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“Sure,” he said, stepping aside to let her in. The Bixby War had been ongoing since Billy and Marianne were in middle school. Once, he’d asked her if her parents were going to get divorced since they fought so much. She’d said no, they were just the type of people who were only happy when they were angry. He thought that was messed up, but then again, he had a mom who smiled instead of shouted, so who was he to judge?

  As Billy shut the door behind her, Marianne glanced at the family room. Televised sounds of some lucky winner filled the air with joyous screeches. She asked Billy, “Should I say hi?”

  On good days, Gramps smiled at Marianne and called her “Debbie,” whoever that was. Billy shook his head. “Don’t want to push my luck. It was a bad afternoon.”

  The two of them slunk down the hallway and into Billy’s room. He kept the door open so that he could hear if Gramps needed him. “Take the desk,” he said, grabbing his laptop.

  “Chivalry!” She unpacked her things and got settled. “Shouldn’t be too long. Just have to finish up that history paper.”

  “Ditto.” He sat on his bed, using his pillow to cushion his back. “Figure thirty minutes, then I’m done.”

  “Shame you weren’t at Dawson’s,” she said as she opened up her report. “You missed all the fun. Amy and Michael hooked up, then Amy and Gary broke up.”

  He grinned. “You’d think Gary would’ve seen that coming.”

  “Shocker, right? He called Michael some interesting names. I’d tell you what they were, but you’d blush.”

  “My virgin ears,” he said piously.

  “So Gary stormed out, looking ready to grab a baseball bat and smash things. There’s some colorful language on Michael’s Facebook page tonight.”

  Billy took her word for it; he avoided social networking sites as a rule. The last time he’d done a search on his own name, he’d found an upsetting number of pages and comments calling him gay, and retarded, and stupid—and those were the nicer names. He’d been ten years old. Billy had learned his lesson: ego-surfing was bad, and social media sites were worse.

  After they finished their homework and had a conversation discussing the merits of superhero comic books (better stories, according to Billy) versus superhero movies (better eye candy, according to Marianne), she asked what had happened that afternoon that had been so bad. So Billy launched into an abbreviated version of events, completely skipping over how he’d been jumped by Eddie and the Bruisers. Instead, he started with his mother telling him that Gramps had wandered off, so he’d had to go searching for him. And oh yeah, the old man had nearly gotten hit by a car.

  Marianne shrieked, “What?”

  Billy frantically shhhhhed her, then ducked out to do a quick check on the old man. All was well—his grandfather was snoozing in front of the television—so Billy quietly came back to his room and half closed the door. Then he told Marianne how he’d run for blocks, calling for Gramps. He sounded steady enough as he recalled what had happened, but his heartbeat throbbed in his ears and his throat constricted as he remembered the sheer panic of not knowing where his grandfather was.

  “You must’ve been terrified,” Marianne said breathlessly.

  Shame flooded him as, for one brief moment, he wished that he hadn’t found Gramps. “Yeah.”

  He skipped over his encounter with the street musician—he was having trouble remembering that part properly, sort of like chasing a dream—and instead he explained that he’d spotted his grandfather walking in the middle of the street. And then came the part about the oncoming car. He matter-of-factly described how he’d tackled Gramps to get him out of the way. Marianne oohed and ahhed at all the right points, and Billy felt his cheeks heat up when she commented how brave he’d been.

  “Brave?” He let out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s me. Brave. Right now, I’m in my mild-mannered disguise.”

  She glared at him. No one could glare like Marianne Bixby. It was a thing of lasers and fury. “Shut up,” she said. “You were too brave!”

  Billy shut up.

  “Most people wouldn’t throw themselves in front of a car to save anyone, family or not,” she said. “If it was my family, I’d let them get run over.”

  “Yeah, well,” he mumbled, embarrassed. “Your family has issues.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Billy, don’t you get it? You saved your grandpa! You could’ve died!”

  For some reason, that made Billy think fleetingly of the street musician. Not a musician, he told himself. A Rider.

  Whatever that meant.

  “Look,” he said, “it’s not a big deal. No one died. Gramps is fine. I’m fine. He was so mad at me for slamming into him, he punched me in the jaw.” He pointed to the spot where his grandfather had slugged him.

  She shook her head. “Billy Ballard, you were a hero today. You hear me?” Softer, she repeated, “You were a hero.”

  Now Billy’s whole face was on fire, and his heart was beating too fast, and he couldn’t think of a damn thing to say.

  Marianne laughed quietly, a simple, musical laugh that went straight to Billy’s heart. She said, “I made you blush.”

  “You’re evil like that,” he said, thinking seriously about taking a chance and kissing her. But in the end, he decided to play it safe. Heroes got the girls, but despite what Marianne said, Billy Ballard was no hero.

  Later, after he’d checked on Gramps a half-dozen times but well before his mom came home, Billy walked Marianne to the front door. They kept their voices low so that the old man wouldn’t be bothered.

  “Want me to walk you home?” he offered. “We’d have to wait for my mom, because I can’t leave Gramps alone, but once she’s here I could take you back.”

  “Chivalry!” she chirped. “That’s sweet, but I think I can make it the five blocks without getting mugged or raped or whatever.”

  Of course she’d say that. Marianne didn’t believe in monsters. When she saw shadows, she assumed that’s all they were: shadows. Not Billy. He knew enough to be afraid of what crouched in the dark. They said their goodbyes, and Billy watched from the doorway as Marianne walked down the block and aimed for home.

  When she was out of sight, he started to close the front door—and then he swung it open wide. Frowning, he scanned the front yard, trying to find whatever it was that had made his internal radar ping. Despite Marianne’s insistence of Billy’s heroism, he was a coward through and through, and after years of getting jumped by bullies, he’d come to rely on his instincts. Right now, they were insisting that there was someone standing by the far end of the yard. He reached inside to flip on the floodlights, and for a moment he thought he’d seen a shadow retreat. He blinked and looked again.

  Nothing.

  His brow creased, but he couldn’t deny what his eyes were telling him. There was no one on the lawn. Just jumpy, he told himself as he shut and locked the door. Some hero. With a sigh, he went into the family room to check on his grandfather.

  ***

  Outside, a woman in black stood beside a black horse. When the boy had paused to stare right at her, she had been sorely tempted to approach him. But it wouldn’t have changed a thing.

  The White Rider was beyond her reach.

  She clucked her tongue. “I’m getting as impatient as War,” she said, shaking her head.

  Next to her, the black horse snorted.

  “Well, I am.” She patted her steed’s neck. “You’ve known him longer than I. Will he make things right?”

  The horse cocked its head, considering the question. Finally, it lowered one ear, as if to say, “Maybe.”

  She fished out a sugar cube from her pocket. “I suppose I have to trust him,” she said, tossing the treat over the horse’s head. The black steed snapped its teeth and crunched sugar.

  Turning once more to face the boy’s house, Famine sighed. “I just hope he knows what he’s doing.”

  The black horse, still chewing, declined to comment.

  With a last look at the Ballard house, th
e Black Rider climbed atop her steed. Together, they disappeared into the night.

  Chapter 4

  Billy’s in the Sandbox . . .

  . . . building castles and getting filthy and loving every second of it. It’s a gorgeous spring day, complete with blue skies and singing birds. Other kids are in the playground, too, but Billy doesn’t notice them.

  A cloud passes over him, and he sneezes, once.

  Five-year-old Billy scoops out more sand. He’s sniffling now, his nose leaking and his eyes watering. He barely notices; he just uses his shirt as a tissue and keeps on playing in the sandbox.

  The cloud doesn’t move.

  Something’s not right, he decides as he frowns at the hollow tower, but he can’t decide what it is.

  A shadow falls over him.

  “It won’t last,” says a man’s voice—

  ***

  —and Billy’s eyes snapped open. His skin too cold, his breathing too fast, Billy stared at the alarm clock on his nightstand, stared at it until he finally understood that he wasn’t in a sandbox but in bed. He’d had a dream, that was all.

  Thank you, God. I don’t want to remember the Ice Cream Man.

  The dream was already blowing away, dandelion fluff in the wind. He blinked until the numbers on his alarm clock registered, and then he let out a groan. 6:16 a.m. He could have stayed asleep for fourteen more minutes. Ever since he’d hit puberty, he’d come to appreciate the fine art of sleeping in—or, at least, of staying in bed. Especially on school days, like this one, Billy liked to stay hidden until the last possible second.

  The thought of going to school made it rain fire in his stomach.

  He burrowed under his blanket and stayed submerged in the muffled darkness, listening to the sound of his own breath. Today was what, Thursday? That meant two classes with Eddie Glass’s bruiser buddies, Kurt and Joe. Kurt had a laugh like a donkey’s bray. Billy knew the sound well; every time Kurt pushed Billy or shoved him, the boy would let out that obnoxious laugh. Joe wasn’t like Kurt. He was quiet. And mean. If Kurt tripped Billy, Joe would kick him when he was down.

  Billy’s gut twisted, making him curl up like a shrimp.

  He tried to focus on other things, like the biology class he shared with Marianne. But he kept coming back to Kurt in his English lit class and Joe in PE. What would today bring? Extended legs, tripping him in the aisle? Food spat into his hair? A fist in his face? Something worse?

  Billy’s stomach lurched, signaled one pitiful warning.

  He stumbled out of bed and ran toward the bathroom, barely making it over the toilet before dry heaves ravaged his body. His arms trembled as acid burned its way up his esophagus and out his mouth. When his stomach finally settled, he sat back on his haunches and blew out a shaky breath. He didn’t know if the dampness on his face was from sweat or tears.

  Just another school morning.

  A joyful sound yanked him out of his bleak thoughts, and Billy rushed back to his bedroom, where his alarm clock was chirping brightly. He shut it off and just stood for a moment, his head down and his back bent, breathing through clenched teeth. Maybe he should stay home sick today. All he had to do was knock on his mom’s bedroom door and sound even more pathetic than he really was and say he was sick. No lie; didn’t he just puke?

  If he stayed home, he’d have to watch Gramps all day. Not fun, but certainly manageable, as long as he kept the house locked tight. He’d miss his test in English lit, but he could take a makeup exam. The teacher was laid back about that sort of thing, maybe because the subject matter was written by people long dead.

  He wondered what Marianne would think if he didn’t go to school today.

  Billy closed his eyes and imagined he could hear the hum of her voice, the unique music of her laughter. Snapshots in his mind: Marianne Bixby at seven, gap-toothed and freckled; Marianne at fifteen, her grin infectious, her face perfect. He couldn’t remember when she’d transformed from his best friend into the girl he wanted to kiss. One week, she’d been the buddy who liked to play hide-and-seek with him; the next week, she was pretty and curvy and suddenly much more than just a buddy. Time was funny like that.

  Marianne would be at school, in his bio class.

  Eddie and the Bruisers would be at school, anywhere and everywhere.

  Stay home? Or go to school?

  Billy counted to three and made his choice. He should have felt confident or even brave—his mind kept replaying Marianne calling him a hero, ha, what a joke that was—but his stomach was a mess and his head was hurting and his palms turned clammy as he remembered the feeling of Eddie’s foot slamming into him.

  Only two-plus more years of high school to go. His mom insisted that a year went by quickly. Billy thought she was insane. A year was almost forever, and two years was an eternity. How was he supposed to make it to college?

  Billy forced himself to go back to the bathroom before he could rethink his decision. He flushed away the vomit and scrubbed his teeth to get rid of the taste in his mouth. Puking always made him think of bugs for some reason, and now his skin tickled as it felt like a colony of ants was working its way along his body—imaginary, but still real enough to make him want to scratch his arms and neck and chest until his flesh was nothing more than bloody strips. Stress, the family doctor had declared to Billy and his mom back when Billy first started showing psychosomatic symptoms, and that announcement had come only after a barrage of tests for allergies and maladies and neuroses.

  Yeah, being the local punching bag tended to stress him out.

  Feeling itchy and angry and stupid, he took a hot shower until any imaginary bugs left on his skin had been steam fried.

  Back in his room, he outlined the day’s battle plan. The morning would be the worst part: trigonometry, biology and American history, all of which bored him into a coma, immediately followed by PE, which meant somehow avoiding Joe in the locker room. So he’d wear his gym clothes under his regular clothing—in and out of the locker room in ninety seconds. After, he’d throw his stuff on and run to the library instead of the lunchroom. Then lit, followed by creative writing, which was three doors down. Finally Latin, which sucked but at least was near the front door of the school; as long as he was first out of the classroom, he’d get a head start out of the building.

  It was possible that he’d make it through the day without encountering Eddie at all. And if he was careful in gym, all that might happen was dealing with insults. He could handle that; he’d been called the worst of things ever since he was a kid.

  Insults were just words. And words could be ignored.

  Billy took a deep breath and started to get dressed, telling himself that nothing too bad would happen today.

  Liar, whispered a small voice in his head.

  That was okay; Billy was used to being called names, even when he was the one doing it to himself.

  ***

  “Keep it up!”

  Billy loathed the PE instructor almost as much as he despised Eddie Glass. The instructor was like a brick wall with overly large hands and a bullhorn voice, and he had a nasty habit of cracking his knuckles to punctuate his sentences. Like now: a resounding crack filled the gymnasium, the sound of spines breaking. Billy flinched; near him, Joe snorted. Of course he’d seen Billy’s involuntary cringe. Of course. Joe made sure that Billy was utterly miserable in PE, and not just because the instructor preached the gospel of sweat.

  The students were in a loose circle with one in the middle, all of them tasked with keeping the volleyball in the air—the middleman launched it, and the guys in the circle hit it back. Fingertips stretched high; forearms reached out. Sets and bumps all around as the ball hopped lightly from middle to circle to middle again. Calls of “mine” and “got it” echoed in the large gymnasium.

  The instructor bellowed, “If the ball touches the floor, it’s twenty pushups!”

  Now groans joined the possessive declarations. Billy, though, kept silent. Complaining about things
didn’t make them go away. Eddie had taught him that a long time ago. More determined to keep the ball in play, he watched, his knees bent, his fingers twitching with nervous energy. He didn’t want to be the one who screwed it up. Let someone else be the target of derision for a change.

  Across from him, gangly Sean popped the ball up in a wide arc—overshooting Joe in the middle and heading toward Billy, but not close enough to reach. Billy jumped into the middle, fingers interlaced and his forearms out for a bump, his voice breaking as he shouted, “Got it!” The ball bounced solidly off Billy’s arms.

  He had a moment of sheer joy—he’d done it, he’d kept the ball in play—and then Joe shoved his elbow into Billy’s stomach.

  Blinding pain.

  Billy couldn’t stand. Couldn’t breathe. He dropped to the ground and wheezed for air, body bent double. Tried to crawl and couldn’t move.

  Around him, a flurry of movement. The ball was still in play.

  An eternity later, someone squatted next to him. Billy forced himself to look up into the instructor’s small eyes.

  “Get up,” he barked. “Don’t be such a girl.”

  Billy got up.

  ***

  Eventually, PE ended and Billy was released into the wild of the boys’ locker room. The agony in his gut had faded to a dull ache, just enough to slow him down to a shuffling walk. So much for zipping out of there before people realized he was gone. He clamped one hand to his side, which did nothing to stop his discomfort. Nasty bruise for sure. Maybe he was bleeding internally. Dead by sundown. That would be the end of Billy Ballard: done in by a sharp elbow and cruel coach. Rest in peace.

  He suddenly remembered the street musician from yesterday, remembered the way the pennies in the guitar case had shone, beckoning. Remembered how he was going to toss in some change.

  Remembered the cold bite of the musician’s fingers on his wrist.

  Billy shuddered, and he walked a little faster.

  When he finally reached his locker, he blinked at the messenger slip stuck jauntily on the metal door. Frowning, he removed the slip from his locker door. Just like the one from yesterday, this message was mostly faded to the point of obscurity; once again, only his name and a checked message were legible.