“Alright, Mr. Way, you’re free to go, but the next time I see you ‘round here, I’ll make damn sure your bail is cumulative.”
“So, this time next week?” I replied to the haughty officer, topping it off with a smug chuckle.
“Get out of my sight you worthless piece of shit,” the built cop spat.
“Saucey, today, aren’t we, sir?” I asked, proud of his aggravation. I didn’t allow the situation to escalate further, however – I had to go to school, after all.
Outside of the jailhouse doors, I met my best friend Bob Bryar at his car, hopping inside before muttering a quick “thanks”. Bob and I were never very good at graciousness, but then again, we have never had to be; Bob and I had an understanding, as it were, that we would bail each other out of death row, if shit ever got that thick.
“Well, sunshine,” Bob greeted ironically (it’s ironic because I might as well be a vampire, what with my deathly pale skin and my all black wardrobe that matches my hair). “I sure am glad you got a good night’s sleep. I hope my Pa wasn’t too hard on you.” Did I mention Bob’s dad was the man who had released me earlier?
“Nah,” I replied dismissively, “just the same old ‘I’ll increase your bail’ and ‘you ruined my son’s future’ bullshit.”
“Which is why I live alone.” Bob sighed with a bitter smile. I looked at his face then, bracing myself to witness his baby blues filled with emotional turmoil, but that was unnecessary – Bob was much to practiced at masking his true emotions.
The rest of the drive was filled with small talk and loud music, with the occasional complaint that the summer had gone by too quickly. Bob and I were similar creatures: we both had family issues, we both hated out lives, we both hated school, we both hated people, but, startlingly, we both had so much unrequited emotions, be them aspirations or empathy or just depressions, both Bob and I felt like no one else really could. That’s why we got along so well, and made do with so much small – neither of us were comfortable voicing our feelings with each other (we just didn’t have that sort of relationship), but we both understood the other on a very existential level.
The black Honda pulled to a stop in between two hummers, the garish things that they are, and I let myself out of its confines.
“Hey, you wouldn’t have grabbed my cigarettes by any chance, would you have, Bobby?” I enquired hopefully.
“Yeah I did, I made a trip to your house to get some school shit for you, and I figured you’d have killed me if I didn’t grab ‘em.” He explained plainly.
“You’re so thoughtful.” A condescending toned transported the quick conversation from a dry question to sarcastic banter, though Bob did not catch on.
“Yeah I am,” he said shortly, “Everything’s in the back seat. I’ll see you inside.” I was beginning to get worried about Bob’s abrupt mood swing; he had been fine approximately five minutes earlier.
“What’s up your ass, Bryar?”
“Nothing,” my sandy-haired friend defended, “I just gotta talk to Frank before every starts showing up.” Oh. Right. I forgot. Bob is inexplicably, eternally devoted to his cousin Frank, whose sole purpose in life is to make mine shit.
I didn’t bother responding to the blue eyed boy before I removed my shirt and let him turn away. It wasn’t my business to be upset by the fact that Bob would rather break his back for his self-absorbed, douchebag of a cousin than stay with me, but I found myself getting quite upset. Perhaps it was the fact that I was being ditched by my best friend for a notorious asshole, who happened to be his cousin, or maybe it was just the fact that the very thought of Frank Iero brought up painful and sad memories, along with a hint of bile, within me. Nevertheless, I couldn’t argue with Bob because he wouldn’t listen; I had given up getting Bob off of Frank’s side a long time ago, but Bob would never turn against his cousin. Sure, the guy would tell Frank to back off of me – he would never listen – and help me out after every time Frank and his goonies beat the shit out of me, but Bob would never deliberately do anything to separate himself from his cousin. I couldn’t reason why.
After I had successfully changed in the parking lot of Bellville High school, ruffled my greasy hair and lit a cigarette, I began to contemplate this year. I could already tell it was going to be one of two things: shitty or exciting. So far it had started shittily; I just got out of jail and my best friend ditched me for my tormenter, not to mention that the dynamics of the school most certainly would not have changed, leaving my on top of the bottom. It goes like this: I am what people would call a “punk”. Only three people really know who I am around this school, and they hardly know me at all. I do things like go to jail for possession of marijuana and breaking and entering, I sneak around, I cut class, I don’t pay attention when I’m in school, I listen to my music too loudly, I smoke cigarettes, I have a cynical view of the world and I have secrets, secrets protected by a little invisible shell, like a force field, that surround my inner musings. It makes an enigma out of me. That’s what makes it easy for me. There has always been some sort of outcast aura around me, but I couldn’t pinpoint a discernable moment in my life where people became afraid of me, where people became afraid of what they didn’t know.
Being an outcast had its stereotypical implications, no doubt; I constantly found myself being avoided by nearly everyone because they were all too afraid that I would kick their asses or something equally plausible. Fair enough.
I began my ascent up the stone staircase into the building known as Bellville High. At first, being crass and unflinchingly harsh gave me a sort of rush, it made me happy, but after a while it became more of a need, an addiction, if you will. There was definitely a part of me that had changed since the kids in my school and I grew up and apart. I suppose that it was one of the implications of aging, changing constantly, that is, but that didn’t mean I had to like it.
I didn’t have to like the constant altering perceptions, the struggling with my identity, the war with myself; I hated it all, as a matter of fact. Somewhere along the path of alteration, I had become dependent on my lonesome self-isolation, my metaphorical walls, and now I couldn’t let them down, not that I wanted to anyway.
I shook my head as I pushed the door open with my left hand, knowing full well that normal eighteen-year-olds don’t think about this kind of shit, let alone at 8:04 on a Friday morning. But I wasn’t normal, was I? That’s when the mask came on, not with the shitty realization that it was psychologically impossible for me to be “normal”, but with the instinctual ruffle of my unkempt hair and the dauntingly familiar hallways that led me to my first hour English class.
“So nice of you to join us, Mr. Way,” the unenthused voice of our English teacher rang. I snorted and threw my bag on the floor next to a seat adjacent from my best friend Bob. That was a positive implication of being an outcast – the few friends you managed to acquire were true friends; they weren’t going to bullshit you or start unnecessary disagreements with you. I had three of those friends: Bob, whom I was closest to; Ray, whom I always had a good time with and Mikey, whom I was an older sibling to. They were all pretty great, but not even my brother could penetrate my bubble anymore. That’s what makes it easy for me. “Now, the point I was illustrating – before young Gerard graced us with his rebellious presence –“ The look that man gave me told me that he had me absolutely pegged “was that I have absolutely no idea whose idiotic idea it was for the school year to start on a Friday, so I have nothing planned for you all today. Enjoy.”
“And that is why I love Mr. Burns,” Bob said turning in his seat to face me with a gleaming smile plastered on his stubble-filled face.

“You really should shave, Bobert” I couldn’t help but pick out that feature of him; facial hair bugged me for some reason, maybe because it was absolutely impossible for me to grow it.

“So, Gerard,” Bob said, dismissing the comment with a short sigh, “you going to the game tonight?”

“Of course he’s not, Cuzzy. Gerard is much too punk rock to go to a social convention.” The voice that answered Bob was like nails on a chalkboard to me, which didn’t actually annoy me that much. Fuck, that’s not the point.

“Hey, Bob,” I said raising my voice so that Frank could hear me clearly – a petty move, really. “Why is your cousin such an asshat? Does he want to get his ass kicked?”

“You don’t scare me, you little wannabe motherfucker,” Frank said. Man that guy really was an asshole, and Mr. Burns didn’t care one bit. I hated Frank Iero with a burning passion; he was the cancer of this society. Of course everyone else couldn’t find a single fault with this stupid asshole except for me, everyone else thought that he was the epitome of a good role model, and when he lashed out, it was just him letting his inner teenager get the best of him. He was also impossibly handsome, what with his hazelnut eyes that glowed emerald in the sunlight and his short, slight figure and his long hair and his flawless skin; I wasn’t hard for the kid, but there was no mistaking his beauty. Frank Iero would be perfect, if he got amnesia and forgot how much of an asshole he was. Fingers crossed.

“Just let it go, dude,” Bob said, shocking me back into reality.

“Whatever.”

Notes

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