Goody One Shoe (5 page)

BILLIE SAT IN FRONT
of her
laptop, interlaced her fingers, flipped her hands until her palms faced out,
and straightened her arms. The crack of knuckles in the quiet apartment left a
satisfied grin on her face. She twisted her neck until it snapped to attention,
straightened her teacup so the handle was at just the right angle for easy
access when the desperate need for a shot of sweet warmth jumped up and bit
her, then opened Annabelle Wright’s — her first client’s — manuscript. All four
authors she’d approached for references had sent glowing reviews, and Annabelle
happily accepted the offered rate. Perhaps Billie should have come in higher?
No matter, it was a start. And a start meant everything.

Step one, format the document. She adjusted the margins,
modified normal style to be double-spaced with Times New Roman twelve-point
font. She went on a search and destroy mission for the dreaded double space
after periods and replaced them with singles.

With that finished, she set Word to track changes and
launched into the work. It was a historical romance with dystopian elements.
Not exactly Billie’s cup of Earl Grey, but it was a paycheque. Three pages in
and the author’s crutch words were jumping off the page.
Just
.
Smile
.
The objectionable overuse of
that
. And ellipses. What makes a writer
think
dot dot dot
more than once on a page is a good idea? Heck, twice
in a chapter, maybe. Five times in the whole manuscript, tops.

Seven pages in and Peg Leg decided it was time for a break.
He mewled at her until she bundled him onto her lap. He crawled onto the
countertop and made a move for her keyboard. “Peg Leg, no!” He got one paw on
it before she snatched him up and dropped him back to the floor. “Darn, look
what you did.” She hit undo until his less-than-professional edits disappeared
and she was back where she left off. She saved the document, something she
hadn’t done since she opened it, and closed the lid.

He mewed at her from the floor, his tail swishing side to
side.

She sighed and scratched his head. “You’re right. Time to
stop.” Her mental red pen drew a fourth leg on his sleek body. If only it were
that easy. She’d draw herself a new leg too. And a new life.

Billie awoke to the clink of coins. She scanned the sidewalk
to either side of her, panic rising in her throat. She ran her hands over her
nightgown and found loonies, toonies, and quarters in her lap. Her eyes darted
about and landed on her sneaker-clad foot and her bare at-home prosthesis.

Her gut hollowed and she swallowed the urge to vomit. What
time was it? And where the hell was she?

She gathered the coins and inched her way up, her back
against a brick wall. She took a mental inventory of her body parts and ran her
hands over what she could without looking perverted. Why was she wearing
workout shorts under pyjamas?

At the corner, a cab turned right and headed her way.

Her head down, avoiding the gaze of passersby, she held her
nightgown close to her chest and bolted for the curb. She held up one hand and
whistled.

The cab veered across two lanes of traffic and screeched to
a stop beside her.

She climbed in and gave him her address. She watched the
unfamiliar buildings slide by the window. She tapped on the Plexiglas barrier.
“How far a drive is that?”

He eyed her in the rear-view. “Don’t you know where you are,
lady?”

She shook her head. “Is this Wednesday?”

He nodded.

“The twenty-seventh?”

“Yeah. You okay? You need a hospital or something?”

“No, I just need to go home.” And to get out of this
disgusting car. Her bare prosthesis crunched against dirt and her sneaker stuck
to the car mat. “How long?”

“About half an hour.”

The blood drained from her face and she nodded. A half hour
by car. How long had she walked? Or perhaps she needed a midnight jog. In her
sleep? Without her blade?

If the cabbie knew all she had was about ten bucks in change
to pay the fare, he’d boot her out right there in the middle of
God-knows-where. She shrunk down in her seat and held her stomach.

“Lady you don’t look so good. You puke in my cab and I’ll
have to charge you extra.”

“I’m fine,” she snapped. “Just hurry up.”

Ten minutes later, familiar landmarks popped into view. They
crossed Sixty-Seventh Avenue just a few miles from Grandmother’s old house.
When the taxi pulled up in front of her apartment, she hopped from the back
seat and approached his open window. “Here, take this, it’s all I have.”

He counted it, then looked up at her, his cheeks afire and
his eyes bulging. “That’s about twenty short lady. You get me the rest or
there’ll be cops on your ass in two minutes.”

She held her palms up. “Give me five and I’ll be right down
with the rest.”

“You trying to rip me off?” He snatched his radio from its
dash-mounted holder.

“No! I would never, ever, do that. I’ll be back right away.
I promise.” She bolted into the building and raced up the stairs, past Mrs.
Rogerson, who gaped at Billie with her mouth hanging open.

At the door to her apartment, Billie slowed. The morning sun
slivered into the hall from an inch-wide crack between the door and the jamb.
“Well, at least I didn’t crawl down the fire escape.”

She eased the door open. At the creak of hinges, she
cringed. She slid inside, her nerves on high alert, her eyes ping-ponging about
her apartment. Her purse sat on the floor under the breakfast nook where she’d
left it. Peg Leg lay on the window ledge in the sunshine, his eyes locked on
her every movement, his tail doing its usual metronome swish.

She did a quick recon. The apartment was in order, nothing
missing. And no one inside. Except for the cat.

She retrieved her wallet and keys, locked the door, and went
to pay the irate cabbie.

“GOODY TWO SHOES!
Goody two
shoes!”

Billie cowered behind the trunk of the ancient maple and
covered her crying eyes. Three boys and two girls, including Justine who had
been her best friend until grade three, when fashion choices and religious
leanings meant nothing, circled around the tree and taunted her with mangled
lyrics to that song she hated so much. She shifted her hands to her ears to
block their off-key voices. Why would she drink or smoke? She was only ten
years old. Just because Justine let Ronald kiss her and touch her places his
hands had no business being. Just because they stole their parents’ cigarettes
and lit them behind the garbage bins at recess instead of playing soccer or
hanging from the monkey bars like normal children, why did she have to follow
suit? Why did that make her the target of their cruelty?

Ronald smacked at her head on his way by, then yanked the
pile of books and extra-credit work out from under her arm. Texts and paper
landed in the dirt and strew across the grass. He grabbed the small ivory
leather-bound book she kept with her at all times. “What’s this?” He flipped it
over. At the sight of the cross on the cover, his eyes lit up. “Oh man, what
are you, one of those Gee-hova’s witnesses or something?”

Billie tried to snatch her bible back but he pulled it away.

“No wonder you dress like that.” Another boy yanked on her
plaid, pleated skirt. It was long and grey, with forest green stripes, not the
red tartan mini that her former friend sported. Billie wore her hair long and
drawn into a low ponytail. She had no bangs to curl over her forehead and glue
into place with hairspray like Justine, and all the little clones who followed
her around, did. Billie was all buttoned up in her thrift-store hand-me-downs,
knee-socked, and penny-loafered. Cheap comfort and common sense. Justine was
show, flash, colour. And money. Their friendship hadn’t survived the summer
break before grade four started in the fall.

Ronald held the bible above his head. “My dad says all you
bible thumpers are a pain in the ass. You should keep your religion at church
where it belongs.”

She jumped for her bible, came down on a tree root and
twisted her ankle. She landed on her knees in the dirt. Pain shot up her legs.
With her hands on the ground, she stared at his red high-top Converse All
Stars. “I do keep my religion at church.” She looked up, past his skinny jeans
and neon, lime green T-shirt — all the new fashions her parents couldn’t afford
to buy her. And she would never ask for anyway. “And I see you there every
Sunday.”

His face turned crimson. “I’m no bible thumper.” He brought
the book down and hit her on the head with it.

Justine grabbed his hand. “Stop it, Ronald. Teasing her is
one thing. But no hitting.” She held out the bible. “Sorry, Billie.”

Maybe some of the old Justine was still in there somewhere.
Billie smiled up at her and reached for the book.

Justine snatched it away. “Psych!” She held it above her
head and laughed.

The end-of-recess bell rang. Its sharp tone echoed off the
surrounding homes and bounced back into Billie’s ears. Ronald grabbed the bible
from Justine and ran toward the school. He tossed it into the air.

Billie watched the sunlight catch the silver cross stamped
on the cover. The book landed in a mangled heap in a puddle. She glared up at
Justine.

Justine bent down as if to help Billie get up, but instead
waved her hand in Billie’s face and smirked. “Bye-bye, goody two shoes.”
Justine turned and raced back to the school.

Billie pushed herself up and sat with her back against the
tree trunk. She wiped tears from her dusty cheeks and slapped dirt from her
scraped knees. When she was certain all the kids had returned to class, she
retrieved her books and papers. She plucked the bible from the puddle and wiped
it on her skirt, tried to flatten the wet and stained pages. Tears dripped onto
them, thwarting her efforts. She ran three blocks to home. She eased the door
open and sneaked inside so she wouldn’t wake her father, who was on a night
shift rotation.

At four in the morning, she would hear the click of the door
against the jamb, the clank of bullets emptying from his service revolver into
the box of ammo, the scratch of his key in the lock of his gun safe. She never
slept until he was home safe, tucked into his own bed.

She peered into her parent’s bedroom. He was snoring under
the covers. His badge and empty holster sat on the dresser next to the little
wooden bowl he emptied his pockets into. She loved the sound of change and keys
jangling with every step he took. The sound of the handcuffs tinkling against
each other at his lower back where they were clipped, ready to snap on the
wrists of evil people who dared commit crimes in his precinct.

She closed her eyes and imagined cuffing Ronald and Justine
together, their arms around that tree, faces smooshed into the ragged bark. She
took her father’s gun and made them pay for how they treated her. They were
evil to the core. She held the gun to Ronald’s temple until he peed his pants
and cried like a baby, begging for his pitiful life. But she wouldn’t give him
what he wanted. The weight of his dead body after one efficient shot to the
brain dragged Justine to the ground with him. She deserved no mercy either.
Three well-placed bullets to the abdomen made her bleed out slowly. Billie
squatted and watched the life drain from Justine’s eyes. When she was gone and
her stare was as blank as the space between her ears, Billie smiled on the
inside.

Her father snorted sleep from his nose and rolled onto his
back. She pulled the door closed with a quiet click and tiptoed to the
bathroom. She fetched a dry washcloth from the cupboard, opened her bible, and
wiped dirt and water from each soiled page. She hummed and sang to herself.

Jesus loves me! This I know,

For the bible tells me so;

Little ones to Him belong;

They are weak, but He is strong.

She paused, the washcloth poised over Leviticus 24:20. She
was weak. She needed Jesus to hold her up. To show her the way.

Eye for eye. Tooth for tooth
.

The words jumped from the page. That was God’s plan then,
wasn’t it? Justice. Swift and in-kind.

If only she were strong enough to deliver it.

NICK FRASER STOOD BETWEEN
his
court-appointed attorney and Todd’s court-appointed attorney.

The old hag of a judge droned on and on about the impact of
their little shoplifting spree. It was no big deal, just a few grab-and-runs in
the mall. A victimless crime, a dare. Normal teenage bullshit. But apparently,
bullshit was a criminal offense. Didn’t help that the old bat kept eyeing up
their tats. Bitch was probably jealous. No one would want to see body ink on
her flabby ass.

His fucking old man wouldn’t even pop for a real lawyer.
It’s not like he didn’t have the cash, he was a stock market trader for fuck’s
sake. No, daddy had to teach his wayward son a lesson. What lesson was that,
exactly? That his father was a cheap-ass bastard who would rather let his son
go to jail than home?

“I realize this is a first offense for these …” the judge
looked at them over the rim of her reading glasses … “gentlemen.” She smirked
and looked at the docket. “But I get a vibe that if we don’t nip their
activities in the bud, soon they’ll be back in my courtroom for more serious
offenses. So, as a message to you and your peers, I sentence Nick Fraser and
Todd Williams to one month in juvenile detention.”

A month in juvey? For a few bucks worth of smokes and couple
of leather wrist cuffs?

Nick jerked his head at her. “We got no fucking peers,
lady.”

“You stupid little shit.” His father’s baritone boomed from
behind him.

Nick turned and smirked at his old man.

He took a swing at his son. Nick bobbed and weaved, just
like the old fart had shown him. Just like he did when he got arrested and his
father went for his throat. He got the “no kid of mine” speech, and the “how do
you think this makes your mother feel” talk. When Nick dismissed it all with a
flip of his middle finger, his father laid hands on him.

It hadn’t been the first time.

The judge slammed her gavel down. “That’s enough.” She
pointed her scraggly finger at Nick. “You just made it six weeks, young man.”
She shook her head. “The apple clearly doesn’t fall far from the tree.”