A Chance Encounter
Chapter 1
It was just a chance encounter. It didn’t mean anything.
That’s what I tell myself as I lie in my bed, reflecting on the day’s events…
“Why do I have to shop with my mom?” I complained. It really wasn’t fair that she was here. You would think that by senior year of high school she’d trust me enough to just hand me some money for clothes and send me on my way. Instead, she tagged along to the mall.
“Because I want you to look presentable this year.”
I looked down at the Misfits tee and pants with ripped out knees that I was wearing, “But I look fine.”
“No, Franklin, you most certainly do not look fine. You look like a ragamuffin whose mother doesn’t love you. Now, isn’t this a nice shirt?”
She doesn’t understand me. I briefly eyeballed the collared, blue striped tee that she was holding. It didn’t take long to decide that I was never wearing that, “Mom…no.”
“Well, what’s wrong with it?”
“Do I start with the buttons or the stripes? Just let me pick my own clothes, okay?”
She sighed, “Frank…Your clothes are just a little…”
She was going off on a full-fledged fashion lecture, but I was a bit distracted. After feeling as if I was being watched, I spun around and confirmed the notion. A boy who couldn’t have been much older than me was standing a few feet away, watching intently. Once he realized I saw him, he turned and walked away. That was weird.
A slap to the back of my head brought my attention back to my mother, “Pay attention!”
The torturous shopping trip lasted a really long time. Mom kept trying to find something we could agree on me wearing, but never succeeded. Eventually, she caved and said I could pick my shirts if I bought normal jeans. I was fine with this because I could just “trip” on the sidewalk and have the pants I liked back.
We were about to leave the mall when I heard a shout behind me, “Hey you! Wait!”
I wasn’t anywhere near home, so I figured they weren’t talking to me and kept walking. Then a hand landed on my shoulder. Spinning around, I came face-to-face with the guy from the first store. He had a crooked grin on his face, as if something was amusing. I stepped back to take in his appearance. He had black messy hair with hazel eyes. He was dressed in a plain black hoodie and skinny jeans.
His hand reached toward me, and I realized he was handing me something. Once it was transferred from his hand to mine, he turned around saying, “Give me a ring sometime.”
I looked down at what I now realized was a slip of paper with a phone number and the letters xog. Weird.
Now I am on my bed, holding the number in front of my face. The ten digits confuse me. Why did that guy even give it to me? Do I come off as gay? Or maybe he’s just got a weird way of making friends? Either way…What the fuck?
I know the only way I can find these answers, but…is it safe? I pull out my phone and have a mental battle with myself. Call, don’t call, call, don’t call. Call? Don’t call? I’m so confused. I slowly type in the numbers. 1-289-335-6724. Then I stare at the screen. I’m so introverted it’s ridiculous. Do I really want to do this? Call a complete stranger? I take a deep breath…
…And close my phone. I can’t do it. I’m Frank Iero. I dress in black and sit in the back of the classroom. I have no friends. People make fun of me, calling me names like “emo” and “fag” even though I’m not gay and I’m definitely punk. I don’t call people who are mysteriously named “xog.” Pathetic, I know…
That’s what I tell myself as I lie in my bed, reflecting on the day’s events…
“Why do I have to shop with my mom?” I complained. It really wasn’t fair that she was here. You would think that by senior year of high school she’d trust me enough to just hand me some money for clothes and send me on my way. Instead, she tagged along to the mall.
“Because I want you to look presentable this year.”
I looked down at the Misfits tee and pants with ripped out knees that I was wearing, “But I look fine.”
“No, Franklin, you most certainly do not look fine. You look like a ragamuffin whose mother doesn’t love you. Now, isn’t this a nice shirt?”
She doesn’t understand me. I briefly eyeballed the collared, blue striped tee that she was holding. It didn’t take long to decide that I was never wearing that, “Mom…no.”
“Well, what’s wrong with it?”
“Do I start with the buttons or the stripes? Just let me pick my own clothes, okay?”
She sighed, “Frank…Your clothes are just a little…”
She was going off on a full-fledged fashion lecture, but I was a bit distracted. After feeling as if I was being watched, I spun around and confirmed the notion. A boy who couldn’t have been much older than me was standing a few feet away, watching intently. Once he realized I saw him, he turned and walked away. That was weird.
A slap to the back of my head brought my attention back to my mother, “Pay attention!”
The torturous shopping trip lasted a really long time. Mom kept trying to find something we could agree on me wearing, but never succeeded. Eventually, she caved and said I could pick my shirts if I bought normal jeans. I was fine with this because I could just “trip” on the sidewalk and have the pants I liked back.
We were about to leave the mall when I heard a shout behind me, “Hey you! Wait!”
I wasn’t anywhere near home, so I figured they weren’t talking to me and kept walking. Then a hand landed on my shoulder. Spinning around, I came face-to-face with the guy from the first store. He had a crooked grin on his face, as if something was amusing. I stepped back to take in his appearance. He had black messy hair with hazel eyes. He was dressed in a plain black hoodie and skinny jeans.
His hand reached toward me, and I realized he was handing me something. Once it was transferred from his hand to mine, he turned around saying, “Give me a ring sometime.”
I looked down at what I now realized was a slip of paper with a phone number and the letters xog. Weird.
Now I am on my bed, holding the number in front of my face. The ten digits confuse me. Why did that guy even give it to me? Do I come off as gay? Or maybe he’s just got a weird way of making friends? Either way…What the fuck?
I know the only way I can find these answers, but…is it safe? I pull out my phone and have a mental battle with myself. Call, don’t call, call, don’t call. Call? Don’t call? I’m so confused. I slowly type in the numbers. 1-289-335-6724. Then I stare at the screen. I’m so introverted it’s ridiculous. Do I really want to do this? Call a complete stranger? I take a deep breath…
…And close my phone. I can’t do it. I’m Frank Iero. I dress in black and sit in the back of the classroom. I have no friends. People make fun of me, calling me names like “emo” and “fag” even though I’m not gay and I’m definitely punk. I don’t call people who are mysteriously named “xog.” Pathetic, I know…
8/11/13