𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎.

𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚎.

𝙾𝚑 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎

𝙵𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜.

𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚞𝚜, 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚘𝚘.

"The fuck do you mean you aren't going?!"

"Hey, Brontë. Are you okay? Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry you've been puking all day. Is there anything I can do to help?" Brontë said sarcastically with a stuffy nose.

Lennon scoffed and rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, Lenny. Thanks," he continued to deride his sister. "Some peace and quiet would be nice!" he complained from the bathroom floor where he had a blanket wrapped loosely around his waist and a bottle of water on the edge of the tub.

"No. I need you to go to Heather's party tonight," she shot back anxiously.

"I have fucking alcohol poisoning, Lennon!" he ridiculed. "The fuck do you want me to do?!"

"Can't you-" she sighed. "Can't you take some pain meds or something?"

Brontë scoffed and fell back into the corner across from the toilet.

"You should go to the hospital!" she shouted happily, thinking she wouldn't have to go if her brother was in the ER.

"Sound less excited, shit-" Brontë gagged and quickly leaned over the toilet before dry heaving.

Lennon cringed and turned away to give him some privacy.

"I'm gonna wait for this to stop and I'll drink water and I'll be fine. Trust me. It's not my first rodeo," Brontë sighed as he leaned over the toilet, resting his arm over the rim and settling his head down on top.

"No," Lennon continued to protest. "I don't wanna come home later and find you dead," she sharply shot back.

"I'm not dying. Go," he complained. "You've got a date and Steve'll be waiting for you anyway-"

"How'd you hear about that?" Lennon quickly replied.

Brontë paused and stared at her hopelessly. "That boyfriend of yours talks a lot," he groaned, closing his eyes and feeling tired after throwing up all day.

"We aren't a thing," she corrected him. "We're figuring it out," she quickly added, realizing she seemed too nonchalant and disinterested in him. "That's why I need you to go," she tried complaining, hoping to seem cautious but intrigued by Billy. "I don't know him very well and they'll be a bunch of drunks-"

"That's why Steve's going."

"Steve's going because he's depressed he got broken up with," Lennon leered, crossing her arms over her chest and staring at Brontë in disbelief.

By the end of their argument, Brontë refused to go and Lennon had no other choice but to attend on her own.

It didn't matter how hard she fought him, Brontë wasn't seeing any reason as to why she wouldn't go unless something between her and Billy went awry, and Lennon didn't want him thinking that.

Her brother needed to think she was really smitten by Billy, otherwise, his suspicion would grow. So, she had to back down and let him win that fight.

Brontë went from being the irritated brother he was, to acting like the overprotective one he always was at heart. They fought and fought but the more Lennon resisted, the more suspicious Brontë grew.

Fuck.

Lennon hated herself for getting dressed in that loose white button-up and thick-knit sweater Miss Riordan picked out for her. The woman was far too king when she first settled in with Brontë all those months ago. The sweater looked unwashed and perfectly new which made Lennon uncomfortable. She didn't know how to feel about the white shirt combo either but she would've felt naked if she hadn't put something underneath it.

She looked preppy...

The collar was pulled out of the top of the sweater and the cuffs were on display as well but Lennon didn't know how to feel about herself in the outfit. It looked a little too nice to go out in. It was expensive though and Lennon couldn't leave it unworn after all Miss Riordan did for her to be comfortable.

Lennon didn't have 'nice' clothes to party in considering it was freezing outside so, she settled.

The beige on white combo didn't feel right considering she always had that dark jacket over whatever she wore. Her eyes looked very green all of a sudden and the gold and auburn streaks in her hair were more noticeable than ever now that the darkness of her coat couldn't enhance the dark hue of her hair or irises.

She pulled on a pair of black slacks which also felt a little too posh and expensive for her taste, but nothing she owned would've gone with the sweater-shirt combo. She didn't care by the time she came to shoes. She was wearing a pair of black converse whether anyone liked it or not, but even with black pants and shoes, she looked strange.

She didn't go too heavy on the makeup. She did her lashes and added some blush on top of her concealed eyebags but nothing more. She had some silver hoop earrings on and made sure her neck was covered with enough makeup to last the whole night if it needed to; which Lennon was hoping wouldn't be the case.

She stepped out and found Brontë standing in the kitchen with a phone pulled to his ear and a handful of plain crackers in his hand. She felt even more uncomfortable when he muttered something lowly into the speaker before giving her his full attention.

"Oh my god," Brontë's jaw dropped.

However, his impressment of her didn't last long before he gagged. He dropped the phone on the counter and rushed for the kitchen sink. He started to dry heave over the sink before the crackers he tried eating came up with his stomach acid.

"I'm changing," Lennon quickly turned on her heels and gave her brother no opportunity to redeem himself.

"No! It's not my fault!" he apologized in a deep voice like his nose was clogged.

Lennon knew it was probably true. He was ill. But if he felt the urge to throw up the minute she walked out, she couldn't help but feel like a disastrously ugly person. And his reaction, deliberate or not, didn't boost her confidence in the slightest.

"Fuck. I've gotta go. Bye," Brontë made a break for the phone before abruptly hanging up. He ran to follow Lennon towards her room with a blanket still wrapped around his body and a cloth to his mouth. He stopped in the doorway and found her standing in front of her mirror with a look of worriment on her face.

"You look so mature, is what I meant!" he called after her with a sympathetic smile on his face.

"I look ridiculous," she groaned and frowned when she faced the girl staring back at her in the mirror. "Hideous enough to make you want to expel your insides!" she complained, wondering why she cared so much when she was supposed to be showing Billy what a horrible date she was.

"No," her brother came inside and shook his head. "You look... You just look all grown up," he smiled sadly as he too faced her in the mirror, no longer seeing a little girl when he looked at her but a grown woman. "It was like yesterday we were going through mom's closet putting on her heels and makeup," he smiled tenderly at the thought.

"Okay. Who are you and where's my brother?" she turned to face him and leered suspiciously at the man who used to tease her and tackle her into the mud when they were young. "You cannot be sick enough to be complimenting me right now," she rambled nervously whilst making fun of Brontë silmataniously.

"You look like her..." he trailed off.

It was an odd subject since they didn't share the same mother, but Lennon's mom always made Brontë feel like he was an equal and even encouraged getting to know Miss Riordan. They were well-acquainted when she was still alive which would have surprised a lot of people and over time, they both agreed they could be called 'mom' by whichever kid, blood relative or not. That was the kind of relationship they had.

But Lennon's biological mom was gone and it felt weird to mention her so intimately. Brontë didn't feel like it was his place to bring her up but Lennon really did look more like her now than ever.

There was a clear image in his head of when he was roughly fourteen, watching his two younger siblings on a Christmas visit one year so their mom and dad could go on a date.

Brontë's step mom had come out of her bedroom wearing a beige dress and a black fur overcoat with her vibrant brown hair curled almost exactly like Lennon's now. The only difference was in the cheekbones and the makeup. Lennon looked like a youthful version of the woman he once knew and suddenly he realized his little sister wasn't so little anymore.

"Mom," Lennon sighed.

Brontë nodded in agreement and smiled softly. "Do you remember the night you almost cut the tip of your finger off and I had to call dad?"

Lennon scoffed. "It was Christmas Eve. Of course I remember," she laughed.

"Do you remember that dress she wore on the date with dad that night?"

"That can't seriously be your reference," she rolled her eyes and turned towards the mirror.

"Yep."

"That was such a beautiful dress..." Lennon stared at the fine material she had on and compared it to the one her mother wore. She looked from the color of her clothes to the style of her hair, but she kept looking back at her face. She could see her mother's eyes in the shape of her own and the way she held her mouth reminded her of the woman who raised her too. The longer she stared with her in mind, the more she could make out little, subtle details of her left in her daughter.

"It was... But, you know, I thought this was a Christmas party," Brontë broke the sentimental mood and leered. "Where's the holiday cheer?" he waved his hand around her and smirked, causing Lennon to sneer sarcastically.

"You're one to talk. Where's the tree?" she poked fun at her brother. "And when was the last time you put up Christmas lights?" she narrowed her eyes before there was a knock at the front door.

Brontë watched the color drain from Lennon's face in an instant.

"It can't be eight already..." she drew out nervously, hurrying to check the time and saw it was actually ten after. "Shit," she cursed under her breath and hurried for the denim jacket that she seemed to go nowhere without.

"Bring protection!" Brontë complained, slowly following Lennon out of her room as she rushed to shove the bags of weed and mushrooms Brontë was supposed to bring into her pant pockets.

"Not gonna happen!" she sang out insistently, feeling her stomach turn into a mess of knots.

"Don't forget the bong!"

"I am not carrying a fucking bong into someone else's car!" she hissed, backing away from her brother who stood with a look of satisfaction so she could answer the door.

"But Steve-"

"Steve can suck one!" she angrily shot out before opening the door to find Billy standing on the porch with a look of plain surprise on his face.

He wore a denim jacket and a dark blue shirt underneath that which was partially unbuttoned. His pants were a similar blue denim to his jacket and his shoes were black buckled boots that went with his belt and watch.

"Bad time?" Billy chuckled nervously as Lennon stood before him after ridiculing her brother inside.

Lennon turned over her shoulder and found Brontë snickering to himself before he winked and waved her away mischievously.

"He's a fucking dick," she hissed under her breath. "I'm so sorry. I'm a bit scattered..." she apologized.

"No worries," Billy smiled kindly. "My apologies for running a little late," Billy extended his arm to Lennon as she closed the door behind her. When she faced him, she was surprised to have been met with a sense of authentic chivalry.

His smile didn't seem cross faded between politeness and self-gain. He seemed genuine. There was something about the way his eyes brushed over her body and met her eyes that made Lennon feel a sense of appreciation.

"That's alright," Lennon smiled and looped her arm into Billy's. "You look dashing," she complimented him, taking in his naturally curly head of hair. They were more defined and much lighter than Eddie's and didn't look as soft despite the proper care they required. But he still looked nice and she didn't want to be a complete dick.

"You look pretty stunning yourself, darling," he said as he led her to his car.

The drive to Heathers wasn't the most comfortable but conversation was exchanged nonetheless about the game and the party Billy went to with Brontë, Steve, and the rest of the team. Lennon had to force herself to talk about the things Billy wanted to talk about because she needed to be nice. It wasn't as easy as it was with Eddie but she needed to be polite.

Her hope was that if she seemed disinterested but kind, he would give up and see that she wasn't as dateable as he first believed. She didn't want to be rude or take advantage of his kindness, but she didn't want to go on another date with him. She wasn't into him like that. It wasn't fair if Lennon was with him, thinking about someone else, wishing she could break his heart without having to hurt him. It wasn't fair to any of them.

"Can I ask why it's me you wanted to bring again? I know Tina and you have been spending some time together... She's... Shes pretty into you," she smiled, both hoping to hint at her wavering feelings about him and make it right with Tina for doing so.

"I know about Tina," Billy's eyes moved from the street to Lennon's friendly but unromantic gaze. "I never took you for the self-conscious type," Billy pondered.

Lennon chuckled nervously. "I'm not," she assured. "I'm naturally suspicious of what people think they want with me," she smirked darkly.

That was one thing she shared with Billy that took her a while longer to with Eddie. She wasn't afraid of letting him know that about her. It wasn't the best quality she had but it wouldn't ruin her reputation at school either. So, it was easy to question him.

"What they want with you?" Billy grew suspicious. "Do people use you often?" he spat back sarcastically but his smile didn't last very long. There was a part of him that was actually concerned and that made Lennon feel more guilty about going on a date with him despite her infatuation with someone else.

"It's not always a service I can be a use of," she rolled her eyes. "Titles have expectations and reputations have prospects. People see my brothers house and his car and suddenly want to be friends with him," she explained. "They think he's rich because of the things he has but he just makes minimum wage. There can be a lot of exchanges and favors that mean different things to different people based on what they think they gain out of it..."

Billy pulled up to Heathers house and drifted from the conversation when he tried to find a place to park in her yard without getting stuck between other vehicles.

"Well," Billy called out once he started to back into a space by the side of her house. "You're quite insightful, aren't you?" Billy smirked as he placed his hand on the back of the passenger seat, accidentally wafting his cologne in Lennon's direction as he pulled the car into reverse. "That's smart," he casually glanced over at her and put the car into park without losing eye contact. "But how about you try trusting me when I say I just wanna take you out for a good time? I just wanna see who you are when you're not..." he turned away and smiled, "being the girl everyone expects you to be."

Lennon went cold. She held her breath as she stared at Billy with a tremor of horror in her eyes.

"Whuh-what do you mean?" she giggled nervously and shook her head, turning away and unbuckling her seatbelt to avoid his lingering gaze.

"Your brother was high school royalty..."

Lennon let of a breath of air. She was worried he had seen through her mask at school. She worried he had seen her faking the whole thing. But that wasn't what he was referring to. He wasn't going to question her obsession with perfection. He was going to question Brontë.

What a relief.

"It's no wonder you think like that," he moved to get out of the car and Lennon was quick to follow. "I've got to admit though..." he sidled up next to her and took her by the arm like he had when he first pick her up. "I'm surprised you haven't scored a date since you've been here. You're all people talk about... and with the record Brontë has," Billy raised his eyebrows and scoffed. "That's some reputation."

"Mmhm," Lennon pressed her lips together with actual disinterest. "Life's not always about scoring some ass," she was quick to smile cheekily as the sound of music grew boisterous with the layered chatter coming from inside the large house they approached.

Billy looked taken back by her snarky remark. He would've corrected her insinuation of that being what he was after, but she didn't give him the chance.

"Sometimes it's about getting drunk and lending your date a favor," she winked before beating Billy to the door and dragging him inside with a charming smile on her face as if he were moving too slowly.