Forever is a Long Time . . .

We got to Frank’s house and went up to his room, dropping our backpacks on the floor before dropping ourselves onto his bed. Frank’s room was messy yet still, somehow there was an order to all the chaos. I guess cluttered is a better word to use.

There were DVDs, books, and CDs lining every shelf. His desk was nearly invisible underneath all the sheet music and chord charts that covered the surface. His skateboard was on the floor in front of his closet where his clothes should have been hung up. Instead of neatly put away, his clothes, both dirty and clean, covered the floor, and on top of one of the piles lay Frank’s guitar.

Frank absolutely loved his guitar, even though it kind of sucked and he definitely needed a new one. He’d gotten it a few years earlier with money he’d saved up from holidays and doing odd jobs for neighbors. He had a family of musicians and wanted so badly to learn to play an instrument himself and naturally he gravitated toward the guitar. He practiced nearly every single day since the very beginning, and it had definitely paid off; he was so talented and now he was in an awesome band. If only he’d had a better guitar; one whose strings didn’t break and actually had all of its fret marks.

Still, Frank loved to play and write songs, and we’d even written a few together. Frank would play the chord progressions he’d written while I’d write the lyrics and sing them in the recordings, even though I wasn’t that good. We kept every song we’d ever recorded on this one CD that Frank kept in his room along with the rest of his music collection. I’d kill him if he ever lost it, but Frank valued that CD filled with sketchy guitar music and terrible singing just as much as I did, and I’m sure if he ever lost it we’d be equally devastated. After all, it had taken three years to make.

He pulled a CD, not our special one, out of the seemingly endless supply and popped it in the radio, keeping the volume low so we could still talk and hear each other.

“So, did you hear?” Frank asked as he turned back to me from putting Iron Maiden into the CD player.

“Hear what?”

“That Aaron Baker was thinking of asking you out?” I rolled my eyes at Frank. What did I care that some ass-hole jock wanted to go out on a lame date with me probably just to get another girl jealous? And even if he did seriously like me and did end up asking me out, I’d never say yes; I already liked someone else.

“Whatever,” I began. “I don’t care. He’s not my type anyway.” Frank raised his eyebrows at me before leaning over to turn down the music some more. “So what is your type then? Please. Enlighten me.”

I was notorious for turning down nearly every guy that had ever asked me out and my excuse every time was, ‘he’s not my type,’ so I could see why Frank would be seizing the opportunity to find out what went on in my head. That, plus the fact that he was my best friend and he just wanted to look out for me. And to annoy me.

“Well, I don’t know.” I paused to think for a moment. In all honesty, for all the dates I’d turned down claiming incompatibility, I didn’t really think I had a type, but I knew what I didn’t like. “Definitely not the ass-hole-jock type, that’s for sure.”

Frank leaned back on his bed, lacing his fingers together and placing his hands under his head. He looked up at the ceiling and responded, “Oh, let me guess; you like the bad boys?”

I gave Frank a ‘seriously?’ look but then realized he couldn’t see me. He stayed in his position, staring at the ever so fascinating ceiling and waited for my answer.

“I never said that.” I tried to defend myself. But in reality, if I did have to pinpoint a certain type of guy I liked, bad boys would definitely be up there on my list.

Frank was too good though, and he saw right through me; he knew me better than I knew myself sometimes and he knew just how to push my buttons. “Oh, really?” he said in a faked arrogant tone, pushing himself up onto his elbows to look at me. He gave me a sarcastic smirk and with a great deal of sass, he asked, “What about Jason Schlecht?”

I was hoping Frank wasn’t going to bring him up. I’d liked Jason for four years, between sixth and tenth grade. If anyone was a bad boy, it was Jason. He got detentions, never did his school work and had that cool, bad-ass, ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude. He was cute too, hot actually, and he had a tattoo.

Based on Jason’s reputation, it was no surprise when he was expelled junior year for not only failing out of nearly all of his classes, but also selling pot on school grounds as well. Once he left school and I stopped seeing him as much, I’d gotten over him. That and because I didn’t feel comfortable liking someone in juvie.

“Okay, so I don’t like goody-two-shoes kinds of guys, but I’m still not sure about the bad ones.” I admitted, even though I kept my thoughts on bad-boys relatively ambiguous. What can I say? I like when a guy’s a little eff-ed up; hell, so am I.

Frank kept pushing though, probably because he knew it would annoy me, and to see how far he could ride out his little power trip now that he’d gotten me started. “So you wouldn’t think it’s totally sexy to know that I’m getting a tattoo?” he asked, exaggerating his words a little just to be funny.

“Eww, gross,” I jokingly protested and pushed him back down onto the bed again. I continued my thought, “But wait, you’re seriously getting a tattoo? When? Where? Of what?” Now that I was thinking about it, Frank would look so cool with a tattoo.

He sat up straight, returning to my eye level. “I want a scorpion right here.” As he said this, he leaned his head to the left, showing that he’d get his tattoo high up on the right side of his neck.

“Holy shit, your mom would kill you.” And she would; his mom was catholic and super religious. If Frank got a tattoo, it wouldn’t surprise me if she disowned him. But obviously Frank didn’t care. He rolled his eyes and stated, “Then I guess it’s a good thing she doesn’t know about it.” He nudged my arm and gave me a ‘you’ll-keep-it-a-secret?’ look when he said this.

Of course I wasn’t going to nark and put my best friend’s ass on the line, especially when his mom could scare the shit out of us sometimes. “I won’t say anything; but good luck hiding it.” I teased him by reaching up and ticking him where he said he’d get the tattoo, earning me a burst of laughter and a cringe from Frank.

“Okay, okay, stop.” He laughed out then got up to move away from my tickle-attack. Frank was by far the most ticklish person I’d ever met and I loved messing with him. He gave me a fake glare before returning to his normal, smiling self; normal being a relative term.

“Alright, we should head over to Gerard’s.” I nodded my head at this as Frank turned around and switched off the music. He held out his hand for me to take and pulled me up, off of his bed. I grabbed my bag and followed Frank out of his room and down the stairs.

Gerard lived relatively close to where Frank and I lived, so it didn’t take long to get there and get the scary movies started.

Notes

So, the chapters in this story are bit shorter than chapters of previous stories of mine, but I hope you guys enjoy it anyway!! BTW, Schlecht is a German word, it means bad, 'cause Jason's bad . . . I thought I was being clever . . . Anyway, let me know whatcha think so far, enjoy the reading and I'll see ya back here next week!! :)