(ONe)

five o’clock

Percy

There are in fact two things I hate with a passion in life other than my own life. The first is something that started perhaps a few years ago with the new rise of punk and rock, take a guess? Correct. It’s those tween boys who wear girl pants, eyeliner, have half of their hair over their eyes, and sing lyrics about how they want to die. To top it off, they think they’re hot shit, and I mean hot shit. The second is soccer moms. They like to stand around me, glare at me because I’m the quintessential Catholic school girl turned rock queen with a cigarette dangling from my red lips. It’s not so much the rock queen persona that bugs them as much as it’s the cigarette. Fuck, I hate used to hate smokers, too, till I turned into one. Can’t be a hypocrite, makes for a bad role model. At the mall, my present state of location, I’m surrounded by both, my soul crying out in agony as I can’t leave till the kid I’m “watching” wants to leave. PS-he’s a tween and his mother is a soccer mom. Ironic? Hardly, I’ve just changed.

The black of my nails contrasts nicely against the white cigarette smile and I smirk as a mom at Starbucks looks my way, gives me an once-over, and formulates her decision right away. She’s a law student in her late twenties, an expensive suit and pearls around her neck, the rock on her hand makes me want to hurl, the bile on stand-by. “You know, in the US, we have something called life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, via John Locke. Why don’t you move?” she asks me gruffly.

I roll my head in her direction and raise an eyebrow. I stub out my cigarette and let my aviators slide down the bridge of my nose. “Because that wouldn’t be in my pursuit of happiness, now would it? Why don’t you move?” I inquire not so politely. Sneering, pearl woman turns away, letting me win. Typical Scottsdale, Arizona: the rich, the beautiful, and those who can’t argue well.

Leaning back, I take out another cigarette; I light it up, taking one long drag and smirk when she coughs. I AM a horrible person. My phones rings and I hesitate to pick it up. It’s the tween calling. He’s probably broke and wants money, a lot of it, too. God damn. “Yes, Carlos?” I ask, flipping open the old, bashed phone.

“Where are you?” he interrogates me.

“Starbucks. Are you done yet?”

“No, I need money.”

Smiling, I shake my head at tween’s antics. At least he always pays me back. “What store?”

“Hot Topic, there’s a sale, but I’m still ten bucks short, think you can front me?”

“See you in a few,” I bade him, shutting my phone and shoving it into my pocket. I stand up, preparing for my last attack on pearl lady. I stub out the cigarette in the ashtray next to her. “PS, John Locke said life, liberty, and the pursuit of property, get it right,” I comment, walking away.

I hear something of a gasp behind me and can’t help the full fledged smile that crosses my face as I walk back into the hell hole known as the mall and up the escalator. I’m a horrible person and a bitch, hard combo to beat kids. Recipe for me, Percy Romanov, is simple. Twelve years of Catholic education (plaid skirt benefit), the interest in Finnish metal, a love for guitars, alcoholic sister, and not enough scholarship money to get through college, you’ve got me, nineteen years old, living at home. Mix well and you’ll even get a mooch. Takes talent, I admit, but that’s what happens. I firmly believe it was the twelve years of plaid and not my slightly above average SAT scores.

It’s not particularly busy for a Friday afternoon at the mall, of course it’s always an attack of the tweens and Catholic school girls, but otherwise, it’s pretty much unbothered and I find myself standing in front of Hot Topic before I know it, the brick-facing greeting me. What a pity, such a nice store stuck between Libby Lou and Claire’s, bad luck and bad leases.

I stroll in, semi-out of place as I don’t actually look like my rock queen persona. She’s there somewhere; she’s just sleeping from a hard night of partying and moshing, rest assured. But for now, my fitted jeans and long sleeved Polo make me stick out like a sore thumb. I can hear the thoughts running through every Goth’s head as I walk in: what the fuck is she doing here?

“Hey, Percy, over here!” Carlos shouts from the T-shirt wall. I find him, short, skinny, and wearing girl pants. Would it be bad to tell him he looks like shit? Suppose it depends on tone, doesn’t it?

Sauntering over, I ignore the looks I get and don’t crack a smile when I reach him. “Yeah?” Dead monotone. That’s the only emotion I ever really show, in sincerity at least.

“You know how I said ten? I think it’s gonna be thirty instead. I need to buy my girlfriend a Ramones T-shirt,” Carlos explains, picking up the most over-worn and overrated punk shirt I’ve seen in the past nineteen years of my life.

Heaving a sigh, I cross my arms over my chest (his perv friends find my breasts something of a wonder, I don’t get it) and narrow my eyes. “You’re what? Eleven?” I begin

“Fourteen,” he interjects.

“Whatever, fourteen, and you have a girlfriend and you want to buy the quite possibly over-used T-shirt that just about everyone has seen with my money?” The tween (maybe he’s not, but he will always be one to me) nods his head, smiling goofily. “Fine, then you’ve got to find your own ride to and from the Mason Jar tonight,” I say so quickly before he can complain.

I snatched his purchases from his hands and walk to the cashier where dread-boy is working. This guy has been working in Hot Topic since I was fourteen and I always had the biggest crush on him. I think I promised my friends one year I’d walk in and ask him to be my date for the Christmas Dance, but I never just got around to it. Either way, he’s still good looking after five years. Black hair, past the shoulders, in dreads, tall, nose and lip piercings, you can’t beat that. He works Fridays and Sundays that I know for sure. And, no, I don’t stalk him.

“What? I can’t find my own ride!” whines Carlos from behind me as I give everything to dread-boy and smile. “My mom won’t let me go unless you go!”

Rolling my eyes, I turn to see him, puppy dog eyes slightly blurred by the side-swept hair. “Sure you can, take a cab, or get a different one of your sister’s friends to drive you. Besides, I’ll still be there, but I don’t want to have to make a mad dash to get you home by twelve, if not before then,” I shoot back, pulling my cigarette case wallet from its confines in my back pocket. I felt bad for the kid, really I did. I had been in the exact same position, but that didn’t change the fact that I didn’t want to have to drive from downtown Phoenix to Paradise Valley just to make sure he was tucked into bed by eleven-thirty. I am so glad I’m the youngest in my family.

“But my mom trusts you! You’re the dependable and smart one! And she knows you won’t let me drive because you have a stick shift!” Carlos bitches. I suppose slapping him isn’t the best alternative either.

“Cash.” I stick my hand out and he forks it over. I deposit it in my wallet and hand over my credit car to Dreads, as I’ve decided to now affectionately call him. “Fine, I will drive you down and you will pay for my first three Cokes. You will also cover any charge needed to get in the Jar and you’ll find a different ride home,” I negotiated. “Take it or leave it,” I declared seeing him ready to refuse.

Dreads looks between the two of us and cracks the tiniest of smiles. That’s a first in five years. “If you’ll sign, please,” offers Dreads, pen and receipt in hand. I take them and scribble my name, wishing to God my parents had just named me Percy and not Priscilla, too damn hard to scribble out.

“Oh, hey look, Carlos, you owe me forty! Make it five cokes!” I declare, overly happy and he cringes. “Thank you,” I say to Dreads, handing back the receipt and pen. He nods and begins to bag up the purchases. Carlos just stares at the ground, knowing he has no other options but to accept my agreement. Poor kid, he sucks at arguing. My gaze turned towards one of his friends, whose eyes were glued to my chest. “Hey, pervert, stop staring,” I demand. Dreads chokes back a laugh as Pervert blushes furiously and looks away quickly, trying to mutter excuses in his defense, none of which reach my ears

“Have a good day,” Dreads says, handing me the black bag. I smile and wave farewell, tweens following behind me, the whole gaggle of them.

Carlos struts in stride with me. “Fine, okay, Percy. Pick me up at nine?” I nod my head, tossing the bag to him. I’ve come to the conclusion that my life is inevitably depressing, I chauffer emo tweens. Christ.

The Jar is packed, a mosh already forming just from the opening band. I don’t even know who’s playing, but I fully intend to enjoy myself as I’ve gotten Carlos and his friends securely in the club, out of my sight and hair for the rest of my night. Some equipment bitch named Rigo is talking to me as I sit on a barstool, Coke in hand, mind zoned out of him. “Isn’t that cool?” he inquires, laughing his head. I failed to mention he was HIGH as a kite in the sky on a clear day. I think I may be high just from second hand pot fumes. Gross. “Dude, check out that guy over there, isn’t he butch?”

Rigo’s hand is outstretched, pointing in some direction and my eyes follow it to the tip of his finger and at the figure standing a few yards off. It appears to be guy, short cropped hair, definitely on the short side of height (as I like to say vertically challenged), and wearing atrocious clothing. Of course, my black Dickies, Converse, and black tank top aren’t great either, but this guy is a walking target for homosexual-fag comments on the nasty side of insults. Poor dude, I almost pitied him, almost. “Butch is not the adjective I would use,” I answer him, wishing I had a cigarette. “Got a cigarette that’s not rolled with pot?” I ask him, hoping he does.

The green pot-head immediately stands up and begins to check the many pockets of his black bondage pants. His hands patted himself down and I thought he might masturbate right there he was so many sheets to the wind. But Rigo, my new found friend, did indeed have a pack of cigarettes on him, manly cigs, not my light little ones that don’t burn, but the Marlboro Reds that are guaranteed to give anyone cancer by thirty years of age. Without any other choice, I took one, lit it, and puffed ever so delicately. “Thanks,” I say, knowing I should be somewhat nice to him after all.

“Anything for a pretty lady,” flirts Rigo, nudging me in the ribs. I nudge back, waiting for the main attraction to start. My inner rock queen is coming out and she wants to mosh…hard. She wants to forget everything; I want to forget everything, my failures, college, plaid skirts, ex-best friends, ex-boyfriends, parents, the works, and life in general. Just forget everything except the pounding bass lines, the rhythm of the guitar and drums, and the soaring solo with a raspy voice mixed to perfection. Everything but that. It’s what she lives for; it’s what I live for. “Shit man, he’s a girl!” yells Rigo.

My eyes follow his hand once again and I want to die. It’s Theresa. She’s two years younger, of course she’d still be in Arizona, but I didn’t expect her at the Jar, there’s a strict don’t ask, don’t tell homosexuality rule, and she told everyone. First day I met her, she hits on me, she hit on me till the day I graduated high school. Then she sent letters to my house and now her eyes are looking to Rigo then to me. “Ah, fuck, Rigo, I gotta go, I’ll catch up with you later, ‘kay man?” I take one last drag of the cigarette and give it back to him.

“Why? What’s wrong? Am I not pretty enough for you?” he questions me, grabbing at my wrist as I try to get away.

“No, I’ve got to piss badly, man, so badly. Have to get it out before I mosh!” I exclaim to him. In his drug induced state, he nods his head, letting me go, and I slip away, but she already saw me, she’s after me, I know it.

Someone in the crowd is wearing a fedora and I grab it. “Hey, bitch!” they yell at me.

“Sorry, I’ll return it later!” I call back, knowing it won’t happen. Fuck if I know whom I stole it from. I’m not that dependable. Bitch, remember? Slamming it on my head, I continue my way through the crowd, looking back only to see her calling after me. Shit, shit, SHIT. This is not good, not good at all.

There’s a group of guys somewhere near the so-called barricades the Jar sets up. They do nothing; they just make it look respectable. Screw that. I see the guys and I see my safe haven. And then he’s there, Dreads is there, laughing at something one of the guys said. He’s there with black pants and some weird shirt with ‘Fluffy’ written on the front in green letters.

Shoving my way through the rest of the people, I reach them, just barely, Theresa, she’s gaining on me, her calls are more insistent, I can hear her, calling me like I’m her lover. My hand reaches out and my black nails grip onto his shoulder. Instantaneously, Dreads looks to his left, to me. Surprise and recognition are evident in his face as he remembers me from only a few hours ago. “Hi,” I greet him weakly.

“Hey,” he replies, confusion clearly evident across his features.

“Can you hide me?” I ask as sweetly as possible.

“What?” His face scrunches almost adorably and my crush returns from teenage high school years, but who cares? Not me at that moment.

“Priscilla!” Theresa yells from behind me, and Dreads appears to get the picture. With finesse I didn’t think a guy like him could posses, he grabbed my upper arm and pulled me behind him, right up against his back. His friends snicker, pleased with my humiliation and their friend’s charity. My hands ball up into fists as I grab onto his shirt, thanking God that for once, I wasn’t completely screwed.

“Priscilla!” she shouts again.

I feel his arms cross and Dreads questions her, “Can I help you?” She doesn’t say anything. And that my dear is the beginning of the best twenty-four hours of my life.

AN: hi guys, it’s my new story. It’s about rock n’roll and two people (obviously). Just the start and crap, but the beginning is always the hardest. Yet, amazingly, I planned this one all out on paper! Oh yeah! Let me know what you think. Suggestions? Comments? Constructive criticism? Please REVIEW!

.TheFoconut.