Boogie on Billy | Jules Archer

The hike was Billy's idea. He liked to hike for exercise, to show off the muscles in those lean runner's legs, to prove he was no longer Drumstick Boy from third grade. Me, I liked to hike because I was always anticipating the next donut, the flash of a man's hand from the alleyway behind me, the toss into a trunk of a car. Or maybe the zombie apocalypse, hot breath on the nape of my neck. I ran to prepare living limbs for eventual disaster. I didn't run for health. Health could pound sand.

"C'mon, Snail!" Billy drawled as I languished behind him. "Pick up the pace."

I glowered at his broad back. Floated a middle finger his way even though he couldn't see it. I hated my nickname. Gail the Snail. Sure, I was slow, but I was deliberate. Intentional. I knew what I was doing when I wanted to do it. I wasn't like Billy with his thumping stomps, alerting every forest animal to our presence. They'd eat our soft insides if we died on the trail. Eyes first. Then stomachs.

Billy turned around in time to see me shuddering, his arms propped on his hips. A slice of sunlight fell across his eyes. A villain with soft edges. "Baby, you're slowing us down."

"Then why bother bringing me along?" I picked up the pace and pushed past him. Made my voice sarcastic. "If I just slow you down."

"Because you're easy on the eyes." He passed me, slapping my ass.

I tried to smile at the compliment, but my lips felt as wobbly as Jell-O. As wobbly as the time I tried to leave him, only Billy walked in that night with a Butterfinger bar and it was true love all over again.

Billy walked on ahead until the trail split into two paths. I saw the canteen flapping light on the side of his hip and knew he had drunk up all the water.

I sighed. "Where are we even going?"

“It’s a hike, Snail.” He gestured to the right, to a dirt-packed trail lined with brambles and anorexic-looking cedars. Then the left. The same. “Any path is perfect.”

That’s a lie. Any path leads to disaster. Just ask the Titanic.

I sat in the dirt and looked up at his tall frame. Billy turned. Frowned.

"Yeah, sit down. We'll get there faster."

I waved a hand toward the forked path. "You choose."

"What about you?"

"I'll catch up."

Billy smirked. He knew the weakness of my imagination. "What if you meet the boogeyman?"

I studied Billy. I hated that stupid bandana wrapped around his forehead. He thought it made him look like Rambo, when really, all he was was some dopey country bumpkin.

I crossed my arms. Met his narrowed gaze. "I’ll take my chances."

This time he frowned, his lips a lemon-pucker sour. Saying nothing, he turned back to the forked path. He strode forward in determination.

But I closed my eyes and dug my fingers into dirt, into soft sand, grasping. A shell, a leaf, a bottlecap in my palm. The sun burned warm on the crown of my scalp. When I opened my eyes, Billy was gone, boogied off somewhere out-of-sight, out-of-mind, like some lost, lonely turd flushed down the drain. At the thought, I smiled, my heart lifting in my chest to right itself like an anchor.

Jules Archer is the author of the chapbook, All the Ghosts We’ve Always Had (Thirty West Publishing, 2018) and the short story collection, Little Feasts (Thirty West Publishing, 2020). Her writing has appeared in various journals, including SmokeLong Quarterly, PANK, Okay Donkey, New World Writing, Maudlin House, and elsewhere. Her story “From the Slumbarave Hotel on Broadway” appeared in Best Microfiction 2020.