Billy doesnāt think before he acts, he never has. Itās always go fast, go now, rebound, touch down. In theory, he knows thereās something calm and still about sitting in his car at night with the radio down low, a cigarette hanging from his lips as he idles at red light in mid July. One pause in all the Go, Dog. Go! One drumbeat before he can ease his foot back on the gas.
His mom used to read him that, Go, Dog. Go!Ā And sometimes he wonders if she knew something he didnāt. If she was teaching him a lesson early, some secret kernel heād need once heād failed his first test, or gotten his first car, or first saidĀ I love youĀ when he didnāt really mean it.
He thinks he means it now, which is something. Now that he canāt say I love youĀ itās the only thing that feels true, the only thing that wants to come out of his mouth.
He calls his mom and she says itās not a good time, baby,Ā like there is ever a good time for her guilt, ever a good time for her to turn around and pick up what she left. He says Iāll call you tomorrow?Ā and she says, Iāll be waiting. I miss you.Ā But tomorrow he calls, and itās not a good time.
He calls Max and she says Neil said you would drive me to Mikeās house, and heās at a payphone across town, he doesnāt have time, but what Neil says, Neil says. So, Get your fucking shoes on, Iām not waiting when I get there.
He doesnāt really call Steve. He stumbles into him, runs over him, crashes through him, spits blood on his shoes. On the basketball court, Steve was Pretty Boy, Babydoll, Shit-stain. In the summer, Steve is just Steve, July heat curling the hair behind his ears, the blue evening glow of a thunderstorm reflecting off his sweaty skin. In the summer, Steve sits with Billy on the Hargroveās front porch, fat raindrops soaking their outstretched toes as they watch the air sizzle, the overhang hardly enough to shelter them from the storm.
In November, Billy had been broken plates and busted teeth, go fast, go now, rebound, touch down. Steve had been Go, Dog. Go!Ā And Billy went.
Now Steve calls and says my house is too quiet, and can I come over?Ā And Billy canāt say itās not a good timeĀ or what Neil says, Neil says.Ā So he sits on his front porch with Steve, arms propping them up from behind, pinkies three inches apart while Susan vacuums the living room and Dad shouts at the TV.
Billy thinks after heās done the doing, thinks a lot about sun and sand, sea shells and skateboards, Indiana freckles and Steveās once-split grin.Ā
Thereās a car spraying water on the sidewalk as it tears down the road, and Billyās pinkie is curling over Steveās, squeezing their skin tight.
Steve doesnāt say stop. Steve doesnāt say go. He meets Billyās eyes, tongue darting between parted lips, which seem to say slow.
