Gerard POV

Ray has gotten really good at guitar. When he first started playing in middle school, we were sure that he would give it up after a while, but now, he’s proved us all wrong. It’s amazing.

We started playing small shows for Mikey in our basement last year. Ray would blow us away with his guitar skills, Bob would keep the beat on his drum set, and I, of course, being the shittiest guitar player ever, got stuck singing. It’s funny, I used to get so angry when I would have to sing, but now I get an uncontrollable bubbly feeling in my stomach when I sing. Mikey wants to play something too, but my mom won’t even let him glance at a guitar in a store window. My mom has grown used to the fact that I am a total screw up, but Mikey, she’s convinced that he’s the next Einstein. He is extremely intelligent, I give him that, but she’s afraid that if he starts playing music, he’ll stop studying. Then he’ll end up like me.

We mostly just cover songs, but occasionally we write some too. Last weekend, we finished our first full song. Sure, we had started before, but they always get abandoned for another. This time, though, we finished a full song, lyrics, arrangement, everything. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this proud of myself in a long time.

Last night, Ray decided that he was going to be in our school annual talent show. At Belleville, there is this huge talent show every year, to showcase the diverse talent that lies behind closed science labs and gymnasiums. The only thing is, the students don’t do a good job at being diverse. Every year it’s the same thing, tone deaf girls who want to be famous singing a song from the Billboard Top 50. It’s ridiculous, it’s depressing, and sadly, attendance is required. We always talked about being the ones to take a stand against the norm, but no one ever had enough guts to take it into action, until now.

Bob is so sure that we could get a gig at a club or something if we tried out, but I’m not too sure about that. We only have drums and a guitar, and bands don’t make it with just two instruments. I told Mikey that he can join when mom finally comes to her wits, but I think after that, we would still be a bit empty.

I would be lying if I didn’t say that I haven’t thought about asking someone else to join the band, and I would be lying if I didn’t say that I had someone in particular picked out. I know it could never work, believe me, but a little sliver of me aches of his existence in this band, for his existence period.

If I say anything about it to Bob or Ray, I would get a full speech about relapse. They would hover over me for a half hour with their hands on their hips lecturing me about my choices. How it’s my choice if I want to run back into the arms of someone who hurt me. How apparently they don’t care about him at all anymore (which I know for a fact is a total lie). How I was a wreck when the incident happened, and I kept trying to run back into his arms. I have to say, Ray and Bob did help me recover from the situation, but I don’t know if they have helped me enough. My life’s still pretty messed up.

The words on the paper in front of me are scribbled in blue ink, and are hardly legible for most. For me, however, they are in perfect shape. At the top of the notebook sheet in large letters were the words that were everything to me right now, “Cubicles”. I’d never let the guys know this, but I have never put so much soul into anything before. They may just think its words, but it’s a lot more. It’s me, it’s what I feel.

“This happens all the time, and I can’t help but think I’ll die alone.”

Notes