Loss Read online

  WILLIAM BALLARD

  SECOND ATTEMPT—THIRD TIME WILL BE THE CHARM!

  A joke. Just some stupid joke. No way was a legitimate messenger delivering something to a fifteen-year-old in his high school locker room. For a moment, he thought it wasn’t merely a joke but the promise of something cruel, a horrific prank that promised pain and humiliation. Then again, his daily tormentors never bothered with anything so elaborate; they were more of the punch-and-point variety. This had to be nothing more than someone looking to get his hopes up, only to tear them down when there was no package. That, he could handle. He crumpled the slip and opened his combination lock.

  Around him, the other guys were talking about this and that—girls, mostly, with some gaming chatter. Billy mechanically pulled up his jeans, only half-listening as one of the guys bragged about not needing cheat codes anymore. He was feeling like roadkill, but almost worse than that, he was feeling disappointed. Part of him had been hopeful that someone really had a package for him, something valuable enough that it had to be delivered and signed for. It didn’t matter that he knew better; he still had hoped.

  You’ll get what you pay for.

  He pushed his hoodie over his head, remembering the way the musician’s words had chilled him, remembering how he had been completely certain the musician was right when he’d said his grandfather was going to be hit by a car in three minutes’ time.

  Remembering the face of the Pale Rider.

  He had no idea what that even meant, other than it was completely true: He’d seen the Pale Rider yesterday and had survived to tell the tale. Score one for the coward.

  It took him a moment to realize that the locker room had fallen silent.

  Billy felt it before he saw the shadow on the locker door next to him: some guy, probably Joe, larger than life—or at least larger than Billy—looming behind him.

  He stiffened. Should he just keep getting dressed? Should he just take it and be done with it?

  Hadn’t he already taken enough crap for today?

  Anger flared, blotting out the ache in his stomach.

  A voice whispered to him, like some guardian angel from on high: You’ve convinced yourself that if you fight back, that will make it worse.

  His fists clenched. He should turn around and confront Joe. Yes, just turn around and look Joe in the eye and tell him to back off. He should . . .

  Hands behind his head, fingers tangling in his hair. Pulling back hard enough to make his scalp scream, then pushing forward until his head slammed against a locker door, back again and forward with a slam, and back, and another slam, boom boom boom, and then the hands released him and Billy slid to the ground.

  “Watch your head,” said Joe.

  Billy’s limbs were rubber; his head was spinning, or maybe that was the world around him. It hurt, yes, but Joe clearly hadn’t used his full strength. Billy felt absurdly grateful, and then immediately was flooded with rage—not at Joe, no, but at himself.

  He should fight back. Except he could barely move.

  With a satisfied grunt, Joe moved on. Soon conversation picked up, but none of it was about what had just happened. Why bother? No one saw anything. No one ever saw anything. It was an unwritten law, the rule of the high school jungle: Mind your own business and maybe you won’t get eaten today. Keep Your Head Down.

  Joe’s mocking voice: Watch your head.

  Billy forced one hand onto the bench, then the other. Shaking, he pulled himself up. Half the guys had already cleared out, probably before Joe had shoved Billy’s head into the locker. He looked around, bleary-eyed, at the remaining group of teens. All of them were busy getting dressed or getting out of there—all except Sean, whose older brother was captain of the football team. It didn’t matter that Sean was a shy beanpole with zits like pepperoni; no one messed with him. He’d earned his immunity, at least until his brother graduated. Maybe next year Billy would have competition as the Most Picked-on Guy in School. But that didn’t matter now; nothing mattered now, other than somehow making it through the day, every day.

  Billy swallowed thickly as Sean stared at him. Sean seemed . . . what, unhappy? Try being the one getting hit, Billy wanted to shout at him. Then you can be unhappy.

  Sean nodded at him before leaving, but Billy didn’t know if the nod meant “Glad you’re okay” or “You’re on your own.” Probably the latter. Billy couldn’t depend on anyone to fight his battles for him. Not even himself.

  His stomach hurt, but not from Joe’s elbow.

  Hating his life, Billy shoved his sneakers onto his feet and spotted the crumpled delivery slip next to his backpack. He stared at it, then picked it up, smoothing out the paper until he clearly saw his name again, and the text below it.

  It was just a joke.

  Even so, Billy carefully placed the slip of paper into his pocket before he picked up his bookbag, wishing that there really was some fantastic package just waiting to be delivered to him.

  ***

  The package in question was no package at all, but a long piece of wood, black and polished to a brilliant sheen. It leaned in the corner of a small room filled with sickness. All sicknesses, really. The Bow gleamed, resplendent and sullen. It had been far too long since it was given the respect it deserved. And it loathed being ignored.

  “Such drama,” Death said. “I’m standing right here, you know.”

  The Bow said nothing. It couldn’t; it was a piece of wood.

  “Patience,” said Death. “You’ll meet your new wielder soon. Tonight, I should think. Yes,” he murmured, far-eyed and all-seeing. “Tonight.”

  If the Bow could nod, it would have. Instead, it stood tall, propped against the wall of a room overflowing with illness. And it waited.

  Chapter 5

  Marianne Took One Look at Him . . .

  . . . and knew something was wrong; Billy could see it in her face, in the way she squared her shoulders. In two seconds she transformed from Best Friend to Avenging Angel; her eyes flashed fury and her mouth twisted, ready to spit poison. She demanded, “What happened?”

  Rather than tell her about what happened during and after PE, Billy pasted a smile on his face as he dumped his backpack under the table. “Lunch sucked,” he said, sliding into the booth. “Think I got food poisoning.”

  She clearly wasn’t buying it. Her voice flat, she asked, “Eddie find you?”

  Damn it.

  “No,” he said truthfully. Not like he was about to admit it had been Joe. He borrowed a page from his mom’s playbook and went with the redirect. “My turn to buy. You in a pepperoni place today?”

  She frowned as she considered him, and Billy wondered if she was going to push. Please let it go, he thought. He’d barely had the guts to show up at Dawson’s today as it was. If Marianne got on his case about how he needed to stand up to Eddie and his wrecking crew, he’d leave. Bad enough Joe had gotten him twice in one day; he couldn’t take Marianne browbeating him. Not today, he thought desperately. Please, not today. One thing more and I’ll break.

  Maybe she’d seen the truth written on his face, because she sighed, then tried a smile on for size. “Broccoli,” she said.

  He made a face. “Why ruin a perfectly good slice of pizza with vegetables?”

  “Feeling healthy today.”

  “Pizza as health food,” he said. “Who knew?”

  “It’s got protein and carbs. And veggies,” she added. “Specifically, broccoli. And green pepper.”

  “Gah.” He escaped before she could add something nauseating like anchovies to the list. He’d do anything for Marianne, but watching her eat pizza with fish on it tested the limits of their friendship.

  If only they weren’t just friends . . .

  In line to get their food, Billy daydreamed about going on a date with Marianne. Maybe it wouldn’t start that way; they’d pick a movie to go to, as friends. A superhero movie, so Billy could roll his eyes at how it was different from the comic books and Marianne could a
ppreciate the eye candy. They’d share a tub of popcorn, because that’s what friends did: They shared. They’d reach for a handful at the same time, and their fingers would brush together, and Marianne wouldn’t pull away as he slowly wrapped his hand around hers . . .

  A jostle from behind—nothing too cruel, just a “Move it, buddy” sort of shove. Billy moved it.

  Soon he was juggling pizza and Cokes—diet for Marianne, since she seemed to be health conscious today—walking slowly so he wouldn’t drop anything.

  Later, Billy would tell himself that it was his own fault. He should have been looking. He’d known that Joe’s sidekick, Kurt, was in Dawson’s, seated at the Loud Table—the one that projected every taunt and jibe so that you felt each verbal barb, no matter where you sat in the pizzeria. Billy should have taken the long way around, circumventing the Loud Table and sticking to the crowded periphery. He should have known better.

  But no, he’d been lost in his own world, thinking about Marianne and that superhero movie, their fingers interlocking in the popcorn tub, slick with butter. So he all but floated past the Loud Table.

  Just not high enough to pass over Kurt’s extended foot.

  He had one second between walking and wipeout, just one second in which Billy stood suspended, perfectly balanced on one toe, his arms outstretched and hands clutching the overstuffed tray of food, and in that one second he gripped Marianne’s hand tight, tight, squishing popcorn and refusing to let her go . . .

  And then the daydream was wrenched away as gravity took over. His chin slammed into the floor.

  He barely heard the raucous laughter, the jeers, the hoots and clapping. His jaw aching, he stared at the pizza, which had fallen cheese-side down, stared at the spilled cups of soda, stared and wondered Why? and Why? and Why always me? He stared as the soda pooled under the mess of cheese and broccoli and oil, and as he stared at the ruins of his meal, his and Marianne’s meal, he felt Joe’s elbow in his gut once more, felt his head bang into the locker door again, felt it all, and he had to get out of there, out of there now, right now, get out and get gone and not look back.

  Billy scrambled to his feet and ran out of Dawson’s, ran as fast as he could, ran so that the wind howled in his ears and muffled the sound of his furious screams. He hated them all—Kurt and Joe and Eddie and everyone who laughed at him, who picked on him, who looked the other way. He hated the teachers who saw what happened in school and ignored it, hated his dad for abandoning him, hated his mom and the old man that wore his grandfather’s face. He even hated Marianne, perfect Marianne, for no reason he could name. He hated them all, but mostly, he hated himself.

  When he finally arrived home, hoarse and trembling, he realized he’d left his backpack at Dawson’s. He closed his eyes as he rang the doorbell, wishing to God that he could be someone else, that he could just run away and start over, that the world would end, something, anything to make it all just stop. When his mother opened the door, he muscled past her and locked himself in his bedroom and shoved buds in his ears and blasted music loud enough to liquefy his brain.

  His life sucked. And that would never change because at his core, he was a coward.

  A flash of red behind his eyes; a girl’s velvet voice, saying: You don’t know yourself. Yet.

  Bullshit. He was a coward through and through. So suck it up, cupcake, he told himself as he tried to lose himself in the music and failed. Suck it up.

  He pretended his eyes stung from the dust in the room. When the tears fell, he ignored them.

  ***

  Billy’s mother gave up trying to talk to him halfway through dinner. She was clearly annoyed; he could tell by the way her eyes glinted like diamonds, overly bright and sharp enough to slice with a glare. But she kept smiling. Billy wondered what it meant when people smiled through their pain. Did they scream when they were happy? Probably. No wonder the world was so messed up. People shouldn’t have to lie through their emotions.

  Even Gramps seemed to pick up on his black mood, because the most the old man did was mutter to himself and answer Billy’s mother in monosyllabic grunts. Billy murdered peas with the flat of his spoon, killing vegetables along with time until dinner was finally over.

  When his mother left for work, she cast him a troubled look before heading out the door. Billy let it wash over him, then parked his grandfather by the television and retreated to his bedroom. He couldn’t do his homework because he didn’t have his backpack, and he wasn’t in the mood for music. Television was a waste. Reading? No. He was too messed up to talk to Marianne, so he wouldn’t text her. Therefore . . . time for video games. Animated violence with a killer soundtrack: maybe not a cure-all, but it sure worked as a temporary fix.

  He got six rounds in before the doorbell rang.

  As he ran to the door, Billy had a sudden, consuming hope that it was Marianne standing on his stoop, offering his backpack and a sympathetic smile. On the heels of that was the fervent wish that it not be Marianne at his door, not after the scene at Dawson’s. How could he ever face her again? His mouth twisted into something caught between a smile and a grimace. Steeling himself for the worst, he opened the door.

  He didn’t see Marianne Bixby.

  “Oh good, you’re home.” The guitarist that Billy had spoken with yesterday smiled warmly as he held out a slip of paper. “I was starting to think I’d have to make a formal appointment.”

  Billy absently took the paper as he stared at the figure standing before him. Even though the street musician still wore a man’s form, Billy now saw through the easy smile and mischievous blue eyes, down to the skull beneath the flesh.

  Death had come for Billy Ballard, wearing a ragged brown sweater and a mop of blond hair. Strangely, Billy wasn’t frightened. If he had to put a name to the emotion settling in his bones, it would have been resignation.

  “You,” said Billy.

  “Me,” Death agreed.

  The Pale Rider, that’s the Pale Rider, he’s come to take me to see the Ice Cream Man.

  He squashed that thought until it bled to nothingness, and he forced himself to consider the slip of paper in his hand. Anything to keep him from thinking about the Ice Cream Man. As before, the words on the message slip had faded to the point of illegibility—this time, even Billy’s name was nonexistent. As he looked at the vague impressions on the paper, he wondered why he hadn’t recognized Death yesterday.

  “You were rather preoccupied,” Death said cheerfully. “All you cared about was finding your grandfather. To see me for what I am, you need an open mind. Among other things. Oh, here’s your backpack. Thought you’d want it back.”

  Billy, nonplussed by the casual display of mind reading, took the knapsack and mumbled his thanks.

  “May I come in?”

  “Um. Sure.”

  Death entered the house, whistling as he walked. Did he actually need an invitation, or was he merely being polite? Billy decided it didn’t really matter. He closed the door and shoved the slip of paper into his pocket, wondering if he was going to die.

  “Of course you are,” said Death, glancing at the bookshelf poster on the back of the door. “Thou art flesh and blood. All such things die and decay and feed the worms. But not today, dude. Not for you.”

  Well then, there was only one other reason why someone—no, something—like this would be paying a visit, wasn’t there? It couldn’t be just to return his bookbag. Billy thought of his grandfather, of the man his grandfather used to be, and he told himself that it was for the best. It was long past his grandfather’s time.

  “Time is relative, of course,” Death said idly. “Great poster, by the way. ‘Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend.’”

  Billy struggled for a proper reply. “If you say so.”

  “I didn’t. Groucho Marx did. And he added that ‘Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.’” Death chuckled. “Got to love the classics.”

  Nothing like a death god with a sense of humor. Billy glanced
at Gramps, sequestered in the den but within easy eyeshot. The old man’s gaze was studiously fixed on the TV screen. Billy wondered if his grandfather was ignoring the guest in the house, or if he really was just that into the television show. Maybe Gramps knew exactly what was about to happen, and he was pretending to be lost in a game show more than two decades old.

  Maybe Gramps was scared.

  “For the record,” said Death, who was now ambling down the hallway, “I’m not a god. Those come and go. I’m more like a permanent fixture.”

  “Oh.” Billy peeked at his grandfather again. Poor Gramps. Well, everyone had a time to go, and this was his grandfather’s. Billy was okay with that. Actually, Billy felt . . . relieved.

  He had to be the worst grandson in the world. He clamped a hand over his stomach, but that did nothing to stop the sudden churning in his belly.

  Death, now standing in front of where a large family photo used to hang, turned his head to gaze at Billy. The wall behind Death was empty, with only the ghosts of snapshots to lend any color, but those eyes, Death’s eyes, were even emptier.

  Vacant, Billy thought, feeling the first stirrings of fear as his heart slammed in his throat, the word is vacant, unoccupied. Unoccu-eyed. He’s got no eyes in his eyes. How does he see?

  “I see quite clearly,” said Death. “And I’m not here for your grandfather.”

  Billy went cold. It didn’t come over him slowly, like blood draining from his face; this was a sudden frost, like he’d stepped into a meat locker and someone had shut the door behind him. Numb, he stammered, “Not my mom . . . ?”

  A smile flickered across Death’s mouth. “I’m here for you, William.”

  Now Billy wasn’t numb at all. Sheer terror—far colder than the meager fear he’d felt just a moment ago—yanked at his spine and contorted it into a frantic knot. He squeaked, “Me? But you said I wasn’t going to die today!”