#just gettng something on the page without thinking too much bout it

[passivenovember]

Laughing Stock

Mrs. Jacobson changes their whole world with a pink sticky note and it's almost poetic.

Billy finds it on Friday, a little pastel tombstone wedged between an empty yogurt tube and the head of Dawn's favorite Barbie Doll in her Myth Busters lunch box.

She's having trouble making friends. 

It's solemn in tone, like a smoke signal. A warning scribbled in shades of green.

Breaking news: Area Kid Prefers Goosebumps Over the Mystery of Multiplication Tables, the Stress of Socializing, or Conforming to the Standard Everyone Else Has Put in Front of Her. More on this at seven.

The color of that afternoon, the muted pinks and greens of steely skies dipped pastel criticism, reminds Billy of Easter. Of baby Jesus and betrayals. Good intentions that try to take over the world. 

She's having trouble making friends.

Billy reads the sentence twice. First out of necessity, again out of annoyance, feeling more and more like he should've seen this coming. Through the large kitchen window of the sink Dawn builds mud pies on a spool of fresh grass. Armed with sticks and funky painted rocks, she carries a threadbare toy rabbit and the weight of seven other people.

Imaginary friends.

Only friends.

On toward adventure. Steve appears in the reflection of the window and Billy hands him the sticky note.

"It's my fuckin' fault." Billy says, to no one in particular.

Dawn's lady-bug roller skates tromp through the grass, tearing narrow clumps in the soil as she locates the perfect spot for her third mud pie. The trainer skates were an early birthday present from Joyce, hand painted with little metal antennae welded on, courtesy of grandpa Hop.

Billy doesn't want her to wear the wheels down before the big surprise next week, but.

The skates are perfect.

Cute and adventurous, just like Dawn, and every time Billy sees her racing around the house while Steve complains about their security deposit, he's reminded of the love that colors every afternoon.

Dawn parks herself in front of an old tree stump as something is disclosed to Hopper the rabbit. Secrets, plans. The window is closed so Billy can't hear what she's saying, exactly, but he chokes on something sharp. 

And wet.

Anyway.

Steve runs his fingers through Billy's hair. "What's wrong, baby?"

Hopper the rabbit is thrown onto the stump, discarded, as Dawn sorts through her pockets for leaves and animal bones.

Billy gestures to the window, like, "Our kid's a goddamn freak."

"Billy."

"She carries around bags of animal bones."

For lack of anything better to do, Steve reads the sticky note once more before finally shrugging his shoulders. “She’s playing.”

Dawn begins separating her skeletons into piles.

“Where’d she even get them?”

”The woods. Uncle Dustin, maybe?”

Billy shakes his head. “It’s fuckin’ weird.”

"She's just being herself, Bills, aren't we encourage that kind of bullshit?" Steve manhandles Billy around the edge of the countertop until brown eyes draw firm conclusions. "This whole thing isn't fair. Not right of you to blame yourself. Not fair to say those things about her."

Billy fights back anyway. "Mrs. Jacobson said--"

A haughty, irritated puff of air forces clouds to move away from the sun. "Who gives a shit what Mrs. Jacobson said?"

"I do. It's important that Dawn makes friends with other kids her age, Steve."

Through the window she buries a rock in the ground, using tree bark to build a cemetery, and. 

Billy's. Trying not to get upset. 

He bites harshly on the ridge of his tongue, fending off heavy, obnoxious tears. "She doesn't even try to like the other kids her age."

Steve snorts. "What's to like?"

"Steve--"

"No, I'm serious."

"They could get her into. Y'know." Billy thinks about it, turning to put on the kettle. "Baby dolls, little pink dresses, glittery stickers, you know."

Steve grits his teeth. "Girl shit?"

"No, Steve." Billy rubs at the bridge of his nose. "Not girl shit."

"Well, she's into mud. And science. And dead animals, because Dawn likes to know the way things work." Steve slides onto the counter next to the oven, poking at the grip of the kettle with forced interest. "Science. Boy stuff. That's what Dawn likes."

And Billy.

Doesn't like there this is going. He folds his arms. "Maybe she could learn to like other stuff."

"So you agree?" 

And. "What?"

"You want down to enjoy girl stuff."

"Yes. No, fuck." Billy squeezes his eyes shut. Opens them again to find his husband sat next to an open flame, shoulders stapling themselves to his ears and just. Hanging there. 

Billy tries again. "I want her to be into normal stuff. Five year old stuff."

"Other five year old's are interested in whether each playdough tube has a unique flavor," Steve counters, tossing Mrs. Jacobson's concern into the recycling bin without a second thought. "Dawn's beyond, like. Way beyond everyone else her age."

And Billy gets it, alright? 

Because their daughter is kick ass. She's everything Billy wished he could've been at her age--adventurous. Kind. Open hearted. Brave. Smart. He fills two mugs with water, also thinking about how hard it was to be.

Different.

When he was going up. Billy knows, like. He and Dawn are unique in different ways, targeted for different reasons, but. 

Still.

"You don't think we should be worried about this."

Because He is. And he will be. Forever.

Steve shakes his head, lost. "Worried about her not making friends?"

"It wasn't always. Easy. For me."

"I know, baby."

"And with us. After, like. Neil and the party and Dawn having to explain the two dads thing. One who sleeps with a nail studded, bat. And." Billy swallows thickly. "The other, who couldn't stay dead."

He opens a bag of sugar. 

Forces himself to go slow with each movement, as if studying for an exam. 

Steve lets out another fertile pass of air. "Kids are little bags of shit."

"You don't mean that."

"Of course I do. They pick each other apart for no reason at all, if it wasn't the bones and the gay dad thing it'd be something else. Her hair cut or her shoes."

"What's wrong with her shoes?" Billy demands, but.

Steve rolls his eyes, almost. Fondly. "Nothing, but since when have I had a clue what the kids are into these days?" Steve asks, reaching for Billy and taking the hint when Billy recoils, as if bitten by a snake. He offers a kind, easy smile. "She has us."

Billy stirs their coffee. "That's not the compliment you think it is."

"What's so crazy about us?" Steve wonders, eyes going wide and watery, just. Adorable. His tongue pokes out with his grin. "Besides the whole, y'know. Living corpse and baseball bat situation."

Billy opens his mouth to respond when the back door slams open. 

The kitchen is a flurry of activity. 

In the last ten minutes it's started raining and Dawn is covered from head to roller skate in mud. 

Her pigtails are lopsided, caked with mounds of Earth and grass as Billy lunges forward with a tea towel in hand. He's learned what kinds of questions to ask if he wants the full story. Steve helps their daughter to the bathroom Billy figures out the basics. 

Chasing worms.

Wiggly, quickie worms who burrow too fast beneath beds of roses. 

Dawn was trying to see if they could burrow all the way to the center of the Earth.