Blondie Wannabe: A Billy Hargrove Fanfic

The Importance of Light

Sorry this has taken so long to update. This particular section is hard for me to write, but I think once I get past the Snowball, maybe when we get to winter break, it'll be easier and I'll post more frequently

Also, I've decided that the Hawkins High semester will end in January, which is true of some schools, because it works better for the story. I know a lot of people's fall semester ends before winter break, but this is how Hawkins does it. Alright, that's all I have to say, please enjoy!!!

Wednesday afternoon, I sat in my car, smoking out the window while I waited for Billy to be done with basketball practice. After what happened last week, I wouldn't go back into that gym under penalty of death. 

I watched people pair off to drive home, underclassmen and middle schoolers climbing into their parents mini-vans. I could see Jonathan with his little brother driving off in an old station wagon. The kid was so tiny, I almost couldn't believe he was an eighth grader. You could tell me he was still in elementary school and I wouldn't bat an eye. Thanks to my people watching, I saw Billy coming from a mile away, marching like he was on a mission. 

"Are you ready?" I asked, sticking my head out my window.

"Yeah," he said, nodding. "My sisters on time for once, so we can go whenever you're ready."

"Cool- hey Billy!" I called as he started to leave. "Could you help me out with something?" He looked perplexed for a moment, then I dropped the butt of my cigarette on the asphalt and he nodded, stomping it out for me. "Thanks kid," I said before rolling up my window.

He stormed off to his Camaro, looked more than a little irked that I'd called him 'kid'. His grumpy face made me grin. He really was just a little boy on the inside.

I followed Billy's car to his house, but, to my confusion, I almost remembered the way on my own. I knew every turn was coming before it happened, even recalled street names. How was that possible; I was practically concussed when he brought me here. It took me a full semester to find my way around campus my freshman year, and yet I'd somehow remembered the winding route to Billy's house without even driving it myself.

"Hey Max," I said when I passed the redheaded girl as I headed towards the front door.

She looked up at me, forehead crinkled in the center with confusion; I guess she thought that there was no way I'd ever remember her name. But then she smiled, and said, "Hello Deborah."

"You can call me Deb if you want, most people do." I fell into step with her, despite feeling Billy's glare on the back of my head. "Are you excited to go to the Snowball?'

"Yeah, I am. My mom bought me a new sweater for the occasion."

"No dress?"

She shook her head back and forth, smiling shyly. "Not for me, I'm not really a dress kind of girl. I much prefer jeans."

"Good for you, knowing yourself like that."

"Alright, enough chit-chat, we have work to do." Billy grabbed my arm and dragged me off to his room. It hurt a little and pissed me off a lot, but I let him do it rather than cause a scene in front of his step-sister. "Don't come in, Max, I mean it," he said, pointing his finger at the girl, before aggressively closing the door.

"Hey, there's no need to be so rude about it."He didn't respond, which was pretty off-brand, and instead just gathered his supplies. "What, no snappy comeback?"

He sat down, tilting his head like an alley cat peeking around the corner at a bowl of food. "Do you want to fight with me, Debbie?" he asked. "Maybe you want me to get angry because that's the only way I'll pay attention to you." His blue eyes darted down to my mouth, my lips parted with surprise. "You've made it clear you aren't interested in me, so why would I waste my time chasing you. I have more important things to deal with, namely passing art class. So if you'd sit down, that'd be much appreciated."

I forced my mouth closed and did as I was told. There was a sharp pinching sensation behind my lower eyelids letting me know tears were on the way, which was obviously unacceptable so I just inhaled deeply through my nose and exhaled through my mouth like I was meditating.

Our painting session passed by rather quickly, even though we worked until the sun started to set. We had to stop after that because the lighting was important to Billy's painting.

"Aren't you worried about the days getting shorter," I asked, putting on my jacket. "Soon, they'll hardly be any time after school with proper sunlight."

Billy shrugged, putting the canvas away. "I like when little things about the subject change from one session to the next, like your hairstyle or facial expression or even the lighting, it gives it all a nice flavor." When he saw how I was looking at him, realized he'd been speaking fondly of the artistic process, he puffed out his chest, stick a cigarette between his teeth, lighting it with expert quickness, and taking a long drag. "Besides, the painting's due in less than a month anyway," he said. "Then we'll never have to see each other again."

Instead of walking me to my car like a gentleman would, especially since it was getting dark out and I was parked down the block, he just waited till I was on the porch and slammed the door behind me, quite nearly hitting my ass on the way out. I rolled my eyes at his lack of propriety and made my way to my Beetle, bracing myself against the frigid weather.

"Deborah, Deborah Harrington, is that you?" 

I looked up and saw Neil Hargrove walking towards me wearing a coat that didn't look nearly warm enough. "Hello, Neil. Yes, it's me, I just finished up painting with your son."

"And he didn't walk you to your car?" The man clicked his tongue twice, shaking his head. "I'll have to give that boy a good tongue lashing." He had a wolfish smile, the kind that belonged to a person who liked his drink and wasn't opposed to a strip club once in a while. It didn't intimidate me (he was the kind of person I'd find Sal hanging out with on a summer afternoon, sipping a beer by the pool), but I also didn't feel like chatting him in the freezing December weather.

"Well, I'll see you soon, I'm sure," I said, before passing him with a small wave, and scampering off to my car.

I climbed into the driver's seat, locking the door behind me. What I needed now, more than a smoke or a stiff drink, was music. I pulled out mixtape number 17, one that Craig had made for me when we were the most in love. I wanted to hear it once more, remember what I was like then, because it was quite possible I'd never feel such a precious emotion again.

The first track was Tiny Dancer, and the piano line instantly brought me back to lying in bed with Craig, my forehead pressed into the crook of his neck, his fingers running up the dip in my spine, my fingers playing with his chest hair. But then those long, wiry muscles broadened, his hands grew rough and needy, and his body hair seemed to melt away, the tiny patch in the center lightening to a flaxen blonde. In my mental picture, painted by Elton John's melodic voice, I looked up and found myself staring into Billy's ocean eyes, the lines around them that usually indicated malice or arrogance were smoothed away. He was at peace. And so was I.