You, Me, and Henry Rollins - 1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Tight pant and wallet chains
hooded sweats and adidas drive me insane
dread-locked crusties are hot and can´t be beat
just double up the condom and
stay away from their feet

I love hardcore boys, I love boys hardcore

Bi-hawks and studs are really hot
Emo kids whine but I´ll give em a shot
Tight pants skinheads with bodies that stack
This whole damn scene makes my
eyes roll back

I love hardcore boys, I love boys hardcore
I love hardcore boys, I love boys hardcore - Limp Wrist

---

I think I heard Mom's voice underneath the throb of bass emitting from my lame-ass stereo. She really doesn't understand that I just ignore her when she yells up the stairs. Or maybe she knows I'm not listening, and gets a kick out of screaming her lungs off to be heard over my music. It's probably a perverse mix of both. She probably wants me to take out the trash. And in a few moments she'll march up the stairs and yank open the door and tell me to turn off that “god-awful racket and take out the fucking trash.”

True to form, the door opens and she comes in without invitation.

“Turn off that fucking racket and take out the fucking trash!” She yells, pointing at the stereo with a manic look. I reach out lazily and flick it off, the epitome of innocence. As soon as the music is off her face relaxes from a rictus of fury and she looks vaguely human. “Thanks sweetie. Can you take out the trash?”

“Sure, Mom.” I hop off my bed. She can be bi-polar, I know, but after seventeen years of living in her house, I'm kind of used to it. I don't resent her for it, hell, I know she can't help it.

Plus, I think she likes cussing under the music. She's not normally a foul mouthed person. In fact, she can be the calmest person in the whole world. It makes it difficult to get a reaction out of her. So when I have my music going she likes to scream and insert words she doesn't normally get to say. I don't begrudge her her moments of rebellion. It must suck to be a stay at home mom. And plus, my little sister has a racket going: every time Dad or Mom cusses she gets a dollar. She's the fucking Donald Trump of five year olds, 'cause Dad is kind of a sewer mouth.

Abigail sticks her head in. “Mommy, you owe me a dollar.”

“I do not,” Mom replies calmly. She looks at me. “Eli, tell Abby that I wasn't cussing.”

“Mom wasn't cussing. It must've been the music,” I say. Abby squints suspiciously. Little fucker. She knows better than to push it, but she also knows that Mom likes to cuss along with Black Flag. She's smart for a little kid. Sometimes I wish I was that smart when I was that age, but mostly I'm glad that I was a moron because now I can get away with more. Don't tell Abby that, she'll probably figure out a way to make money off that too.

I amble downstairs while Abby tries to convince Mom that she'll behave all day for a five dollar bill. I swear, that kid is going to be a mob boss when she grows up. The trash is probably over flowing because I always forget to take it out. But as long as egg shells don't get on my Doc Martens I don't really care. I guess I'm pretty laid back about this shit.

I stand at the corner of my family's property poking at the trash can, which is kind of full. I manage to finally shove the overflowing bag down into the can. I dust my hands off and put the lid back on. My pocket buzzes but my hands are covered in some mysterious goo. I ignore the phone, and head back inside.

---

There's a voice mail on my phone when I finally get around to checking it.

“Eli! Eli! Guess what? There's some cool band playing tonight out in Isla Vista. You coming, you coming? Bye!”

I stare at the phone for a moment before I realise who it is. Tom has this way of talking that makes him sound like he's on speed. I think he really is on speed most of the time. And then the rest of the time he pretends he is so that people will think he's tripping. It's a good idea. We all look after him all the time because we're never sure when he's high or not. And plus, his mom would kill us if anything happened to him. She's cool with his speed thing, just as long as he does his homework. He doesn't do his homework, but she still lets him. I don't get it, but it's not my business. And plus, he's not that hard to take care of. He's a good kid, seventy percent of the time.

I call him back. “Tom, can you gimme a ride tonight? My car's still in the shop.”

We had a bit of a run-in with the cops a week ago. My right taillight was out and the fucker gave me a ticket. So I sent it in to get fixed and I don't think it should take a week to fix a fucking light bulb but whatever. I'm not paying for more labour than necessary, you know? I'm supposed to get it back tomorrow, but we'll see.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, sure thing,” he buzzes breezily. I can practically see him waving his hands around in that sort of bizarre way that he does. He looks kind of mentally ill sometimes. Like, you ever seen Terry Gilliam's Twelve Monkeys? He's like Brad Pitt in that movie. Kind of spastic and sort of manic. It's pretty funny. He gets really weird around girls, waving his arms around and looking like a right wanker. “I'll pick you up at eight?”

“Sure.”

He hangs up without saying goodbye. He's the kind of guy who likes abrupt endings, just ask his last ten girlfriends. I hang up my phone and shove it back in my pocket.

---

I'm waiting on the front porch for Tom to roll up in his ancient station wagon. My mom isn't too pleased I'm going out on a school night, but she can't stop me. My dad would let me go, so she's resigned herself to sighing loudly whenever she sees me. She doesn't like what I'm wearing either. She's kind of picky about how we look in public, like it reflects badly on her when I look scruffy.

“Why does it have so many patches?” She asks, straightening the collar on my jacket. “A few is fine, but this many is... Overboard.”

“Mom...” I whine, pulling from her grasp with an exasperated sigh. “Tom's gonna be here any moment. Go inside.”

She sighs and straightens a few of my pins. “You be careful. You have your phone, right?”

“Mom! Go away,” I mutter crossly, lightly shoving her toward the threshold. She crosses her arms across her chest and looks like my grandmother all of a sudden.

“Eli, you're only seventeen. I should be allowed to fuss over you if I want.” She sticks her tongue out, but goes in anyway. She knows she's fighting a losing battle. Only seventeen? She knows I've been doing pretty much whatever I want since I was twelve, so she's just being silly now.

Tom drives up as she disappears inside. I'm glad she's gone. It's not that I don't like my mum or something, but she's kind of boring and I don't really want my friends to know how suburban we are. Not that they aren't just as suburban, but sometimes I feel like if I ignore how bourgeois my family is, it might go away.

Tom claims he looks like a young Jello Biafra. I think he looks more like just plain jello, but don't tell him I said that. He's kind of a skinny guy, but then again we're all kind of skinny. Tom's super pale and has this bright red hair but he dyes it black these days. But the roots are sort of growing out, so it looks pretty damn weird. And he's still got all these freckles all over him and stuff. His tattoos look funny with the freckles. His parents don't care about his tats, which is nice. Mine won't let me have any until I'm eighteen. But they're okay with the piercings. Which is why I had them sign me off to get them, and then Tom and I went down to Precious Slut and we both got our lips pierced when I turned fourteen. His got infected so he had to take it out. But I still have mine, and a couple others now.

He honks the horn and I get up and walk over slowly. The passenger seat is covered in crap. I push his CDs and books onto the floor and then take a seat on the cracking leather. He gives me a snappish look when I accidentally step on one of the CDs. I ignore him.

“Who's playing?”

Tom shrugs. He never knows. He just hears about something and he hauls me along. And we usually meet up with Teddy and Carl at the club. Teddy hasn't been coming much lately because his girlfriend is a goth and she doesn't really like our scene. It's a major cramp in our style. Carl's girlfriend is an indie rocker (apparently) and she doesn't like our scene either, but she's not such a bitch that she would stop Carl from coming with us. She even comes sometimes, as long as he promises to go to one of her concerts. I think Carl's got it pretty good, but Teddy better dump that eyeliner and lace chick for a real punk woman. Someone like Patti Smith would be nice.

He swerves around the corner, nearly hitting a fire hydrant. Tom is the world's shittiest driver. I don't know if he has a license, and if he does, how he got it. I would have failed him within the first three seconds of any driving test he ever took. Once he killed a cat. I thought he was going to kill himself because Tom is like the biggest vegan freak I've ever met. I'm pro-animal rights and all, but Tom takes it to an all new level. He wants to create a PETA for punks, one that involves playing music to benefit kitties. When we were in a band together he would occasionally write a song, and while the music was fucking awesome, the lyrics tended to be about saving cows from slaughter. I guess it was good, but it was a little fucking weird too, to be singing about torturing small furry animals. Anyhow, ever since he killed that motherfucking cat he's been all paranoid. He drives with his lights on even during the day. And he stops on the brakes at the slightest sign of movement on the side of the road. I have permanent whiplash from this last week of hitching rides with him.

“Take it slower,” I whine. “You'll kill another cat at this rate.” That slows him down, and his face adopts a sort of beaten puppy look. “I didn't mean it like that, Tom,” I say, although really, I did mean it like that. Sometimes you have to lie to him to get rid of that hangdog look he gets. He brightens noticeably and takes the next left turn much slower. Ward Boulevard is pretty crowded, with all the townies heading into Isla Vista for the weekend party scene. The university has a reputation as one of the greatest party schools in the United States, much to the chagrin and distaste of the school officials. And now that school was in session all the frat boys and sorority girls were back with a vengeance.

We park on the far side of I.V., knowing that it takes forever to find parking closer to the Biko. Bobby said he would meet us on the corner outside the Biko, and we find him there, chatting up a few skankily dressed hos on their way to a keg party. Bobby, sorry, Robert, is a bit of a lady's man. I don't know what it is but he has women all over him all the time. Bobby has always been the most popular of us all, and I get it, he's a good looking guy, but he's also constantly high. Bobby looks kind of like Lance Loud, and I have to admit, I have a thing for Lance Loud. But I don't have a thing for Bobby, don't worry. He's like a brother, a really hot one.

Anyhow, we're supposed to stop calling him Bobby 'cause that's his elementary school name, and we're supposed to call him Robert now because he's a senior in high school and Bobby is a name for little kids. But he'll always be Bobby, he just hasn't realised it yet.

Bobby introduces us to the chicks. One of them has a tramp stamp and a pack of cigarettes between her double d's. I try not to stare. Her boobs have a life of their own, I swear. I pull out my own cigarettes and light up while Tom tries to hook up with one of the girls. But no, they have a party to go to, but they like Bobby enough to give him their numbers. And then they go, and I'm just finishing up my cigarette. I grind it into the pavement and shove my hands in my pockets. Tom is put out that he didn't get their numbers, but Bobby did. It's a constant competition between them, who can bag more chicks. The more notches on the bed post the better. I swear they're both going to die from syphilis or something equally horrible.

Tom steals a cigarette from me and then makes a face when he starts smoking it. I ignore him. He is always bitching about how much he smokes and how much he hates it, but he knows that it makes him look cooler so he does it anyway. He can be a douche and a hypocrite, but I'm not one to talk.

A couple of cute guys walk past and I can't help but watch them. They're polo types, clean cut all-American boys, probably on their way to get pissed and I want to join them. Except not really. I don't want to wear LaCoste shirts and Pumas. I'm happy with my leather and all that stuff. I fiddle with my lighter and hope my friends didn't watch my eyes. No, they're too busy arguing over whether Tom actually could claim to have heard the band Breathy Mints first. They're always getting into arguments like this. I mean, who cares who heard what first? I guess they just like to claim that they're “original” fans. Everyone has that one band that they love and adore and then they make it big and suddenly you're having to contend with posers for tickets. Although Carl will argue that all punks are posers at some time or another. He's probably right.

We head into the Biko 'cause we can hear the opening band start to fool around. All these bands are local, which is nice. If I like them enough I can see them again. Unless they break up soon, like most local bands do. Good run for maybe a year and then they're gone. I've been in three bands now, none of which have lasted more than a year. It's just the physics of high school bands. You don't make it very long just because when you're fourteen suddenly your artistic vision suddenly seems that much more important than your drummer's. That kind of selfishness isn't exactly conducive to great music.

The Biko is crowded with all the regular punks that come out of the woodwork for things like this. There are a few brave indie kids thrown in there, and an occasional goth, but mostly it's the same old guys and girls. Some of these people have been punks since the eighties. I always feel inadequate next to them. And they don't hesitate to encourage those feelings of inadequacy usually. They're pretty snobby sometimes. But they have good pot and they can tell good stories about the old days.

The opening band has a mandolin and accordion. Seem nice enough, although I can already tell they'll probably be another set of Flogging Molly/Dropkick Murphys rip offs. But I like folk-punk, unlike a lot of people here, and I won't be one of the nasty kids throwing shit at the stage. Not that I would ever do that, no matter how much I dislike the music. Well, if it was Good Charlotte or something I'd probably throw some rotten fruit. Just to see what would happen. I don't really hate bands like that. My friend Kyle always says “hate the fans, not the band,” and he's got a point. Although it's pretty easy to hate bands like Good Charlotte and Blink 182. They're not even real punks.

Someone pokes me in the shoulder. I turn around to find Carl standing there with the girlfriend. I think her name is Ellen. I don't remember. He looks good in a leather jacket and some skinny pants. He's got a bruise on his cheek. I poke it, hard, and he winces.

“Don't touch,” he says playfully, slapping my hand away. I peer at it, trying not to check him out in those jeans. He's always had a nice ass.

“How'd you get it?”

He shrugs. The girlfriend grins like a Cheshire cat and I know how he got it now. She's feisty I guess. But he doesn't seem to mind, so that's his business. I figured that Carl would be the kind of guy who liked to get slapped around a bit, as weird as that sounds.

“Teddy coming?” Tom asks. He's pissed off that Teddy's girlfriend never lets him come out any more. I think he kind of blames Teddy for being so pussy whipped.

Carl doesn't know, but Bobby does.

“He said he's coming, but you know how that is,” he says with a roll of his big blue eyes. We all know how that is. Teddy says he's coming and then never shows up, and then later that night he sends us all a Facebook message that says 'sry guys, josie wanted me to sty home.'

I push my hands back into my pockets and look around the room. There's something about a room full of sweaty teenagers. It puts me on edge, in a good way. It's kind of like being high: your whole body trembles. I feel like I'm on the tip of a mountain about to fall off. It's like that song by Limp Wrist: I love hardcore boys, I love boys hardcore.

Not that anyone knows. Everyone just thinks I'm too shy to ask any girls out. It's not like I'm not cute or anything. I've been told I look like James Dean. I think that's a load of shit, but at least no one's said I look like Fat Mike from NOFX. Just his name says it all.

They're always trying to shove me toward the girls, but I've gotten pretty good at perfecting my shy little boy routine. I guess they'll figure it out eventually, but until then I'm not the one who's going to tell them. Hell, I'm not going to do anything even vaguely gay, just in case they get some weird bug in their heads.

It's not that gays are exactly disliked. I mean, most punks are pretty fucking liberal. It's more like undercurrents of homophobia. And plus there are the Nazis skinheads that sometimes come out to make trouble. And I don't want trouble with them. I guess I just don't think it's anyone's business. And plus, I don't wanna come out. I kind of like my self-imposed exile. I know it's stupid, and it's probably internalised homophobia. I've read a lot about this on the internet. I know I'm supposed to be proud of who I am, but I can't help but know that my friends'll ditch me as soon as they figure out I'm a fag. And sorry, I'm not a big fan of getting my ass handed to me.

Sometimes when I'm standing in the middle of a crowd like this, staring at all these beautiful boys I wish I was open minded enough to admit to myself out loud that I like boys. So I could go up to that hot boy over there with the Dead Kennedys shirt and hit on him without feeling like a criminal. Instead I might make friends with him and pine after him for years. I don't know what's worse. All the pining, or coming out. I'm used to pining though.

The opening band wants to start their gig and the restless crowd is more than ready to pay attention. I pull my eyes off the DK boy and try to pay attention.

---

When the gig's over we stand outside the Biko, smoking. The sets were okay, nothing to write home about I guess. The lead singer for the second band was super cute. He had about a billion tattoos. And I wanted him to fuck me. I had to go to the bathroom halfway through the set to get rid of my hard on. I hate jerking off in public bathrooms, but what else was I supposed to do?

Teddy never showed, and Tom found a chick to poke his dick in, so I guess Carl will drop me off at home. And even though I'm laughing, having a good time, and I'm surrounded by my friends, I feel so fucking alone. And I'm no fucking emo, so it just pisses me off more. So now I'm angry and sad and I want to touch someone and it's a recipe for a disaster.

I shake it off by staring at Dead Kenndys shirt-boy's ass as he passes by and smoking a couple more cigarettes before Carl realises I'm in a bad place and says he'll take me home.

He doesn't say anything and I just sit in the back seat staring at the passing street lamps.

He drops me in front of my house, but stops me from getting out of the car as I open the door.

“Hey, Eli. Wait.”

I pause.

“What's up dude you okay?” He seems genuinely concerned.

I shake my head. “Nothing man, I'm just tired. I'll see you tomorrow?” I slam the door behind me and don't wait for an answer. Of course I'll see him tomorrow. And the same thing will happen all over again. I'll see a guy I like and I'll kind of fall in love with him and then someone will say something that reminds me why I'm in the closet.

---

Dad is still up when I get home, watching a VH1 Rockumentary on KISS or something like that. I hate his music taste, but as long as he doesn't play it around me, I don't fuss too much. Some things are just better left alone.

“What's up squirt?” He asks, turning down the volume as I walk in. “Good concert?”

I shrug and pour myself a glass of milk. He watches me with parental eyes, biting his lower lip as if he wants to say something but doesn't know how. “You weren't hurt or anything, were you?”

“Nah, I avoided the pit this time,” I say. It's true, I did avoid the pit. But so I wouldn't be close to the singer, so I wouldn't be tempted to reach out and touch him. Gotta keep my hands to myself, I guess. My dad nods, and turns his volume back up.

I'm glad he doesn't make me talk, so I head up stairs to take a shower and think. And I'll spend at least half of the time in the shower wanking off to images of boys with piercings and tattoos and feel guilty about it for the rest of the night.

---

I wake up and want to suffocate myself in my pillow. My alarm is beeping, unusually shrill. Mom is pounding on the door. My morning wood is not abating. Dead Kennedys shirt-boy is imprinted on my brain in a rather inappropriate pose. I hate wet dreams. I'm just lucky I didn't wreck the sheets.

“Get up, get up!” she says gleefully. “You have school today!” I hate Thursdays. I hate all days of the week, to be honest. I want to stay all day in bed whacking off. But that makes me feel even guiltier so I get up without touching myself, my briefs tented. Fucking hate my dick. It's got a life of its own. It's like a zombie or something, living dead.

No, I don't hate my dick. I just hate how it reacts when I think about certain things. Like other guys' dicks. Or Carl's ass. Or Bobby's eyes. And then it goes and does things that it shouldn't be doing in public. It's really bad in Biology class. I don't know what it is about Mr Almstedt. I mean, he's in his twenties for god sakes. But the guy is like something out of one of my more lurid wet dreams. Limpid baby blue eyes, blonde hair that curls just around his ears, a surfer's body to die for... I spring a woody when he just talks to me. So I don't raise my hand in that class. He thinks I'm just shy and sensitive. Which is true, I guess...

I finally haul myself into the shower and keep the water cold. That discourages Little Eli enough for me to consider going to school. I don't like school. I like learning, but don't tell anyone that. I just don't like the other kids really. Nobody messes with me, it's not like I'm bullied or anything, it's just that I don't get along with many people. I'm too standoffish.

I pull on a ratty Undertones shirt and my usual skinny jeans. This pair is dirty, but I don't really care. No one is close enough to notice. And plus, no one would comment anyway. It's not like I'm one of those people who actually pay attention to how many times someone wears something in a row. I'd be a hypocrite.

I stand in front of the mirror and sigh. My hair is a mess, as usual. I hate that it's wavy. I used to keep it really short, but then it looked like I had a fro. Now it's just kind of the way it is, although I never let it get long. I don't want to look like one of those kids who just fell off the back of a truck and got dragged through a bush backwards. I got my mom's hair, but hers is pretty because she brushes it and it's long and thick. Mine is just thick and wavy. Although right now it's looking better the longer that I look at it. There's a curl on my forehead that could almost be considered cute. I sigh and grab my backpack.

Mom has toast and jam waiting for me. I eat quickly. She ruffles my hair and then sips her coffee from her favourite spot in the kitchen. The floorboards are thinner there, 'cause she stands there all the time. When she's watching me eat, when she's watching Abby do her homework. I guess my bed is my special spot, and her corner in the kitchen is her special spot. Abby likes to curl up in her bedroom closet, she has a little nest back there. And Dad has a shed out back where he keeps his model aeroplanes. We all have our little idiosyncrasies.

I swallow my toast and drain my orange juice. “Does Abby need a ride to school?” Abby is still in her pyjamas. Mom rolls her eyes.

“You go ahead, Eli. She's going to be late. Again.”

I shrug and grab my leather jacket from the coat rack. “Bye Mom.” She hands me a couple dollars for lunch and ruffles my hair again before retreating to her spot. Abby waves and continues chewing. Dad's already gone to work, he works pretty late and leaves pretty early. I don't really get to see much of him, except on the weekends. I take his car, he's been carpooling while mine is in the shop. I hate driving his car, it's like the epitome of everything I stand against. But I have to admit, BMWs do get some pretty good speed. Not that I'm speeding in my dad's prized car.

---

Everyone is standing by the tree at the back of the high school, our usual haunt. Tom's smoking, already, and looks royally pissed off. It looks like Teddy has joined us, for once, and that probably explains both Tom's smoking and his expression.

“Hey Ted,” I say as I walk up, and Tom shoots me a nasty look. I bump fists with a few of them, and notice that Carl's brought his girl. She usually hangs out by the gymnasium with the other “indie” kids. I smile at her, and she smiles back. Carl seems pleased by this and he gives me a quick hug.

“What's up with Tom?” I ask under my breath as he pulls away. Carl rolls his eyes and motions for me to follow him.

“We'll see you all later,” he says as he pulls me off. Ellen follows us. As we walk away we realise that the group is silent, and I wonder if it's all because of Ted or if something else has happened.

“Tom and Teddy had a fight last night,” Carl explains. “And Ted's just trying to make sure Tom's not talking smack about him in front of everybody else. You know how Tom is.” We all roll our eyes. Tom has a bad habit of trying to blame all his problems on whomever he's most mad at. Usually it's Ted or me. Luckily, it's Ted's turn this time. I feel a surge of pity for the guy. Lucky for Ted we're all used to Tom's antics now, so we just ignore his badmouthing, knowing that half of it isn't true.

Ellen motions to Tom. “He usually such a douche?”

I look at Carl and then shrug. “Not really. He has a weird home life.” It's true. His parents let him get away with murder because they're basically teenagers too. His mom was sixteen when she had him, and she even smokes pot with him every once in a while. Both his parents are really educated, surprisingly enough, but they're liberal enough that they think Tom should be able to make all his own choices. Even choices that aren't good for him. It's a little weird, and I'm kind of glad my parents are traditionalists about some things. Carl tells Ellen all this and she looks at us askance.

“His parents smoke pot with him?”

I shrug. It's not really our business, but it does explain why Tom can be such a free spirit at times. He's used to getting his way.

Ellen rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well that's all great and wonderful, but that doesn't mean he can treat the rest of you like shit.”

“Ted and I, we've known him since elementary school. We're practically his parents,” I explain quietly. “He's bound to get pissed off at us every once in a while. Ted's been ignoring him lately, and he's just acting out. He'll get his cock out of his butt eventually.”

Ellen seems doubtful, but doesn't bring it up again. Instead, she talks about last night's concert.

---

Mr Almstedt seems determined to get me to talk today. I can't believe how fiercely I'm blushing. I feel like one of the nutjob girls in our class who giggle every time Mr A speaks. It's like a fucking teenybopper concert in this room. Oh Mr A, Mr A, please sign my breasts. Not that I'd want him to do that. Well, if I had boobs I'd probably let him. But he seems like too nice of a guy to want to do that. He's not sleazy. But he is dead set on getting me to answer his stupid questions.

“Eli, tell me about heliotropes.”

I shrug. I know plenty about heliotropes, I just refuse to talk to him about them. I'll stutter, and even though I'm long through puberty I just know that my voice will crack. And I'm already blushing. I look down at my scarred desk. Someone has carved a heart into it. A heart. How ironic. Should've been a dick.

He gives me a disappointed look and then picks on someone else for a while. I doze off.

“Eli, tell me about trophic levels.”

I shrug again. Again, I know trophic levels like the back of my hand, but I won't talk to him. I've never said a word to him in my life. And I think he knows it. He's giving me that look again, and I want to crawl inside his eyes and die. But instead I fix the desk with a steely glare and try not to clench my jaw.

At the end of class he pulls me aside. I flinch at his touch and jerk out of his hand. He retreats quickly but motions me to follow him to his desk.

“Why don't you talk in class? You know the material. Your grades are excellent.” He eyes me sadly. “I know you don't cheat, I've been watching you. You know the material.” He sighs and takes off his dark rimmed glasses. He rubs his eyes. “Is it something I've done? Have I said something to make you dislike me so much?”

He thinks I dislike him? He's been watching me? I'm too surprised to say anything, although I manage to shake my head. I still don't trust myself to speak, but I reach out and pat him on the shoulder gently before shouldering my backpack and walking out. I know I probably broke some rule about student teacher contact, but I couldn't help myself. He looked so damned serious, and almost sad. But I know better than to let myself in and trust him.

---

Carl is waiting for me outside Biology. He senses that I'm not in much of a talking mood, and we walk to English together. We're the only ones in our group to be in any advanced classes. We take GATE (Gifted and Talented Education) English together, and we have AP World History right afterwards. Of all the guys Carl understands me best. He doesn't make me talk, doesn't make me do stupid shit. He's got his head on straight. Literally. He's also a booty chaser. Although Ellen seems to have tamed him for the time being. But he never makes me go on blind dates, like the others. He never teases me about my lack of action. He's a good guy. Smart as hell too.

We're walking through the hall when I see Dead Kennedys shirt boy. This time he's wearing an Undertones shirt, and his dark hair is all messy. I look at him and accidentally catch his eye. He smiles at me and I trip.

“Okay there?” Carl asks, grabbing my arm. I nod, watching the kid walk away. He watches me too, and winks. I flush and turn back to Carl.

“Fine, just fine.”

“You look like you saw God,” Carl says, amused, looking back now to see what caught my glance. Luckily the DK kid has disappeared into the crowd and we are standing in a sea of backpacks. I shrug and pull Carl along before he figures it out.

---

I'm sitting on the lawn out front, surrounded by my friends. They're all talking about some upcoming show that we're all going to, apparently. I half listen and half think about that kid I keep seeing. I've never seen him before. He must be new. Or maybe he's older and I just never saw him before. I can't stop thinking about him. I was a complete mess in English, stuttering and sounding like a complete moron. Nothing particularly new, but even Ms Weston noticed that I was a bit scatter-brained. Of course, she deemed it appropriate to announce that I must be in the throes of young love, or something equally noble. And of course the class hooted and hollered while I blushed like a little kid. Fuck that.

I bought a burrito and am now picking at it now. Carl notices my expression, I guess, and scoots closer to me. He ruffles my hair gently and I lean against him momentarily. Carl knows not to say anything, 'cause even though I love him and everything, I won't tell him.

A couple years ago he tried to get me to tell him. But I cried instead, and I guess he figured that it was too serious for me to tell anyone, not even my best friend. I don't know if he knows yet. I bet he does, on some subconscious level. But I don't want to be the gay best friend, and I don't want him to treat me any differently. And most of all, I don't want him to stop talking to me because of it. So he's stopped asking, and I've tried to stop crying about it. Every once in a while he'll tell me to go see a shrink, but that's more for him than for me, I think.

Tom sees my face and I can tell he feels sorry for what happened this morning. He scoots over too and pops me in the head gently. Tom knows better than to touch me. I guess all my friends know that I'm sort of distant, but Tom understands. He doesn't really like being touched either, I think. I don't think his reasons are the same as mine.

---

Luckily for me, my mom picked up my car this afternoon. So when Tom calls me and tells me he's coming to get me I tell him that I got my car back and I'll just meet him there.

I park on the far side of I.V. again, and walk in. The Biko doesn't usually have a show two nights in a row, I guess, but this band is special, apparently. They're from New York and are touring the west coast. I don't know much about them, but we never know anything about the bands we see.

Tom and Carl are waiting for me on the curb, smoking as usual. I amble up to them and bum a lighter off them. They're both quiet, I guess they know today hasn't exactly been my day. The opener starts up and we file in quietly.

I stand at the back of the room while Tom, Carl, and Bobby mosh about. I'm not in the mood for a black eye right now. I don't want to admit it, but I'm looking for DK boy. But it's way too crowded to see him, or see anything. I sulk, I know I'm sulking and I don't like the music much. It's nothing special. Your usual hardcore punk, nothing to write home about. I want to curl up in my bed and listen to something soothing. Finally, I can't stand it any more, and I grab Carl and pull him aside and tell him I'm leaving. He pats me on the head and lets me go.

I'm walk of the Biko and into the courtyard. I'm checking my messages.

“Hey, hey you?”

I turn around. It's DK kid. He's smoking and he looks a bit hazy in the fall moonlight. I flush and look around. He must be talking to me.

“Yeah?”

“You hang out with Carl and Tommy?” He flicks ash on the ground and watches me. His eyes are blue, I can tell even in the dark how blue they are. They're electric. His smoky gaze causes my groin to tense. I cross my legs.

“Yeah.”

“What's your name?”

“Eli. You?” The words are sort of stuck in my throat. I don't want to sound like a moron but I can't help but shuffle a bit and blush some more.

“I'm Adrian.” He holds out his hand and I shake it hesitantly. “Wanna smoke?” He gestures to the picnic table he was sitting at. He takes a seat and motions for me to join him. I sit down next to him hesitantly and my hands shake as I pull out my pack of cigarettes. I'm getting so hard and I want to run. Fuck tight pants. I'm never wearing tight pants again.

We sit in silence for a moment. “What grade are you in?” I manage to get out eventually.

“Senior. You?”

“Senior.” I look down at the table and wonder why he's talking to me.

“You look younger.” He smiles and passes me a lighter. I light up and hate him for just a moment. I know I look young, it's not my fault. I scowl slightly and he laughs. “Don't worry about it. I look pretty young too.” He shrugs. I didn't notice that he looked particularly young. “I get hell for it all the times. Girls all over me.” He grins. I grimace and look away.

“Look, I better get going,” I say finally, and move to stand up.

“Awh, come on. It's not that late,” he says, grabbing my arm and pulling me down. My dick jumps in my pants. And then I realise that he might figure it out if I don't do something. So I pull away slowly, willing away the flush that has risen in my cheeks. Fuck him.

“No, I should go.” I put out my cigarette and move away from him before standing up. He watches me with a passive expression. God his eyes make me so quivery. I hate him so much.

“See you later, then?” He asks.

I wonder why he's so interested. “Yeah, sure.” He winks at me and I can't bring myself to respond. I turn around and walk out of there as fast as I can. As soon as he's out of sight I break into a run. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

If I didn't know better I would have thought he was flirting with me. I hate guys who do that. I hate straight guys who pretend to be all open minded and flirt with you and kiss you and then fuck you over. Not that I have experience with that, not at all.