BILLY:

      I pull into the driveway and reach into the backseat for my bookbag, then set the alarm and lock the doors. Our next-door neighbor, Mr. Scott, waves and says, "Hello, Billy! Everything going okay over there?"

      "Fine, thanks!" I call back. "Cyndee is apparently having an extended sleepover with whichever poor sap she's managed to snag this time, so it's nice and quiet."

      "All right, then. But remember, if you need anything, Gina and I are right here."

      "I know,and I'll call if I need anything. Thanks again!" I say, and head for the house. Mr. Scott, or Paul, as he tells me I can call him, was my grandad's lawyer before he died, and my folks are not on his list of favorite people. They're been gone for a couple of days, since Mom decided to tag along with Dad to a conference in Portland, and they're not supposed to be back until tomorrow evening, so this is the last night I get to myself. No complaining, no criticism, no listening to them bragging to their friends, or each other, about how wonderful and perfect Cyndee is, just quiet.

      I close the door as I walk into the living room, and punch in the alarm code, knowing that Mr. Scott won't go inside until he sees the light under the eaves blink, and knows I've remembered to set it. He wasn't happy when he heard that they were planning to leave me here by myself, even though I'm sixteen years old, and he and his wife tried to talk me into coming to stay with them. I finally convinced them that I was actually glad to have some 'me time' without having to deal with my folks, but they insisted that I call if anything goes wrong, and of course I promised that I would. The folks would have blown a fuse if I'd done that anyway, since they've basically hated his guts since I was about ten, when he kept them from changing what Grampy put in his will after he died.

      I put my bag on the couch and go to the kitchen to hunt up some dinner. I had to meet with Mrs. Walker about our presentation again after school, so I didn't have time to stop for food before I went to work, and I'm starving. I find a can of Chunky Sirloin Burger soup in the cabinet, dump it in a bowl, and pop it in the microwave while I get a glass of iced tea, then take them back to the living room and watch TV while I eat. After that, I get my homework done, take a shower, and wind up watching "Lord Of The Rings" before I go up to my room.

      Before I actually get into bed, I look out the window and see Mrs. Hufnagel from down the block walking her dog past the house, and stopping at the end of the driveway to glare at my car, like she does every time she passes by. She's complained to my dad more than once about it being an "eyesore" and a "blight on property values", and wasn't particularly thrilled when he informed her that he wasn't really interested in her opinion, and that as long as he didn't have to take time out of his day to drive me to school, and didn't have to pay for the upkeep, she could just suck it up.

      Granted, when you take into consideration that both my dad and Cyndee drive Mercedes, and my mom has an Escalade, a school-bus orange 1981 Daihatsu Charade hatchback with porthole windows does kind of stand out. But when I turned sixteen back in February, my folks bought a 1994 Geo Metro for me to drive to school and my job, and the first time I showed up at work in it, my boss almost stroked out, because it was in such bad shape. But fortunately, my job is answering the phone at an auto-repair shop, and my boss, Mr. Malone, also works with the high school auto-shop classes, so a lot of it got fixed up because I let them practice on it.

      But after the work, when it was in decent shape, Dad decided to sell it and get his money back, without saying anything. I came out of school and it wasn't in the parking lot, so I thought someone had stolen it and freaked out. When I finally found out what had actually happened, and told Mr. M at work, he was pissed that he'd done all of that free or discounted work just so my dad could make a profit on what started out as a junk car. So he talked to his wife, and they decided to let me drive their son's old car, which was still in their shed. And since it's theirs, and I'm basically just borrowing it, Dad can't sell it out from under me. Mr. M takes a few bucks out of my pay every week to put toward the insurance, and I pay for gas, but he covers the tags and the upkeep. It's kind of weird looking, but it runs, and I don't have to ride buses or anything, so it's all good. 

      After getting out my clothes for school tomorrow and laying them on my chair, I turn on my radio, get into bed, and go to sleep. It seems like I've barely closed my eyes when something wakes me up, but when I look at my clock, it says 4:37, so I've actually been asleep for about five hours. I lie here for a minute trying to figure out what's going on, then I hear a full-throated scream, like someone being murdered, and realize that it's coming from inside the house.

      I scramble out of bed and grab my grandad's old walking stick that I keep in the corner of my room, then very quietly open the door and sneak out onto the landing. I'm not sure exactly what to expect when I look over the railing, but it definitely isn't to see Cyndee bent over across the back of the couch, bare-ass naked, with some equally unclothed dude standing behind her, pounding for all he's worth while she screeches like a banshee. Absolutely lovely. I'm seriously considering chucking a couple of shoes or something over the landing at them, when the guy shifts his position slightly, and I see a cluster of stars tattooed on his left shoulder, which I recognize instantly.

      Holy shit, she's managed to snag Ashley! I think, as I feel my stomach drop almost to my feet. And just a couple of days ago, I was giving him credit for being smarter than that, but I guess I should have known better. Most guys, unless they're gay, will go for a big pair of tits and the hope of an easy lay, so why would he be any different? And the worst part of the whole thing is what I see on the floor next to the table: a small mirror, which I can tell even from here still has a white residue clinging to it. I heard him turn down an offer to have some one night at the club, but now she's obviously gotten him into the shit, too. Fan-fucking-tastic.

      I guess I've made some sort of noise or something, because Cyndee looks up, even though Ashley still seems oblivious. But instead of looking embarrassed, or even just surprised, she props herself on her elbows, gives me a smug little grin, and raises both middle fingers in my direction, before throwing her head back and yelling, "Oh, God, just like that, babe! Keep doing that, I'm so fucking close!"

      That tells me everything I need to know. Somehow, she either heard my conversation with Dori the other night, or she managed to figure out on her own that I liked Ash, and went after him just to bug me. I mean, I know I wouldn't have the chance of a snowball in a blast furnace of getting him myself, if for no other reason than the fact that I'm underage, never mind that he can get much better looking girls. But I had hoped that he would be smart enough to see what kind of person Cyndee really is, and not be sucked in by her looks, but apparently not.

      I go back to my room and get back into bed, but there's no way I'm getting back to sleep, so I turn up the radio to drown out the fuck-fest downstairs, grab a book, and read until my alarm goes off and I have to get ready for school. I get dressed, walk out into the hall, and nearly collide with Ashley as he steps out of the bathroom.

      "Oh, crap! I didn't realize anyone else was here!" he says. "I'm sorry, did I wake you up?

      "No, you didn't. Screaming Mimi down there took care of that a few hours ago," I inform him, and he actually looks up from fastening his belt, completely surprised.

      "Billy? What are you doing here?"

      "Dude, I live here. I would ask you the same question, but I already know the answer. You came here to shtup my sister."

      He sort of stares at me, totally confused. "Cyndee is your sister? How did none of us know that?"

      "Well, it's not something that either of us are exactly proud of, so we don't really mention it," I tell him. "And Dori is fully aware of the fact, I guess she just didn't see any reason to bring it up."

      He looks even more puzzled as he asks, "What do you mean, it's not something you're proud of?"

      "Do you seriously need to ask? You can't possibly stand there with your face hanging out and tell me that you think she'd actually want to admit to being related to the 'unpopular kid', it might damage her image or something. And I'd personally prefer not to have it be common knowledge that I'm related to a self-centered, spoiled, manipulating little witch. But I guess you haven't met that personality yet, have you?"

      He raises an eyebrow, his expression now more skeptical than confused, and says, "Your sister and I have a lot in common, and we really like each other. She's a terrific girl, and nothing like what you're saying."

      "Well, of course that's what she wants you to think, but since you've been so nice to me, I'd feel like crap if I didn't warn you that she's basically just out for herself. She'll take you for whatever she can get, and then dump you when she bleeds you dry. That's what she does to every guy she meets, just ask Dave Pickard."

      I see his jaw tighten up, and his eyebrows come down over his eyes as he glares at me, so I can tell that he's getting pissed off, but it's still a surprise when he clenches his teeth and practically growls, "I call bullshit, this is nothing but pure fucking jealousy. Which I can totally understand, but it's hardly Cyndee's fault that she's popular, and gorgeous, and you're the ugly duckling. And what I'd really like to know is where you get the idea that I'd be dumb enough to take advice on my fucking personal life from you, when it's pretty clear that the only long-term relationship you've ever had is with Ben and Jerry. Or was it the Pillsbury Doughboy? Either way, I have to tell you, stuffing your face with everything in sight isn't gonna do anything to solve whatever problem it is that you obviously have."

      For a couple of seconds all I can do is stare at him, even though it suddenly feels like someone just hit me in the chest with a sledgehammer, and I can feel tears starting to sting my eyes. I force them back, though, because the biggest lesson I've learned from Cyndee, and the idiots at school, is that letting them know that they can hurt you only encourages them. But this one I totally didn't see coming, even though I guess I probably should have. It's my own dumbass fault for thinking he might actually be any different than any of the other assholes who don't give a flying fuck about anything but what's on the outside.

      He turns and starts to walk away from me, and I finally recover my voice. "Y'know, you may be right," I tell him, and he turns back to look at me again. "Food most likely isn't gonna do anything to solve my problems, anymore than banging anything with an open pair of legs, and getting so high you can only be seen on radar are gonna solve yours, but you do whatever the hell you want. I'll tell you straight up, though, that sooner or later she's going to ass-fuck you with a rusty chainsaw, and you'll have nobody to blame but yourself, because for all intents and purposes, you're bent over begging for it. But if you're that bloody damn stupid, that's your problem, not mine. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go to school, and hope I can stay awake in class, since a couple of inconsiderate junkies decided to wake me up at the ass-crack of dawn sounding like Garfield on the back fence!"

      I shove past him and practically jog down the stairs to the living room, where I grab my bookbag on the fly and walk out the door, slamming it behind me. I unlock the car and toss my bag into the back, then get behind the wheel, but when I start to close my door, someone grabs it, and I hear, "Oooh, is poor wittle Billy upset? You didn't seriously think he'd give you the time of day, did you? Even if you weren't a minor, nobody would pick you when they can have me. Or pretty much anybody else, for that matter."

      "Since I'm not the one who can't get anything higher than a 'C' in school, I hardly think I'm that stupid," I answer. "I just made the mistake of giving him credit for actually being smart enough not to fall for your shit, and to be able to figure out that you're nothing but a useless lying bitch."

      She scowls at me and says, "You know you can't talk to me like that! When I tell Mom and Dad, you're gonna be in deep shit."

      At this point, I almost literally feel something snap, and I pop up out of my seat, shoving the door back hard enough to almost cause her to fall on her butt. She looks totally shocked when I look down at her and say, "Y'see, Lucynda, the problem with that is the fact that they won't be home for at least another eight or nine hours, so there's nobody to actually stop me from pounding you headfirst into the yard like a lawn ornament if I want to. Now, I need to get to school, and I'm really not in the mood for anymore crap this morning, so get your fucking hand off of my door, or Prince Charming in there can drive your ass to the hospital to get your fingers reattached."

      I sit back down and grab the doorhandle, and she quickly lets go when I actually start to pull it closed. As I start the engine, I hear her yell, "Mom and Dad are gonna hear all about this as soon as I can get ahold of them! You're in so much trouble, Billy! You're gonna be one sorry little cow when they get home!"

      Something catches my eye as she's ranting, so I lower the window and point across the yard. She turns around, to see Mrs. Scott standing in her yard, making no effort to hide the fact that she's recording the whole thing, and her mouth immediately snaps shut. "Y'know what? Go ahead and tell them whatever you want," I tell her. "What can they do, kick me out? Or have me sent to juvie? Frankly, I don't see how either one could be a whole lot worse than spending another year here."

      Apparently all the shrieking has gotten Ashley's attention, because he shows up in the door as I back out of the driveway. I wave to Mrs. Scott as I pull onto the street and head for school. I turn on the radio, and mumble to myself, "Well, that was... interesting. But at least my day has to get better from here. I mean, how much worse could it get?"