynthia said impatiently.
"Fuck off, I'm thinking," I snapped at her.
"How hard is it? Just pick one!"
I glared at her and ripped the page out of Victoria's book, grabbed my pen, and stomped away to another desk across the room. I sat down and started "decoding" Victoria's handwriting - writing it again myself so I could read it better and be able to focus on what it meant.
"Bill, what're you doing?" Tony asked.
"Minding my own fucking business, you should try it sometime," I snapped without looking up.
"Billy, enough with the bad language," Harry told me. I ignored him and continued working out Victoria's cursive writing.
"Come back over here, I'll pick something," Tony told me. He wasn't coming off mean, but I could tell that he - and everyone else - was getting more and more annoyed that I was taking so long. The pressure stressed me out even more, along with the fact that they all probably thought I was being overdramatic or difficult on purpose.
"N-no! I'll do it, I just need a m-minute! Christ, you're all so impatient - if you'd stop distracting me it w-wouldn't t-take as long!" I exclaimed. My nervous stuttering embarrassed me further which just made me angrier.
"Well what are you doing? What are you writing?"
I'd had enough of the badgering and trying to read - a seemingly simple task that everyone else had mastered at six - so I just picked the first option I'd "decoded".
"Let's watch a d-doc..." I paused and focused on the word so I'd stop stuttering like an idiot and wouldn't fuck it up. "Documentary," I said finally.
"We aren't watching documentaries. Come on Billy, that's a bit of a cop-out," Harry said from his desk. "Besides, I don't have any here."
"S'not a cop-out! And if you need any DVD's I've gotta whole bunch of 'em," I said helpfully. "Wanna see how Green Day made American Idiot?"
"No, we aren't watching DVD's, I'm not that slack a teacher. Pick something else," Harry told me.
"What about we..." I narrowed my eyes at the page as I read another suggestion, one I hadn't re-written and was still in loopy cursive. It took me a few goes because the cursive made some letters look like other letters and I couldn't figure out what they were, all I knew was that "Risiorih" and "louoorili" certainly weren't words. "Uh, rise-orch- no, research, um, our lav... fav-favourite! Uh, favourite a-artist," I read slowly and out loud, "or band. Research our l- favourite artist or band," I finished, and inwardly applauded myself for making it to the end of the sentence correctly. Until someone actually applauded me, sarcastically.
"Jesus Christ Bill, you dumb? Or blind?" Trent asked with a laugh. He wasn't serious, he was just giving me a hard time but it struck a nerve. I glared at him and opened my mouth to retort but Harry told him off before I could find my voice:
"Trent, that's enough," Harry warned. "Does Billy pick on you every time you stumble your way through Mary had a Little Lamb on piano?"
Everyone except for me and Trent laughed at that; Mary had a Little Lamb is the first thing I learned to play on piano - when I was six. Trent had been practicing at school for nearly two years now and he still couldn't get it.
Trent looked sheepishly (pun intended) at me and grimaced.
"Sorry Bill, I wasn't thinking," he apologised.
I shrugged awkwardly. "Whatever, I don't care," I said. Harry got up and started walking over to the group.
"Now then - Junior, get over here - I want you all to pick a band or artist that you like and write a report about them." I did as he said and moved back to my original desk, the one he was standing at. "I don't want anyone doing the same artist though," he continued, "so talk about your picks. Here," Harry took my workbook and pen off the table and started writing in it as he spoke to us. "I want you to cover these things in your reports, alright? Who's in the band, when they formed, a list of albums, when they became successful, blah blah blah. At the end I want you to talk about any upcoming projects they have - like a new album or single - and then tell me why you like them and their music so much," Harry told us, then he turned to me, tapping the notes he'd made in my book. "I've written that all in here, Junior, so you have no reason or excuse
to forget the assignment this time."
"Yeah yeah," I sighed, still feeling down over Trent's comment.
"If you need any help or have any questions just ask me," Harry said to everyone, going back to his desk.
It didn't take long for everyone to decide what artist or band they were going to do the assignment on. Trent declared he would be covering The Who, and if anyone wanted to fight him on it they should check their insurance policies. Tony picked Pearl Jam, his favourite band, and Tommy and Greg picked their favourite bands, AC/DC and Guns 'n' Roses, respectively. Natalie picked Lorde, Victoria picked Katy Perry, Jenny and Cynthia fought over Taylor Swift for a while, then Cynthia backed down and decided to do the assignment on Kelsy Karter and The Heroines instead.
But me? I couldn't decide which band or artist I wanted to research, there were so many great bands and artists I loved and admired - how was I supposed to pick just one?
I stood and went to Harry's desk.
"Har- uh, Mr. Roberts, I don't know who to do it on," I told him.
"Not The Beatles," he said, working on something on his computer. "Or Green Day."
"Why not?" I asked angrily, getting defensive of my favourite bands.
"Because pretty much every assignment you've ever done has been on either The Beatles or Green Day," he pointed out. "I love them too Bill - in fact I'd like to borrow that Green Day DVD you were talking about earlier if you're ok with that - but I want you to research a band that you don't know back-to-front and inside-out."
"Oh... What about an artist I just know back-to-front?"
He looked at me and sighed. "Like who?"
I shrugged. "David Bowie."
"Sure. Now Junior, behave yourself. I have papers to grade." He shooed me away back to the table and I grabbed my workbook and pencil case and went to a computer at the edge of the room. I sat between Cynthia and Trent and started to find the answers (that I didn't know already) to the questions Harry wanted me to answer in the report.