Dead Ends by Erin Jade Lange

them might be the man I was supposed to call Dad.
    The bus squealed to a stop in front of us, and we climbed on. It was crowded with nine-to-fivers on their way home from work, and there was nowhere to sit. I grabbed onto a metal bar, but Billy didn’t have to. A woman in a cheap-looking suit got up from her seat and motioned for Billy to take it. She gave him a patronizing smile as he took the seat, and he smiled back. There were a few other smiles of pity around us—more people who would have given their seat to Billy as if he couldn’t stand up like anyone else, like his unusual face somehow meant his legs didn’t work.
    The woman who gave up her seat smiled at me, too—a silent “atta boy” for being such a Good Samaritan, hanging out with the Down syndrome kid. I returned her smile with a scowl.
    We got off the bus at the end of our street, and my feet were barely on the sidewalk before I told Billy, “That’s not cool, man.”
    â€œWhat’s not cool?”
    â€œYou shouldn’t have taken that chick’s seat.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause of why she gave it to you.”
    Billy’s expression flickered confusion.
    I sucked in a breath and tried to figure out how to explain delicately.
    â€œShe gave it to you because she thinks you’re retarded.”
    Delicacy was apparently not my thing.
    Billy frowned. “No, she’s just nice.”
    â€œBilly D., do you ever notice people being nice to only you and not anyone else?” I asked as we walked.
    Billy thought for a moment. “Maybe.”
    â€œDoesn’t that bother you?”
    â€œWhy would it bother me?”
    â€œBecause … because they’re only being nice to you because they feel sorry for you.”
    Billy looked up at me in surprise. “Why do they feel sorry for me?”
    I caught his eye. “Really?”
    â€œReally.”
    â€œDude, because you look different. Obviously.”
    â€œOh.” Billy looked down at his feet.
    I rushed to explain. “I mean, at least they’re nice, y’know? Better to be nice to someone different instead of mean or something. But still … they’re judging you. They’re making a decision about you based on how you look … like—” I snapped my fingers. “Like people think I’m a jerk just because I don’t go around grinning at everyone all the time.”
    â€œYeah.” Billy’s eyes lit up with understanding. “And like that piece of hair that sticks up on the back of your head.”
    My hand flew to my head automatically. “What?”
    â€œPeople probably think you don’t brush your hair, but I bet you do, because I’ve seen you try to push that hair down, and it won’t stay, no matter how much you brush your hair, I bet. But people don’t know that.”
    Slowly, deliberately, I pulled my hand from the clump of hair in question and felt my scalp tingle as the hairs stood back up, one by one.
    â€œYeah, that’s not—I didn’t mean … the point
is
, Billy …” Itook a breath. “People shouldn’t treat you different just because you look retar—” I choked on the word. “Because you’re—whatever—challenged or something.”
    Billy stopped. We’d reached our houses. “You treated me different,” he said.
    â€œWhat? No, I didn’t.”
    â€œYeah, you said you wouldn’t beat me up—because of how I look, right?”
    He stared at me, his expression empty. He wasn’t judging me—just stating the obvious.
    â€œShit,” I said. “I guess I did. I’m sor—”
    â€œWho else won’t you beat up?”
    We were standing in the middle of the street between our houses, and it was getting dark fast. I backed up toward my curb, to get out of the road. “Girls,” I said as I walked backward. “I don’t hit