Goody One Shoe (16 page)

“Can I hold it?”

Bruce rescued it from its nest. She held out her hands and
he placed it in her palm.

“It’s heavy. I always thought they’d weigh next to nothing.”

“Wait until it’s loaded. It weighs almost a kilo.”

Billie ran her fingers along the length of it, her heart
bouncing about her chest. “When can I shoot it?”

“WILHELMINA FULLALOVE.”

Billie mounted the short staircase, stage left. Her
grandmother had taken her shoe shopping and bought her a pair of royal blue
flats, all patent and sparkling under the glare of the spotlights. They matched
the cap and gown to perfection, the school’s primary colour. A gold sash representing
her high academic achievement — highest in her graduating class — circled her
shoulders. At least she hadn’t lost half of her brain to a hail of bullets.

She strode across the stage. In the five years since the
murders, after countless hours in rehab, she’d mastered walking with a prosthetic
leg with barely any sign of a limp, thanks to her love of running. Only in the
back yard at first, a few too many spills to take it out in public. But in no
time, she was sprinting down the street, or jogging on the track at school.
She’d even been fitted for a running blade.

The principal stood centre-stage, a scroll tied with blue
ribbon in her left hand, her right hand ready for Billie to shake.
“Congratulations, young lady. You should be proud of your achievements.”

Billie shook the woman’s hand and accepted the scroll.
“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Especially in your situation. Good for you to overcome such
adversity.”

Billie blinked. The woman couldn’t leave well enough alone.
Had to tack on some pity and top it off with a cliché to boot. Why couldn’t
they just accept that she was smart? Why did her missing leg, her dead parents,
her purely and utterly crappy life get to take credit for her hard work? If
they wanted to give credit, maybe they should thank all of her friends who
turned their backs. The boys who wouldn’t give her the time of day. It afforded
her a lot of spare time to study and work. Time that other kids her age were
using to drink and party, experiment with drugs, and get laid. Yep, her grades
were the result of boredom and the shunning of teen society because they just
didn’t know how to deal with her missing leg, her all-encompassing grief.

“Billie?” The principal tugged her hand free. “Is everything
all right?”

“Yes, ma’am. Just basking in the glow of the moment.” Billie
exited stage right to the sad and pathetic pop of pity applause and the heavy
slap of her grandmother’s hands clapping at a frenetic pace.

Billie walked up the aisle of the auditorium. Ronald, still
in skinny jeans, still an asshole, there to support his senior buds and unlikely
to graduate next year when he was supposed to, stuck his leg out in front of
her and smirked.

She glared at him, veered around him, and kicked his foot on
the way by.

He covered his mouth with his hand. “Gimp,” he said into a
fake cough.

Billie stopped, backed up, bent down, put her mouth next to
his ear. “Shit head.” She didn’t hide it in a cough. And she didn’t whisper.
But she did say a silent apology to God for swearing out loud.

Students shifted in their seats, gripping their diplomas.
Well, not real diplomas. Just a copy of the commencement agenda rolled into a
scroll and tied with a royal blue ribbon. The real things would be mailed
months later after the board of education confirmed exam results and ensured
that the students had, in fact, graduated. Billie watched kids stride, dance,
trip, moonwalk across the stage. She played a little game of
who’s going to
fail?
Most were good to go on, but a few would definitely be receiving a
different kind of notice. The “you’re ten credits short” kind. The girls who
gave up studying to see who could get pregnant first. Reproductive Russian
roulette followed by quickie abortions. Condoms were so 1987 after all.

Once all the students had received their diplomas and all
the families who’d run up the aisles to snap pictures after being asked to stay
seated were back in those seats, the principal addressed the convocation.

“Every year, an honour student is chosen as valedictorian.
It is about more than brains and grades, about more than how many advanced
placement classes they successfully complete. We also factor in outside
circumstance.” She paused, her palms on the podium, and swept her eyes over the
crowd for dramatic effect. “This year we are very honoured to have chosen a
remarkable young woman to deliver your valedictory address. She graduates with
a four-point-oh grade point average. Her success in AP English, AP Creative
Writing, and AP Social Studies give her a leg up at her chosen university. But
there is so much more to this student than good grades.”

Billie shook her head. A leg up? Seriously? She closed her
eyes and clutched her note cards. Shut up, shut up, just shut the hell up. Let
it be about grades. Leave it at that and just shut up.

“This student has overcome immense obstacles. Both of her
parents were taken from her under tragic circumstances. That same circumstance
resulted in the loss of her leg at the tender age of ten.”

Billie opened her eyes. Eleven, you stupid bitch. She
mentally backspaced over the principal’s last two sentences. She just had to
pull the cripple card. May as well just shine a big ol’ spotlight on Billie’s
prosthesis and tell them she only got to be valedictorian because the
administration felt sorry for her.

“This young woman has endured unthinkable pain, emotional
and physical. I’ve never met a more focused individual. She buried her grief
and her pain in her school work, and as a result, she is graduating a year
ahead of schedule with the highest honours ever bestowed upon a Grantham High
graduate.” The principal beamed at the crowd, pleased as punch over her
emotional introduction. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Wilhelmina
Fullalove. Or, as we all like to call her, Billie.”

As they like to call her? That was her name, for God’s sake.
Long before she got cast in this high school chainsaw musical.

Billie stood. The entire audience murmured and shifted.
Parents and guests clapped, some students too. A few hisses followed her to the
stage. She mounted the first step, her heart in her throat and her nerves on
edge.

Just don’t trip, Billie. Don’t give them the satisfaction.

She made it to the podium, looked out upon the crowd, and
forced an outside smile.

Ronald booed. A few people giggled.

Billie straightened her note cards and cleared her throat.
“Thank you, Mrs. Guilfoyle.” She glanced at the notes, at the words of
encouragement for her fellow graduates. The idiots and the bitches and the
assholes. Even the nerds picked on her since she drew fire away from them, gave
them an opportunity to be little dicks in a big dick world. They deserved no
encouragement. Not a damn one of them.

She set down the cards. “As has been pointed out to you in
great detail, I’ve had a pretty tough life so far. The first ten years weren’t
so bad. Although my love for God, my preference for books over boys, and of
course the fact that my parents were working-class poor and couldn’t afford to
buy me the latest fashions, wouldn’t let me wear makeup before fifth grade, or
hang out after dark stalkin’ the ‘hood,” she lifted her elbows, made peace signs
with both hands and pointed down at the podium — her attempt at hip-hop cool.
“Well, all those things put a big ol’ bully target on my brainy forehead. Even
before my parents were gunned down and murdered in a dark alley, before those
same gunmen shot me and stole one of my legs, forced me into a life lived
wearing titanium and rubber, yes, even before all the trials and tribulations
that Mrs. Guilfoyle kindly confessed to this auditorium of mostly strangers —
my life at school sucked.”

She dismembered the microphone from the stand and stood
beside the podium. “Enter high school. A lot of the same students I went to
elementary and junior high with, but hey, a whole bunch of new faces. Maybe
among them I’d find a kindred spirit. A decent soul.” She bit her bottom lip.
“One single friend.”

The room was silent. They’d expected an uplifting soliloquy.
An inspirational speech. They weren’t planning on anguished tears or an angry
tirade.

Fuck ‘em. Fuck ‘em all.

“But not one student could find a way to look past this.”
She lifted her robe and skirt, tapped the leg with the microphone. The dull
thud echoed in the auditorium and the microphone squealed. “Pretty scary stuff,
eh? Titanium instead of bone. Rubber instead of skin. How very intimidating.
But I assume that’s what it was. They were intimidated. Surely these students,”
she swept her other hand over the crowd, “your loving, well-behaved sons and
daughters. Surely, they weren’t so cruel and uncaring as to make the life of a
girl who didn’t choose her fate unliveable? Or at the very least, unenviable.”
She paced in front of the podium. “Well, moms and dads, here’s the bad news.
They
are
so cruel. They
are
so uncaring. So kudos to you for
raising them well. Kudos to the school system for keeping me safe. The valedictory
address, historically, offers advice to graduating students.” She held the
microphone in both hands. “So here’s your advice.”

The students stared at her, many with open mouths.

“Grow the hell up. And stop being assholes.” She tossed the
microphone onto the podium and stalked off stage past the principal, whose face
was crimson.

BILLIE HELD HER BREATH.
Bruce
pressed his frame against her back, her ass perfectly cupped by his groin, his
arms over hers, holding her steady. She trembled in his embrace.

“Take a firm grip of it. No, not too tight. Gentle but firm.
That’s it. Now squeeze slowly.”

Billie squeezed. Her arm jerked up and she snapped her neck
back. The top of her head connected with Bruce’s chin. A hot piece of brass
flew to her right and bounced off the protective wall. The casing bounced on
the cement and landed near her toes.

She spun around, the echo of the shot still ringing in her
ears, and removed her protective glasses. “That was amazing. Oh, God, my heart
hurts, it’s beating so hard.”

Bruce rubbed his chin. “Sounds about right.” He guided her
shooting arm away. “Always point it at a safe angle, preferably downrange.
Never at my junk. And take your finger off the trigger. It should be outside
the trigger guard until you are ready to shoot.” He punched a button and the
target swooshed toward them.

When it hit the end of the line and clicked to a stop near
her, Billie scowled. “I didn’t even hit the guy.”

“Sunshine, you didn’t even hit the paper.” He took the Glock
from her hand. “Your feet should be further apart, shoulder width. Get the
shoulders over your hips. I prefer the Isosceles stance, your arms are straight
and elbows locked.” He slid her glasses back on her nose.

Bruce smacked the button and sent the target flying back to
the far wall. He faced the target, held up the pistol, and fired four rounds in
quick succession.

Warmth and moisture flooded Billie’s panties. Her body
jerked with each ping of brass casing against the concrete floor.

Bruce brought the target closer.

“Hah, you only hit him once.”

Bruce cocked his head and smirked. “No, love. I hit him all
four times. In the same spot.”

Her jaw dropped open. She poked one finger through a hole in
the paper man’s heart. “Holy cow. I want to do that.”

“Then get over here and practice. But first, more ammo.”

“It only holds five bullets?”

“Ten. But I only loaded five.” At the press of a button, the
magazine dropped into his hand. He set it on the counter and pulled the chamber
back, turned the gun upside down.

“I thought there were only five?”

“Just to be sure. Always be sure.”

He handed her one magazine and five bullets. “Push the rear
of the bullet down and slide it back.” He picked up the other magazine and
demonstrated.

Billie took a bullet from the box. It was cool in her
fingers, smooth and icy. “This one has a hole in it.” She pointed to the tip.

“Hollow point. Mushrooms on impact.”

“Is that good?”

“It’s not good or bad. Just depends on what you want from
your ammo. The range prefers you use them because they don’t damage the
backstop like a full metal jacket will. In real life, hollow points decrease
penetration, less likely to be a through-and-through, and won’t do damage to
anything but the target.” He grinned. “Assuming you hit it.”

“Ha. Ha. Ha.” The first bullet didn’t want to go in. He
showed her again — push, slide. On the third try, she found the sweet spot and
the bullet slid into the magazine. She did another, then a third. Soon, her
thumb was black and aching. “Does this come off? Or get any easier?”

Bruce licked his finger and rubbed the black from Billie’s
thumb. “Yes, and yes. You’re picking it up fast. The last two are the hardest.”
He took her magazine and turned it around. He pursed his lips. “Impressive. You
loaded all ten. Now, slide it in, and click into place. Just smack it with the
heel of your hand.”

She took back the magazine and picked up the gun. “You’re
making me horny.”

He laughed. “Yeah, guns and sex. Good combo. Not.” He
pressed his lips close to her ear protection. “Although watching you handle my
piece has me wanting you to handle my other piece.”

She grinned, slid in the magazine and smacked its bottom,
clicked the slide release and faced the target.

“Focus on your front sight.” Bruce used his foot to gently
kick her legs farther apart. “Bend your knees slightly.” He put one hand on her
belly and the other on the back of her shoulders, tipping her forward a bit.
“Your target should be a bit blurry. Now, straight arms, elbows locked.”

Billie nodded.

“And squeeze.”

Billie moved her finger from outside the trigger guard onto
the trigger. She squeezed. The recoil jerked her arms but she held stance. She
squeezed again, again, a fourth time, a fifth. When the gun let out a hollow
click on the eleventh pull of the trigger, she let out her breath, moved her
finger from the trigger and set the gun on the counter. She slapped the button
and eyed the target as it raced toward her. Ten holes in the paper. Five in the
gut. Three in the shoulder. One in the groin. And one in the heart.

“And that, Billie Sunshine, is how it’s done.” Bruce kissed
her cheek.

She picked up the other magazine. “Again.”