Sun beans saturated Sarah's head. Being outside felt like medicine for her soul, soaking all the worry away and momentarily shutting down her ever growing mental to-do list.
As she was enjoying the sunshine with the look of bliss planted on her pale face, Billy, who was sitting next to her, folded his tanned hands and put them behind his head. He was glad it was Friday.
"Friday's are awesome," he said as his body flopped down on the blanket.
As normal as Billy seemed on the surface, he had issues. The most tragic being he was homeless. The only people who knew was his best friends Sarah and Jim. But Julie didn't know. Neither did Brian or Blair. He didn't want them to.
They also didn't know that Billy's parents were drug addicts. Not the kind you see on "Cops" or "Requiem For A Dream," but the kind that went to church every Sunday and were active participants of the PTA. Their goodness gene rubbed off on Billy, who would, as early as age six, called his parents out on their sins.
At 12, he moved in with his elementary school friend Sarah and her family, who were happy to have him. Living with them brought a better sense of normalcy - three square meals a day, clean house and all of the love, attention and video games a boy could ever want. He was lucky Sarah was an only child.
"I always wanted a brother," she told him when he first moved in five years ago.
As far as Julie, Brian and Blair knew, Sarah and Billy were cousins. That's what they told everyone.
After four years of normal, he wanted to leave, to go back home to his mom and dad, who seemed so picture-perfect from a far, as American as cheese and apple pie. But that was only an act. If all the world was truly a stage, Billy's parents were definitely players who knew how to act. How to play to the audience. To give the people what they want.
At 18, Billy's home is the green open fields of the city park. But you wouldn't know this by looking at him. He often dressed in oxford shirts with his dark brown hair reeking of Pert.
Sarah had once told Billy she loved the smell of Pert, and he's used it ever since. In fact, his nickname for her was . . .
"Hey Pert," Billy whispered loud enough for only Sarah to hear, lying down with his hands still folded behind his head, starring at the sky. "Do you think I should try to move back home again?"
"Home?" she whispered, eyes on the Frisbee game, not Billy. "Yes, if you mean home with me and your second family. Only with us, no one else. That's the only home you have."
Pert turned and gave him her best smile before a Frisbee came by and knocked her on the head.
"What the . . .," Sarah yelled, rubbing her head as everyone laughed.
Billy laughed uncontrollably. He wished everyday could be like this. For him, home wasn't four walls and a kitchen, it was Sarah. But the truth of the matter was he was homeless. In the real world, homelessness is a stigma.
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