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Pretty. He first hears it from his mother, “oh Billy, you’re so pretty my little one,” she whispers in her silk-soft voice, as she gently runs her fingers through his curls. He smiles a secret little smile, feels so warm and fuzzy, it has to be a wonderful word if it makes him feel so happy he thinks.
When he’s really young, maybe five or so, he hears it all the time “oh gosh isn’t he just the prettiest,” “his hair is so pretty,” “what pretty blue eyes he has,” strangers gush to his mother, words that float about in that space way up over his head. Sometimes, they reach down and pinch at his cheeks or stroke his hair as they say it, he doesn’t really like that, but he tries not to fidget if they do, it’s only for a second, it’s the first time he thinks maybe the word is a bit annoying.
In sixth grade, Toby Dyer calls him pretty but it doesn’t make him feel good. He says it like it’s an insult “ohh look at pretty little Billy Hargrove,” he mocks in a sing-songy voice, his little gang of sheep giggling along behind him, and Billy thinks, as his fists clench, as he turns to run away that maybe he doesn’t like the word pretty.
Neil says the word like it’s a curse, couples it with other words to spit things that bruise his soul “not such a pretty little faggot now are ya boy?” he sneers blood stained fist hovering inches from Billy’s nose, and Billy hates the word pretty as he lets the lipstick slip from his grasp, hears it clatter loudly to the floor.
He hears it from older men, they whisper it in his ear “my pretty little slut,” they groan as they finish, it makes him sick. Hears it from grinning cops as they offer him an alternative way to pay “you’ve got a pretty mouth there boy,” he loathes the word pretty he thinks as he sinks to his knees in some back alley, with some nameless pig eager to wreck his throat.
When directed at him pretty means worthless, means slut, means faggot, means cocksucker, means whore.
That’s what Billy thinks.
When directed at others pretty means warmth, pretty means worth, pretty means beauty, pretty means far too good for shit like me, Billy grimaces, stares at himself in the mirror.
His lips stained red, eyes ringed black, gold hoops rest against the column of his neck.
He looks pretty. Billy hates it.
He pushes up off Mrs Harringtons vanity, slips his feet into bright red heels and heads downstairs.
Steve waits at the bottom of them, dressed in all black, one of Billy’s leather jackets slung around his shoulders hair greased back, cigarette placed artfully behind his right ear. He looks good.
He gasps when he sees him “you look so pretty baby,” and Billy’s heart, Billy’s heart does a jump in his chest, catches on something, warms in a way it hasn’t in years when it comes to that word.
He flushes full with feeling as Steve peppers little kisses to his cheeks, tells him he’s so pretty it hurts.
So they go, they go to Steve’s preppy Halloween party dressed as Danny and Sandy, and people say “it’s not fair how pretty you are Billy,” “God Billy how are you prettier than me!” “Your hair looks so pretty like that!” and it doesn’t hurt. In fact Billy kinda likes it, thinks maybe he can learn to love it again.
He can, he can learn to love it again, especially with his heart beating to a new rhythm…
You look so pretty baby, you look so pretty baby, you look so pretty baby…