Pretty In Punk

This is a disaster, the possible worst thing that could ever happen to a boy on the brink of his high school career. Frank is about to be thrown into the swarming shark tank that is South Creek high; just hours ago he ate his final meal and savored every bite. It was overcooked macaroni and cheese. His parents have been working a lot these days, which is a problem because not only does it severely damage the quality of his food intake, but it also gives him this abundant amount of unsupervised free time, which leads to things like this.

Frank is impulsive; ask anyone he knows and they’ll tell you that. Impulsivity meets bleach, meets hair dye, meets Frank’s head. He was going for a dark red color, the kind of scarlet locks that would make a statement. Not to polish his punk credit, but just for the fact that the dye was there and he could at that moment in time. What he wanted was so simple, but he’d gotten to close to the fire, and now he’s burned.

His hair is pink. Every last inch of it. It’s this sort of ugly pastel water that you’ve been rinsing your paintbrush in color and he hates it. If he hates it, he can only imagine what the kids at school are going to think. Or his parents. Oh God, he never even thought about is parents!
Wait, his parents won’t give a shit. But what will his peers have to say? It’ll be nothing good; he’s sure of it. He can only imagine the kind of psychological torture he will be subjected to at the hands of upperclassmen.

He stares himself down in the mirror, presses his tongue along his lip piercing like he sometimes does when he’s nervous. Well, not necessarily nervous so much as apprehensive. He’s can’t be sure what’s going to happen, and he’s not enjoying it.

It’s hard to go to bed that night, what with his inevitable death lurking just around the corner, but after some forty episodes of Friends he manages to doze off, but it seems that moments after this happens his alarm is loud and ringing. He crawls out of bed reluctantly, dresses himself in a sluggish haze, and has almost completely forgot about his hair until he looks in the mirror while brushing his teeth.

Shit. It wasn’t a bad dream. This is his hair now, and he’d be fine with that if he didn’t have to face a new high school career this way. It’s not that he doesn’t like the hair, but he can already hear the mean comments and snickers from his classmates.

He could shave it, he realizes. But at this point, he’s convinced that’ll only make it worse. Besides, he figures he’s unattractive enough as it is; to shave his hair wouldn’t flatter an ugly mug like his.

Not that Frank’s ugly. If you ask anyone, Frank is just the opposite. He’s handsome, almost in the traditional sense with a strong jawline and defined eyes. People have even felt obligated to inform Frank of his good looks, but it’s not enough to keep the fifteen-year-old boy from laughing at every picture of himself and remarking, “I look like a toe.”

As insecure as he is, he brushes it off with humor, because self-deprecation is all the rage these days, and when you act like you’re joking, people don’t read into it so much, when in reality he hates his looks and would give an arm to change them in any way. He wishes he was taller, and more built. He wishes he looked more like a man than a boy.

But then again, he’s only fifteen. He hasn’t fully gone through puberty yet; his voice has yet to deepen and the hairs are still faint and fair. All of this will change in sure time, but Frank wants that now.

Nothing is right and currently it’s all out of his control and it sucks. He drives himself to school, thankful for his learner’s permit more than anything else. In this mess that his life seems to be right now, at least that permit stays consistent. No matter what goes wrong, that permit problem is squared away.

The freshmen have a two-hour long orientation at the start of the day, so the normally bustling high school is only full of a quarter of its students for a while. Frank’s grateful for this; he hasn’t even left the parking lot and it takes both hands to count the number of stares he’s gotten.
Frank’s gone to the same school district since sixth grade, so it really shouldn’t be that bad, the transition to high school and all. Yet it is. He can’t describe it, but something about being flung into this entirely new environment is too upsetting.

Despite having gone to this district for three strong years now, going on four, Frank doesn’t really have many friends. For the first year he was there, he hung around whoever would have him, usually geeks. It was in that clique that Frank found his core best friends, all three of them.

He’s closest to Brendon, no doubt. After all, he was the one to openly invite Frank to hang out with him. Come to think of it, Brendon was one of the first people to actually try and be nice to Frank. Not that everyone was mean, but many were neutral. They wouldn’t necessarily hate Frank, but they didn’t really like him either. But Brendon was different, easygoing and friendly. He always knows what to say, and everyone needs that kind of consistency in their life. Frank loves having him around.

When someone knew Brendon, that meant they knew Josh, so it wasn’t long after Frank and Brendon became acquainted that Frank met his, at the time, green haired friend. Josh is a lot like Brendon in many ways, just quieter, really. Brendon needs to be told to shut up whereas Josh sometimes forgets to speak. The two balance each other out pretty well, being on opposite sides of the spectrum and all, but every now and then their perfect balance goes one way or the other, with Brendon talking an infuriating amount or Josh practically taking an unintentional oath of silence.

Finally, there is Pete. Pete and Frank are basically the same person, so it only makes sense that they playfully butt heads every now and then. Don’t get Frank wrong; he loves Pete to death, but sometimes that boy really bugged the hell out of him. Frank knew that he could push Pete’s buttons too, in fact, he knew just how to irritate his friend. For instance, Pete may play the strong silent type, but if you tickle him that boy fucking melts into a pool on the floor. Pete knows it too, and for this reason, if he catches anyone trying to tickle him he kicks a lot.

Frank is glad to have these kids, especially as he plops himself down in the middle of them. “Hey.”

Brendon turns to meet him, telling, “Hey.” His brown eyes widen, narrow, widen again. “Your hair.”

Feeling heat start to rise in his cheeks, Frank scratches at his head, admitting, “Yeah, I know. I tried to dye it red but I guess the bleach went a little heavy and the dye a little soft.”

“A little?” Pete scoffs. “You look like you’re promoting kawaii wigs, Frank. Not the nice kind either, but the kind you get on Storenvy for like thirty bucks that are probably worth two.”

Josh shoves Pete a little, scolding, “Shut up, I think it’s cute.”

“I don’t want to be cute,” Frank groans. “I’m fifteen; I’m a man now. I’m not supposed to be cute.”

“If you’re a man, Nixon was a great president,” Pete teases.

Brendon thumps the back of Pete’s head, snapping, “Shut up, you little tool. Like you know anything.”

Pete pouts, rubbing at the sore spot on the back of his head where Brendon had just hit him. He opens his mouth, surely to fire a rebuttal, but their principal starts speaking through a microphone before he can get the words out.

The orientation is so, so boring. It’s basically a longer reiteration of what they had heard at registration, all this garbage about how high school is the best year of your life and how the more you get involved the more fun you will have. Frank doesn’t doubt it; there are times where he’s considered doing sports, brief moments where joining a team seemed inviting. But just as quickly as the notion comes it leaves, chased away by thoughts of actual time dedication, that and potential hazing. Frank can’t decide what seems worse, the idea of being bullied in a sport, or simply having to show up and participate.

Frank is already picked on. It’s not to the extent that he’d ever want to move or anything like that; after all, his friends are here and he only has four years left. Not to mention, if he moves, those pricks win. Despite being sensitive, after years of being teased and mistreated, he’s grown somewhat of a thick skin under those circumstances. It doesn’t bother him so much anymore; he hardly ever cries like he used to.

Frank is nudged halfway through the assembly by Josh, who motions for Frank to hand him his class schedule, which he does. Josh has all four of the boys’ schedules sitting around him in a pile. He withdraws a Sharpie, writing initials on everyone’s schedules, initials telling them who they share the class with.

Frank is eager; it seems like Josh is making a lot of marks. He hopes his friends have a lot of the same classes, not only would it be nice, but surely it would alleviate some of those first day jitters to have his friends there. The anticipation is almost too much; Frank doesn’t hear a word of whatever their principal is saying as Josh is jotting down letters. Finally, he gets his schedule back, only to see that he has one, yes, one class with any of the boys. His biology class right before lunch will be spent with Josh, and other than that, he’s out on his own. Thrown to the wolves smelling of raw meat, sent to the battlefield with a pocket knife, thrusted into a shark pit with a nosebleed. He is fucked and he knows it.

They are dismissed from the assembly an entire ten minutes before classes are due to start, so Frank looks at his friends expectantly, asking, “What now?”

“Oh! I came up with some names last night,” Brendon tells, fishing through his back pack.
Frank, Josh, Pete, and Brendon are in a band. They’ve been practicing all summer, sometimes writing originals, but usually just jamming to their favorite music. It was only recently that they realized that through three months’ worth of practice, they haven’t even considered about giving themselves a name. If they are playing gigs like they want to, they will definitely need something to call themselves.

“If any of them have anything to do with jazz or Sinatra I will personally come to your house tonight and rip your dick off in your sleep, Urie. I swear to God,” Pete threatens. As he says this, Brendon scratches a few possible names off the list.

“Don’t get your panties in a wad,” Frank tells, bringing tickling fingers towards Pete’s stomach. Pete smacks Frank in the arm, then pointing at Brendon. “Shoot.”

Bringing his eyes from the list to his bandmates for approval, Brendon reads the following names: “The Troops, Blood Drawn, Against it All, and Beneath You.”

“Boo!” Pete jeers. “The Troops? Come on, I don’t want to get all political.”

“Fine, that one’s out,” Brendon resolves.

Josh raises his hand, interjecting, “Blood Drawn makes us sound like some sort of metalcore band. We’re pop punk trash and you know it, Brendon.”

“And it’s out,” Brendon declares, crossing that off of the list as well.

“Against it All sounds too much like Against Me!” Frank insists. “We don’t want to be copycats.”

“Okay,” Brendon agrees, marking that off the list as well. “I will have you know that you guys have shot down literally every single option except for Beneath You.”

“Prepositional phrases are always cool,” Josh points out, in favor of the name.

“Yeah, but that name sounds like weirdly sexual,” Pete complains.

“You dipshit, not everything has to be sexual,” Frank retorts. “Beneath You could mean anything, like in a figurative sense.”

“Ah, guys?” Brendon tells. “I hate to break up the argument, but we should really get going. This gym is starting to filter out.”

Gazing around, the boys all groan in protest, shuffling to their feet nonetheless and starting their way to their respective classes. Frank’s first class is one of many of which he’ll be totally on his own. He’s not looking forward to it.

His first class is pre-algebra, which is the class that he is positive he will hate the most. Frank fucking hates math; always has, and he’s sure that some shitty b-rate high school arithmetic won’t be a turning point of any sort. He’s there to sit down, shut up, doodle a lot, and get the fucking C plus that he deserves.

So he goes in with that attitude, his head held low as he ducks his way into the back corner of the class, closest to the door. Looking around the room, he can separate his classmates into three distinct groups: kids who hate him, kids who he hates, and kids he doesn’t know (there is some overlap in the sense that there are kids present that Frank has a mutually hateful relationship with.)

It’s going to be a long day without his friends.

Notes

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