Webbed Together
Pairing: Hobie Brown x Fem!Reader/ Spider-Punk x Fem!Reader
Word count: 6.2k
Author's Note: I really need to get better at uploading at a more consistent pace 🥲 but honestly, this part kinda hit me hard when I finally broke through that writing slump. I missed these girls so much, and I'm glad I actually rewrote this chapter for them! I'd like to thank @the-kr8tor for Billie and Ramona, aa well as @pinksugarscrub for sticking with me through this chapter!
Tags: Parent Trap!AU, Dad!Hobie AU, Twin!AU, Billie and Ramona!AU, Older!Hobie, Mom!Reader, Older!Reader, Fluff, Slight Angst, Hurt/Comfort, TW Anxiety
Chapter 7: Heart to Heart
<< Chapter 6 Chapter 8 >>
Mum’s alive.
Those words skip in Billie’s mind like those old vinyl records her dad kept in his room, scratching with each iteration. The only noise that breaks through the constant loop of revelation is the crinkling of the old photo in her hand, with the smiling faces of you and Hobie hanging over her. Her eyes drift over to the printed image of you– frozen in time, forever young on paper. You’re grinning ear to ear as you hold up a black t-shirt, one with an old graphic design for the band at the time– a red web inked across the chest with the band name trapped on it in white. Billie’s fingers fidget with the worn photo as she glances to the floor, all the content from her trunk still crumpled around her. Scattered photos and papers, strewn pens and pencils, haphazardly-tossed shirts and pants– Billie winces at the sight of them on the clean hardwood floor. A nagging image of Ramona comes to mind: dirt caked on her cheeks, clothes smudged with grime, dust clouded around her as she aired the cabin out.
With a reluctant sigh Billie pushes herself up and starts to clean, starting with the tin box next to her.
The photo of you slides out of her fingers and flutters back into the box, your beaming face slipping into dark shadows. Billie looks away to the other photos on the floor and pushes them into a pile, ignoring the imaginary looming pressure from your printed presence before dropping the photos on top of you.
Tingles crawl over Billie’s skin, her hands restlessly fidgeting across the floor– straightening crumpled papers, tossing pens and pencils into her trunk, piling her clothes to the side. Her big toe twitches back and forth under her electric blue sock. Her fingers wriggle every time an item drops from her grasp. Her head jerks in micro-headbangs as her face pinches in a troubled frown.
Mum’s alive. She’s actually alive.
Billie’s mind rings in her head in bombarding echos like cymbals, drowning out any background noises around the cabin. Her body moves on autopilot– almost robotic and erratic– while she tosses her belongings in her trunk. The urge to run and thrash around thrums in her leg muscles, but the image of Ramona cleaning the cabin still lingers in the back of Billie’s head. She tucks her legs further in to stave away the urge, but her fingers and toes still twitch in anticipation. Butterflies swarm in Billie’s stomach, and a burning tightness creeps up the back of her throat. The cymbals in Billie’s head clash harder in her eardrums, loud and unrelenting, while her fingers tremble against a cotton shirt.
Mum’s alive. She’s really alive. And I might actually see her.
Wrinkles crease along the fabric as Billie struggles to fold her shirt, attempting to fold it the way Ramona did before. Her brows furrow when the shirt slips from its fold, her nose crinkles when the sides droop over weirdly, and her mouth curls into a dissatisfied scowl when her fingers accidentally tug at a fold and pull a sleeve out of it. She’s not gonna make her clothes look like those fancy department store’s– she doesn’t know how Ramona was able to– but she needs something to occupy her fingers. The cymbals gradually cease their clangor as she tosses her sorry attempt of a folded shirt into her trunk, but the thoughts still hum in the background.
Mum’s alive. She wasn’t dead this whole time. And she has another daughter– I have a sister! A sister around my age? Maybe younger? Is Mon-Mon around my age?
Billie’s fingers clumsily fly through folding her trousers, catching themselves into the ripped sections and snapping some frayed denim.
Mon-Mon looks like me, obviously, so she has to be Dad’s daughter too, right? I mean, Dad would tell me if I have a sister, right? But why didn’t he? Why wouldn’t Dad tell me about Mon-Mon? Why wouldn’t he talk to me about Mum? Why did they split us up?
The thrumming itch to move in her stalls from the thought. Billie’s fingers freeze mid-fold, the denim rough against her skin. Her stomach twists the longer those thoughts buzz like low static.
What actually happened between Dad and Mum?
A click rings through the silence surrounding Billie, and she looks up to the door as Ramona freezes under the doorway. Her hand clenches the leather handle of her bass case, the metal hinges softly rattling, the case barely swaying against her leg. Ramona’s eyes, shadowed underneath by a hint of purplish-black, waver under Billie’s stormy scrutiny. The tension looms heavy within the cabin, so thick that Billie can cut through it with her bow string. The faint chirping and rustling leaves outside barely register in Billie’s ears, even as Ramona walks inside and closes the screen door behind her. The cymbals clash back in Billie’s head, all the spiraling questions and thoughts festering in her chest and clawing up to her throat, but the walls behind Ramona’s eyes render them useless on Billie’s tongue. The urge to move intensifies in Billie, but at the same time her body is anchored to the hardwood under Ramona’s gaze.
Her eyes mirror Billie’s, they mirror her dad’s– their dad’s.
Billie swallows the lump in the back of her throat as Ramona finally averts her eyes, but the uncomfortable festering still lingers for the pink girl.
The moment Ramona saw that photo of you– the you before her, captured in the past she seemingly knew nothing about– Billie saw whatever ember in Ramona’s eyes flicker out. She avoided talking to Billie for the next few days– staying out longer for her bass lessons; eating breakfast before Billie woke up; going to bed earlier before Billie came back from her violin lessons.
Hell, Ramona never even touched her mp3 player after that, so the silence within the cabin was even more stifling. No muffled acoustic playing in the background as Billie’s alarm, no faint synths and snare kicks echoing in the background during break times, no hushed pianos and violins to lull Billie to sleep.
And especially no song from Dad blaring out in the cabin.
Billie gets it– being blindsided isn’t fun at all. She’s still grappling with the bombshell of you being alive. But Ramona? She didn’t even get a single story about Dad from you, no hint of him ever revealed in Ramona’s life. The only way he was ever involved in her life was through his music, but you never even mentioned that you knew the band, let alone were involved with them from the beginning. Wouldn’t someone normally brag about that? Or at least mention that part of their life to their daughter? And not only did Ramona have to find out about Dad being alive, but she had to find out through a stranger who happened to be her sister? Of course Ramona would be scared off and avoid Billie at all costs.
Billie gets it, she really does.
It doesn’t mean she has to like it though.
Billie glances back up at Ramona shuffling back to her side of the cabin, the soft clinking of the metal handles echoing as the bass case sways against Ramona’s leg. Rubber soles drag against the hardwood as Ramona approaches her bed, gingerly dropping the case down next to her trunk. She flops onto her bed, her long legs hanging off the edge. Dark coils splay over from behind her ponytail, cascading over her back and onto starched white sheets. The curtains from a window flutter from the gentle summer breeze, and the fading sunlight creeps through the sheer fabric and dapples over the girl amidst looming shadows, as if trying to protect her with its fleeting presence.
It’s like a dramatic painting Billie would see in those big art books Auntie Yuri keeps.
Billie’s face pinches up into a grimace, her eyes narrowing and her mouth curling into a small pout. Prickles fester in her chest as she stares at her melodramatic double– sister? Twin? – before she tosses her poorly-folded jeans onto the floor. The punk girl pushes herself up with a grunt, almost toppling back down from the sudden rush of blood through her leg. Wincing from the pins and needles assaulting her leg, she stumbles towards Ramona, one foot slogging with all of Billie’s weight while her other foot drags behind.
Billie can’t let this go on– if not for Ramona’s spiraling mental state, then for Billie’s own sanity.
Heavy combat boots finally stop in front of the occupied bed. Billie’s shadow looms over the sprawled figure, and it takes everything within Billie not to yank Ramona out of bed.
“Oi.”
Ramona ignores her, burying her face into her pillow. Another sharp prick stabs into Billie’s chest as she nudges Ramona’s leg.
“Oi, Mon-Mon.”
Ramona weakly kicks Billie’s hand off before she curls up on her bed, draping her duvet and pillow over her like a makeshift shield.
The pins and needles in Billie’s leg swarms up to her chest, the prickling growing unbearable to the punk girl. With gritted teeth and hardened eyes, Billie slaps her hand on the fleshy part of Ramona’s rear. A startled scream muffles under the duvet before Ramona scrambles out of her cocoon. Angry tears well up in Ramona’s eyes as she glares at Billie, a hue of red creeping up her skin.
“What was that for?!”
Hot waves of pain emit from Billie’s hand. Frustration claws up her throat, poisoning her tongue with an acrid taste as she struggles not to yell. “I am done with ya ignorin’ me! We are talkin’, ‘n we are talkin’ right now–!”
A harsh scoff slips through Ramona’s lips as she slips out of her bed away from Billie, covering her butt from future assaults. “There’s nothing to talk about–”
“Like hell there is!” Billie chases after Ramona as she storms around the cabin. “Ya t’ink avoidin’ me’s gonna fix any of this?! Jus’ ‘cuz ya don’t wanna talk ‘bout it don’t mean ‘s gon’ go away!”
Ramona storms towards the shared wardrobe cabinet, flinging the doors open until they slam against the sides. She angrily snatches a basket full of crumpled clothes and stomps away before Billie can grab her.
“There is nothing to talk about, Billie–”
“Really? ‘Cuz findin’ out we have t’ same parents seems like somethin’ t’ talk ‘bout–!”
Billie rushes in front of the exit before Ramona could, holding her arms out to block the way. An exasperated groan rumbles through Ramona’s chest as she turns her back from Billie, but the punk girl is not having it. “Are ya really gon’ blank me on this?!”
A tempest brews within the confines of the cabin as the two girls continue their cat-and-mouse game. Loud stomps reverberate throughout wooden walls. Angry groans creak from the floorboards. The windows rattle, stained glass threatening to pop off their panels.
“Damn it, Mon-Mon, talk t’ me!” Billie’s voice thunders against the walls. “Ain’t this a good thing–?”
Ramona slams the basket down, the clothes spilling onto the floor. “In what world would this be a good thing?! How is finding out that your parents lied to you a good thing?!”
Hurt flickers in the punk girl’s eyes as she stumbles back, but she quickly stands her ground again, “I dunno, but there had t’ be a reason–!”
“What reason would they have, then?” Ramona’s counter strikes through Billie like lightning. Frustration storms behind russet eyes, tears welling up before Ramona angrily wipes them off. “Why would they split us up and not tell us about each other?”
The pins and needles worsen in Billie’s chest, but she swallows the bile in her throat as she chases after Ramona again, accidentally kicking the clothes away. “Like I said, I don’t know! But there had t’ be somethin’!” Static crackles in the air as Billie grabs Ramona’s arm and yanks her back. “Stop try’na walk away from me–!”
“Stop touching me!”
Ramona yanks her arm out of Billie’s hand just as hard, fire crackling behind her glistening eyes. A sharp hiccup wracks her body, and stray tears threaten to roll down her cheeks.
“You don’t get it! My mom never lies to me!”
The prickles in Billie’s chest surges up her throat as she stares at her trembling double, her tongue heavy like lead in water.
“My mom never lies to me!” Denial clings to Ramona’s voice, straining it into a hoarse cry. “She doesn’t keep secrets from me! Why would she keep this from me?!”
Another sharp hiccup wracks her body again as more tears bead up along her lashline, threatening to spill over. She trembles under the pressure, the scrutiny, from her stranger of a sister– the one who was raised by a father she never met.
“She never told me anything about Dad,” Ramona’s voice trembles with each hitch of breath. “Not about him being in a band, not about making his merch, nothing!”
Betrayal and hurt flashes in her eyes as the tears finally roll down her cheeks. “It’s not fair! Why do you know something about Mom that I don’t? Why do you get to keep pictures of her and Dad together and I don’t? Why do you get to know about Mom but I don’t know anything about Dad?”
Sharp sobs wrack her body as tears continue to fall, dripping onto the hardwood floor. “Why am I being left out?”
Billie stands frozen as the sounds of sniffles echo within the cabin, the mirror image of her trembling and struggling to breathe with each sob. A dull ache lingers in a void in her chest, rolling and thundering like a storm cloud, rendering her speechless. She takes a tentative step towards Ramona, as if her presence would set off another eruption of tears if she takes the wrong step. The back of Billie’s eyes burn, but tears refuse to surface, not when some are already shed in front of her. Each footfall creaks on the hardwood, muffling the shallow hitches of breath, until Billie stands solemnly in front of Ramona again.
The punk girl gingerly grabs onto her sister’s wrist before pulling her into a tight hug.
Ramona stiffens in the sudden embrace, long, lanky arms wrapping around her like a vice. Despite having a similar build, Billie feels more solid, more steady, more reassuring. A scent of citrus and leather wafts into her nostrils, comforting to the point of bringing her to tears again, before she wraps her own arms around her double. Burying her face into Billie’s shoulders, Ramona blinks away more tears as she clings tighter. More sobs bubble up in her chest, and her body trembles as she gives into her warring emotions.
Billie’s never seen anyone cry before. Granted, she knows what being sad looks like– mainly through her dad whenever Uncle James or Auntie Yuri talked about you– but she’s never seen someone actually cry until now. The ache in her chest is suffocating, crushing her lungs and blocking the back of her throat, as she hugs Ramona tighter.
What would make her feel better? What would make her stop crying? Hugs usually make Billie happy, but it’s just making Ramona cry more. The only other thing that Billie can think of is–
Billie’s eyes widen from the brief epiphany before she gently pulls Ramona back. “Do ya want a choc’late orange?”
“...a what?”
—
Ramona doesn’t remember how she got trapped under a tight blanket cocoon.
One moment she’s being manhandled by her long-lost sister into a bear hug, the next she’s sitting on the floor wrapped in Billie’s blanket. All the while, Billie dumps a pillowcase full of colorful snacks Ramona doesn’t recognize. Disbelief flickers in Ramona’s red-rimmed eyes as she watches Billie tuck an edge of a chocolate bar between her teeth before rummaging through the rest of the snacks.
“Dad always gives me sweets whenever I feel bad,” Billie mutters through her teeth. Her fingers rake through the plastic covered treats and mini cardboard boxes, hunting for one that piques her fancy. “He says sugar can kickstart t’ do…do–hm…”
Billie’s face curls into a frustrated scowl as she snatches one of the cardboard boxes, tucking her finger into the top tab. “He always says t’ word really fast, but ’s basically t’ feel-good feeling in yer brain–”
“...dopamine?”
“Yeah, that–”
She easily rips the top off and tilts the small box, letting an orange-foiled ball tumble onto her awaiting palm. The scent of orange wafts towards Ramona as she leans closer, her eyes lingering on the reflective tangerine-shaded glint. Little dimples cover the ball, and Ramona can already feel the ghosts of them grazing against her fingers, conjuring the image of the actual fruit in her mind.
“Billie, is this the thing you were talking about–?”
SMACK!
Ramona flinches back when Billie slaps her palm against the ball, crinkling the foiled barrier and flattening the inside before unwrapping it.
“It tastes t’ best when ya break it in pieces–”
“Why’d you have to be so violent with it though–?”
“ ’s fun,” the punk girl shrugs as she pulls a small piece out, revealing an orange wedge-like shape. “Plus they’re hard t’ break otherwise.”
Billie lets the chocolate bar drop from her mouth before popping the wedge in, and elation lights up in her eyes. She bounces in place happily, a goofy grin curling up her lips, before she presents the– admittedly perfectly sectioned– pieces of chocolate.
Hesitation flickers on Ramona’s face, her brows furrowing and her mouth curling into a slight frown. Her hand tentatively slips through the blanket barrier around her before grabbing the smallest sliver she can find. The aroma of orange drifts towards Ramona again, the chocolate slowly melting under her touch, the intricate orange-like details running away from the heat of her fingertips. She slowly slips the sliver into her mouth, her tongue lapping up the remnants of chocolate off her fingers.
Milk chocolate coats her tastebuds, melting on her tongue as the taste of orange suddenly floods her senses. The scent lingers the back of her nose while the flavor meshes with the chocolate, a confusing clash within her mouth. The citrus is biting while the chocolate is cloying, almost fighting for dominance in an awkward dance.
Ramona can’t help but let a grimace flicker on her face.
“...it tastes weird.”
“Oi–!”
Billie stares at her double with a flabbergasted stare, as if her very existence was just insulted. “I gave ya t’ best tastin’ flavor too!”
“It still tastes weird. The orange flavor is trying to overpower the chocolate–”
“No it doesn’t! It just brings out a different side of it!” Billie’s cheeks puff out as her lips jut into a frustrated pout. “L-like, it brings out different notes or something–”
Billie’s mind races in a fluster, the sudden urge to defend her favorite sweet charging her sugar-coated tongue. Brief moments of her dad and the band flash in her mind, of how Uncle James would talk about things like “flavor profiles” or “food pairings” with different alcohols and whatnot– but oh god, she for the life of her can’t remember how he said it.
“It’s like…like a mature flavor! Like the kind adults like!”
Ramona’s face curls up into a disbelieving frown, coupled with a dissatisfied groan. “I don’t think I wanna be an adult if that’s something they’re supposed to like–”
“That ain’t what I meant–!”
A loud groan rips through Billie’s throat as she drops her face into her palms, frustration festering in the punk girl’s chest. Even with her face obscured, Ramona can see Billie sulking behind her hands.
“This is Dad’s favorite sweet too…”
Ramona’s frown drops. A heavy pressure looms over her shoulders from the mention of their dad, the image of him in her head now clearer and more daunting than before. What was once a blurry figure with the same eyes as her, a dark shadow lurking in the corner of her mind, suddenly morphs into that man in the picture. Long thick locs, dapples of silver on his skin, a cat-like grin similar to Billie’s– his lack of presence before now prowls closer to the forefront, demanding to be seen, refusing to be ignored.
But somehow with a weird orange-shaped chocolate, with the bitter flavor of white pith and sugary chocolate still lingering on Ramona’s tongue, manages to keep his punkified existence at bay, his demeanor more…Billie-like as he backs away from her mind.
Ramona really doesn’t know how to feel about that now.
She glances at the crinkled orange foil, and another scene comes to mind– a younger girl who looked like her sitting on the lap of the younger Hobie in Billie’s photo. The little girl giggles with delight when the young punk man smacks the chocolate orange with his hand, easily unraveling the pre-sectioned pieces in front of her. A warm smile curls on the fatherly stranger’s lips while the little girl shoves a chocolate wedge in her mouth.
Would Ramona have been like that if she grew up with Hobie Brown?
Her stomach drops from that lapse in her mind, the scene cutting like an old film in a movie theater. Guilt bubbles up Ramona’s throat as an image of you flickers in place– of a younger Ramona sitting on your lap, with you quietly humming and rocking her to sleep. A ghost of chocolate and cardamom lingers in the back of Ramona’s nose, enveloping her into a bittersweet and forgiving embrace. However that reprieve is short-lived, with taunting whispers worming into Ramona’s ears, tugging her back into the reality before her.
She swallows the acrid lump in her throat.
“You really do love your dad.”
For once Billie stays still, the tweeting birds and rustling leaves outside their cabin doing little to offset the charge in her presence. She peeks through the spaces between her fingers, the same russet eyes reflecting back to Ramona.
“...he’s yer dad too.”
Doubt still plagues Ramona’s mind, but the undeniable proof in front of her waves the hushed taunts away from the forefront. Even with wild dark tresses and swatches of denim and plaid on Billie, Ramona can’t deny how they’re like mirror images of each other, how both of them bear resemblance to the man whose music echoed in Ramona’s life in the background.
“...then why didn’t he want me with him?”
The world outside wooden walls muffle in Ramona’s ears, the silence between them growing too heavy to bear before Billie responds with a shrug.
“...probably t’ same reason as Mum with me.”
The bitter lump claws its way back up Ramona’s throat, lodging itself back with a vengeance. Billie’s blanket weighs Ramona down on the ground, trapping her in a suffocating chokehold, while she’s under her long-lost sister’s scrutiny.
“...Mom wouldn’t do that.”
“Neither would Dad.”
The familiar playful grin is nowhere on Billie’s face. The same earthy brown eyes Ramona shares is shrouded with an unfamiliar shadow, dimming the usual glint in Billie’s eyes. A bittersweet smile curls on the punk girl’s lips before she averts her eyes from Ramona.
“ ‘m sure Dad would've loved ya t’ same if ya stayed with us.” Billie shifts onto the hardwood floor until she’s kneeling, her hands trembling as they start to shovel the rest of the candy and snacks back into the pillow case. “Uncle Ned, Uncle James, ‘n Auntie Yuri too. Probably would’ve had both of us travel ‘round with ‘em in Uncle James’s van, havin’ us eatin’ jaffa cakes ‘n monster munches ‘til we’re sick of it, all ‘til we get to the next new city for ‘em t’ perform.”
Her voice wavers with each scoop of treats retreating into the cotton sack, her smile trembling while her eyes refuse to look back up. “Dad would’ve had us watch backstage, callin’ it our personal front row seats while they take over t’ stage…”
A sniffle breaks the fragile silence, but Billie continues to clean, her wild coils shielding her face from Ramona’s eyes.
“...d’ya t’ink Mum would’ve done t’ same? Keep both of us if she could?”
The thought of you rocking Ramona to sleep creeps back up in her mind, this time the background slowly piecing itself together– the small studio apartment filled with old nicknacks and framed sketches, with patched up quilts and numerous photo albums, an ever-evolving time capsule just for you and her. The scent of chocolate and cardamom lingers back, calming the whirling anxiety in Ramona’s chest. Even as a new little girl flickers into her memories, crawling into your lap next to the younger Ramona, a bittersweet warmth creeps up in Ramona’s chest.
“...Mom definitely would’ve.”
Billie freezes mid-tying the end of the pillowcase. Her curls slowly part as she lifts her head, her eyes clouded with wary hope.
“Yeah?”
The lump in Ramona’s throat shrinks down, and she manages to swallow it down with a trembling smile of her own.
“Yeah.”
Billie’s eyes still waver, but a reassured smile curls up on her lips as she crawls away and tosses the pillowcase into her open trunk. A sigh of relief slips through Ramona’s lips despite herself, and she glances back at the reflective orange foil on the floor, the misshapen chocolate wedges beckoning her back with its citrus scent. With an uncertain frown, she reaches for another piece. Her eyes linger on the detailed etchings of the chocolate, the orange-like stamping still a visual marvel to the girl, before she pops it in her mouth again. And like before, her face contorts into a harsh grimace.
“...yeah, it still tastes weird.”
“Don’t eat it then!”
—
Billie can’t sleep.
Lying in her bed, shrouded in darkness and dappled moonlight through her window, Billie stares up at the ceiling with a solemn frown marring her face. Storm clouds whirl in her head, thundering and weighing her down in a muggy haze. The only thing keeping her grounded is the feeling of silicone earbuds tucked in her ears and the sound of a familiar guitar solo echoing into her head. Billie gently squeezes her hand around Ramona’s mp3 player, the plastic tabs on it a reassuring pressure for her, while she glances across the cabin towards Ramona’s bed.
A sheen of green glints under the moonlight as Ramona soundly sleeps, her bonnet reflecting the silvery light Billie’s way. Ramona’s facing away from Billie, like she usually does when she’s asleep, but after these past few nights it still feels like a wall. But Ramona giving Billie her mp3 player before heading to bed is a step to the right direction, right?
A guitar riff quietly croons in Billie’s ears, that familiar string improvisation beckoning her back to the music. As her eyes drift back to the ceiling, her body slowly sinks into the creaking mattress, starched linen and soft cotton brushing against her skin. The riff gently vibrates through her bones, melting away the tension in her body. Billie flutters her eyes shut with a deep sigh, and the music conjures up another scene in her mind– a tall, lanky figure lies next to her, strumming his web-lined guitar, losing himself to the music. Moonlight brightens into a stark-white spotlight over the figure, silver metal glinting on his face and dread cuffs. Long, calloused fingers dance across the fret in a frenzied grace, bending the sounds around him to his will.
Dad is always electrifying when he performs, even through a small speaker.
Billie glances back over to Ramona’s sleeping figure, and the imaginary punk rocker soon follows her sight, sauntering over to Ramona with his trusted guitar in hand. The guitar grows softer in Billie’s ears as the figment of her imagination sits on the edge of Ramona’s bed, moonlight chasing away the shadows from his face. His piercings glint under the silver beams, but tender warmth behind his eyes shines the brightest as he gazes down at Ramona. He sets his guitar down beside him when the strings fade away. His ring-covered fingers tentatively reach towards the slumbering Ramona, but they flinch away when she curls into a ball with a soft snort.
For once, her dad– even as a figment of Billie’s imagination– looks at a loss.
A dull ache creeps up in Billie’s chest at the sight. Her thoughts start to scramble and clash against the music in her ears now, muddling the transition with more questions.
What happened between Mum and Dad? Why would they split up? Why would they split us up? Does Uncle Ned know? Uncle James? Auntie Yuri? Why didn’t they say anything? Do they even know why? Did Dad tell them not to? Would it be too hard to raise both of us together? Would Dad’ve raised us both if he could? Would Mum? Do they still love each other? Does Dad still love Ramona?
The dull ache in Billie’s chest sharpens into a festering prickle.
Does Mum still love me–?
“Bee, I can’t tell if you’re recording–”
“Shit–”
A soft laugh silences the thoughts in Billie’s head, and a new figure settles beside Billie. The punk girl keeps her eyes on Ramona and her imaginary dad, the new presence near her too fragile for her to turn to. Her dad’s muffled groan vibrates in her ears in a nostalgic embrace, but the unknown woman’s voice tugs at Billie’s heart even more.
“How come you’re recording by yourself anyway?” the new voice chimes in Billie’s ears with a mirthful lilt. “I thought you were gonna head to James’s place–”
“Lost t’ key t’ his flat, Cherry,” her dad’s voice grunts back, “ ‘n t’ bloody knobhead wouldn’t answer t’ door. His bloody van’s parked out front, so I know he’s home–”
“Then maybe you could’ve gone later–”
“I don’t wanna–”
“Why not?” The voice in Billie’s ears envelopes her in a comforting warmth. “You can have James work on the mixer while you’re in the booth–”
“I wanna do this m’self,” Billie can hear the petulant pout from her dad’s voice, a rare break from his usual nonchalance. “James’ll jus’ fuck around too much–”
“You know he wouldn’t, Honeybee. Not when it comes to the girls.”
Billie’s eyes glisten as the new figure drapes her arm over Billie’s stomach, gingerly pulling her into an embrace. A ghost of a kiss presses the crown of Billie’s head– she swears she could feel it– while the voice continues to lull her into a relaxed state.
“See?” A strained huff slips through in the voice. “At least one of them agrees with me. Damn, I think Billie was the one who kicked hard–”
“Oi, no, Billie Jean! Be nice t’ yer mummy!”
Soft shuffling echoes in Billie’s ears as she watches her imaginary dad in front of her turn his eyes to her. His usual cat-like smile softens as he stares at her before he pushes himself up from Ramona’s bed. His long, languid strides back sets Billie’s heart thumping, his eyes reminding her of warmed treacle, before he sits on the edge of her bed. He reaches out, but his hand hovers past Billie and to the figure behind her.
“I t’ink Billie wants ya to join in–”
“Hell no, you know I can’t sing–”
“Oh c’mon, Cherry, ya sing t’ ‘em all the time–”
“When we go to bed–”
“Still counts–”
“Bee, I’m not a professional,” the voice chides with another melodic chuckle, “This is more of your lane–”
“But it’ll be more meanin’ful if it came from both of us.”
Billie’s heart twinges, her eyes starting to glisten. She pulls the mp3 player up to her face, only to see a random numbered file name. Was this supposed to be in there? Was this just some mistake mixed into the numerous songs on this player? Did Ramona skip this file because she didn’t know what it was? Is Billie even supposed to listen to this?
“C’mon, Cherry, sing that pretty song–”
“What, no!”
“Please? F’me? For mac ‘n cheese–”
“Don’t use the girls against me! They’re not even here yet– Hobart Brown, don’t you dare–!”
A startled shriek makes Billie flinch, but she soon relaxes at the chimes of laughter from both parents. The weight of both imaginary figures disappear from Billie’s sides, only for the two figures to dance in front of her in laughter– a younger version of her dad hugs the version of you in the old photo, but your stomach sticks out under your shirt like a watermelon. The voice slips through your lips in a giddy laugh while her dad spins you around the room, the dapples of moonlight dancing across the figures like some kind of fairy tale picture. A muffled ‘please’ echoes into Billie’s ears as her dad buries his face into the crook of your neck.
A long silence soon follows, and a sense of dread starts to sink into the pit of Billie’s stomach. The idea of you refusing to sing stings, even if you didn’t have to. What would you have sounded like? Would you only sing in private, with no prying ears from strangers trying to hear you?
Would Billie be a stranger to you–?
Your voice croons into Billie’s ears in a soft melody, your words laced in tender love, chasing away the thoughts muddling her mind. The lyrics stir a sense of nostalgia despite it being Billie’s first time hearing it, the ache in her chest growing bittersweet.
You sing so beautifully to Billie.
A stray tear rolls down the side of her face when she hears her dad’s deep timbre quietly join, an even rarer moment for Billie. Hobie Brown never sings– he only hoots and hollers on stage, only hums around her and the band. He claims his voice would shatter people’s ear drums until their ears bleed, that it’ll condemn the band’s songs like a wretched curse, that it’ll leave everyone deaf if they’re subjected to his singing.
This is a side of Hobie Brown Billie never knew existed.
Billie pauses the audio and rewinds it to the beginning of the song before slipping out of her bed, the figures of you and her dad disappearing. The elastic from Ramona’s borrowed bonnet around her head digs into her skin, but she ignores it as her feet pad across the room towards her sister. Billie’s hand trembles around the mp3 player, her throat tightening with an incoming sob, her eyes glistening even more. When Billie finally reaches the edge of the bed, she hesitantly nudges Ramona.
“Mon-Mon?”
A quiet grunt rumbles from Ramona as she shrugs Billie’s hand off. With a sniffle, Billie nudges her again, more insistent than before.
“Mon-Mon, listen t’ this with me.”
Another disgruntled groan slips through Ramona’s lips as she scoots away from Billie’s offending hand.
“Can’t it wait ‘til tomorrow?”
“No, ya hav’ta listen t’ it now.”
Ramona sluggishly kicks her feet in her bed with a whine before she turns towards the punk girl, her eyes still slightly swollen and glued together. Billie sits on the edge of the bed, earning another whine from her sister as the mattress sinks under her weight, before she tugs an earbud out of her pierced ear.
“Scoot over.”
“Wha– no, there’s no room–”
“Mon-Mon, please?”
The slight break in Billie’s voice briefly rouses Ramona, her eyes barely cracking open, before she closes them again with a relenting sigh. She scoots over to the other side of the bed, and Billie climbs in, leaving little room for them inside the twin bed. Billie gingerly tucks the free earbud into Ramona’s ear before pressing play.
“Slipping through my fingers all the time, I try to capture every minute…”
Your voice whispers in a serenade again through the small speakers. The slight frown on Ramona’s face starts to soften, and her body slowly sinks into the mattress as you beckon her to sleep, as if already familiar with your melody.
Billie ignores the prickling in her chest, focusing on the shift on her sister’s face as Dad quietly joins in.
“Do I really see what’s in her mind? Each time I think I’m close to knowing, she keeps on growing…”
The deep timbre of his voice hums through Billie’s ears, harmonizing with your own hushed one, lulling Billie into a trance-like haze in the cramped space. Ramona’s face relaxes even more from the lullaby-like song until she falls back into slumber, soft snores vibrating from her.
Billie’s eyes soon grow heavy the longer she listens, the beads of tears clinging to her lashes retreating back while your voice beckons her to sleep as well.
“Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture and save it from the funny tricks of time…”
Warmth slowly creeps into Billie’s chest as her consciousness slips from her fingers. Clinging to the last of your words, Billie finally dozes off with a final bead of a tear dripping from her lashes.
“Schoolbag in hand, she leaves home in the early morning, waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile…”
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British Phrase of the Chapter:
Blank - blatantly ignore/ refuse to talk to someone
https://www.britannica.com/dictionary/blank#:~:text=the%20hockey%20game.-,2,the%20street%20after%20the%20scandal
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Song of the Chapter: