Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Pete’s first day at Belleville High is cold and sunny, something rare for February on the East Coast. Snow is shoveled out of the walkways but lingers on the grass and trees, the sun not enough to thaw things out. It’s not too different from the weather back home. Jersey doesn’t have the chill that comes from Lake Michigan, but it’s close enough to make him homesick. 

That, and the fact that he’s walking in alone, with a nearly empty backpack and no idea where he’s going. 

To be fair, he reminds himself, the very few people here are also walking in alone; he was told to arrive early so he could receive his schedule and some paperwork for his teachers, get some time to walk around the school with an assigned “buddy.” In Chicago, he didn’t need a forced pairing to make friends. He had friends all over, some his age, most of them not. He had people he could eat lunch with, use to gain access to the places the seniors hung out. He had people who could sneak him into eighteen-and-up venues, give his tiny band a tiny opening timeslot. He knew his scene. He knew his people. 

He doesn’t even know where to start here. How to start from scratch, build a whole new life and community. He’s never had to. 

But he puts on a brave face, walks through the front doors like he owns the place. Lack of confidence has never stopped him before, and he won’t let it take over now.

He was given a very helpful map on that first meeting here, over the President’s Day long weekend, administrators coming in on a day off just to get him set up to start today. The very helpful map starts to fail him when he reaches the science classrooms, when he should be over by the social studies classrooms. All turned around in his first ten minutes. 

He makes it eventually, and by the look on the secretary’s face, he’s way too late for any friendliness. She shoves the schedule and paperwork at him and waves a hand dismissively towards a girl sitting in one of the uncomfortable-looking chairs outside the principal’s office. 

“Um,” Pete says awkwardly; apparently a lack of confidence can stop him. “Are you my buddy, or whatever?” 

The girl looks up from the booklet she was holding, tilted too far for him to see the cover, and nods. “Peter, right?” 

“Just Pete. Pete Wentz.” He debates trying for a handshake, but that feels too formal, and a wave would be weird since they’re already talking, so his hands end up in his pockets, unsure of what to do with themselves. 

The girl nods and pushes herself up from the chair. “Cool. I’m Frankie.” 

“Frankie,” Pete repeats, trying to stick it in his head. Shouldn’t be a problem—Frankie looks pretty memorable, with a choppy haircut that looks like it was done in the dark with a weedwhacker, a Misfits shirt that’s riddled with holes, and two piercings in her face, one in her nose and the other through her lip. “Nice to meet you.” 

“Yeah.” Frankie shoves the booklet in her backpack, too quick for him to tell what it was. Some zine, probably; she looks like someone he would have seen back home, where homemade zines and pamphlets change hands in the darkness of shows as if they were 8 balls. Which also changed hands a lot there, so, not a bad comparison on Pete’s part. “You’re kinda late, so, let me see your schedule and we’ll just follow that super quick.”

He winces at her reminder, embarrassed by his lack of geography skills. His freshman year at his old high school, everyone got a group tour, could rely on the people they’d known for years when they got lost. Pete mostly relied on Patrick, who had a way better grasp on how to read a map. “Yeah, sorry about that. I took a wrong turn, and… yeah.” 

Frankie shrugs and grabs his schedule from out of his hands. “It happens.” She gives it a quick scan and wrinkles her nose. “Man they gave you some sh—” She cuts herself off, probably remembering that the secretary is right there. “Um, difficult teachers.” She taps at the top of the page. “Looks like they asked me to show you around because we’re in jazz band together, so let's start there and work our way down the list.” 

Pete thought he had this all handled—six classes a day, same as it was at home, shouldn’t be too hard—but Frankie showing him all six classrooms ar once? He’s going to overload on information. 

“Weird that they put you in Bio,” Frankie’s saying as she leads him out of the room. She’s short, but she moves fast, something Pete only notices because he’s almost as short and struggling to keep up. “Usually that’s freshman year. Chem is sophomores.” She slows down to look at the schedule again. “Oh, sick, you’re in Mikey’s class for that one.” 

“Mikey?” His assigned friend is already assigning him friends. At least this one is a dude. 

“Yeah, she’s one of my friends. We go to a lot of shows together.” 

Alright, not a dude. And a freshman. Great. 

But the mention of shows—that’s right up Pete’s alley, exactly what he’s been hoping to find. “Oh, that’s awesome,” he says in relief. 

Frankie looks at him questioningly. “Can’t tell if you’re making fun of me or not.” She pauses and wrinkles her nose. “Aw, you’re not one of those guys who gets weird about girls in the scene, right?” 

Pete shakes his head, maybe too enthusiastically. “No, of course not.” He thought that would be obvious, but he’s not really dressed like he’s into local music. His mom wouldn’t let him. He probably looks like a douchebag. “I mean,” he says, trying to find evidence against it, “back home, half the people my band hung out with were chicks. Girls. Women.” Yeah, ‘chicks’ definitely made him sound like he was weird. “And, uh… my mom’s a feminist?” 

Frankie sizes him up and snorts, but she doesn’t try to argue it. “Yeah, okay, man,” she says instead, not quite believing him, but not attacking, either. “Anyways, that’s your last class before lunch, so follow her and you can eat with us.”

“Awesome,” he says. He wasn’t planning on making friends with freshman, but there’s plenty of time to find kids his own age. “Thanks.”

“Whatever.” Frankie stops in front of a door close to the back exit to the parking lot. “This is the band room. We usually meet over here. Follow Mikey so you don’t get lost.” 

Pete nods, mentally retracing his steps from the science classrooms to the office to here and hoping his memory doesn’t crap out on him. “Awesome,” he says again. Apparently he has no other way of replying to things. “Alright, uh, what’s next—oh. Who is that?” 

Walking through the back door is a very pretty girl. Long-ish dirty blonde hair, angular features, a Smashing Pumpkins shirt over dark wash, low rise jeans, cute albeit nerdy glasses slipping down her nose. She waves to Frankie, who gives a nod in reply before turning back to Pete with narrowed eyes. 

“Don’t even think about it,” she says pointedly. 

“Think about what?” Pete looks over her shoulder to watch the girl walk down the hall, away from the band room. 

“Going after her.” Frankie rolls her eyes and pushes Pete’s shoulder slightly, trying to get his attention back. “Dude, that’s Mikey.” 

Mikey. Frankie’s friend in biology class. Who goes to local shows. Who is a lot more cleaned up than Frankie is. 

Pete nods, looks back over her shoulder. Mikey is talking to someone by the lockers and smiling. “Is this a ‘don’t date my friends’ thing?” 

“No,” Frankie says with another eyeroll. “Well, a little. But no.” 

Mikey disappears into a classroom, and he forces himself back to looking at Frankie. “Okay, then, why?” 

Frankie grins, one of those smiles that says, I’m about to destroy your worldview. “Because she doesn’t date. At all. Ever.” 

Consider the worldview destroyed, a million pieces of Pete’s attraction shattered, all hope for an in here blown away. “What the hell,” he says, bewildered, “why not?” 

Frankie shrugs, still grinning. “I’m not at liberty to say. It’s something about her sister. It’s been like that for a year.”

Pete stares longingly down the hallway Mikey disappeared into. “I’m waiting for something that isn’t going to happen.” Oh, that’s good. He’ll have to write it down when he gets a chance. 

“Sure, dude. Wait away.” Frankie starts walking without warning, making him rush to catch up with her. “Alright, next one is history….” 

Pete is fidgety through the first three periods, annoying at least one person in every class as he bounces his leg and taps his fingers. Even in band, where he thought he would slip into the music, his absent minded playing during breaks pisses off the guitar player sitting next to him and the teacher. Frank, sitting behind the drumkit, gives him a shit eating grin. 

History is boring, all stuff his class back home already covered. The guy sitting next to him lands a kick to his calf and gives him a dirty look as he taps his foot in the aisle between their desks. PE is, as expected, sucky. He’s too distracted by the thought of seeing Mikey next period and drumming his fingers on the equipment to be a good spotter, leading to an almost mishap with a barbell. 

But it’s finally time. He puts on extra deodorant in the locker room, makes sure his hair looks good and there’s nothing in his teeth. Some of the other guys spray enough cologne and body spray to kill a small racoon, and Pete lets the fumes wash over him instead of bumming some off of someone else. 

And then it’s time. 

He races through the halls, zipping through the throngs of people towards the other side of the school. By the time he makes it to the science classrooms, he’s grateful for the extra deodorant. Even with his rush, he still barely makes it on time; the bell rings thirty seconds after he climbs onto the first available stool and plops his backpack on his desk. 

“Alright,” the teacher says at the front of the room, “let’s settle down.” The din of student conversations takes a minute or two to die out completely, and the teacher looks annoyed. “Thank you,” he says sarcastically. “Alright, before I call roll, we have a new student with us.” 

Pete groans quietly. This has happened in every class, and it’s such a cliche—this is what they do in movies. No one cares about new kids in the real world. He pulls the paperwork for this teacher out of his bag and readies himself to stand up, give a fun fact or his favorite color or whatever icebreaker this guy has chosen. 

“Uh…” The teacher consults a clipboard. “Peter Wentz,” he calls, “can you bring that form up to me before I forget?” 

He trudges up to the front of the classroom, hands it over with a false smile, and trudges back, not wanting to meet anyone’s eyes. It’s embarrassing to be called up in general, and being the weird new guy makes it worse. And they’re freshman, he doesn’t have to impress them. But he doesn’t want the first thing Mikey notices about him to be this humiliating ritual. He’ll wait until after class to find her. 

The teacher starts roll call, a chorus of “Here” and “‘Sup” in response. Pete keeps his head low, pretending to dig through his backpack. 

“Michaela Way,” the teacher calls. 

“Here,” someone says next to him, “and it’s Mikey.” 

The teacher doesn’t reply and moves on to the next. 

But Pete doesn’t. 

Right there, on his left side, is Mikey, who breezed past him outside the band room, who has a Smashing Pumpkins shirt on, who is off limits by her own decree. She’s even prettier up close, now that Pete can see her eyes, big and hazel. 

“I’ve told him that a million times,” she grumbles as she opens a notebook. “Just write it down or something.” 

Here’s Pete’s chance. Even if its not for a relationship—although he’s holding out hope—it’s at least a friend, one who can open a door into the scene for him, someone he can eat lunch with and sit with in this class and maybe flirt with. 

He opens his mouth to say something, and nothing comes out. No suave line, no quick introduction—nothing. Another total cliche, struck dumb by a pretty girl. He’s living in a corny romcom. 

Mikey puts pencil to paper, writes the date, and pauses before turning her head slightly. “Are you the guy I saw with Frankie earlier?” Curious, not quite polite, not really inviting more information. 

“Uh, um….” And still, nothing. He settles for nodding and smiling.  

Mikey looks at him more closely and shrugs, turning back to her notebook. Pete really needs to say something now, keep her attention. 

The words spill out, all unrelated, mostly things she either already knows or doesn’t care about “I’m Pete,” he says. “I’m from Chicago. I like your shirt. Frankie said I could eat lunch with you guys. What other bands do you like? I was in a band back home.” 

Mikey looks at him again, brows furrowed. He can’t tell if she’s judging him or just confused. “Okay. Cool.” Back to her notebook. 

What the hell does “Okay. Cool.” mean? What’s cool? The band? Eating lunch? Chicago? 

There’s no elaboration. She doesn’t turn to him the rest of the class, leaving Pete sneakily looking over at her, hoping she’ll look back. 

Mikey doesn’t say anything when the bell rings, just puts her things away and picks up her bag, a beat up messenger bag with stars doodled on the top flap. She waits, though, while Pete scrambles to put his own things away and nearly topples his stool as he scrambles off of it. What a great impression that would be, cracking his head open on the linoleum in his haste to keep up with a pretty girl. 

She slips through the crowded aisle, people chatting as they clear out for lunch, and, just like with Frankie, he’s rushing to keep up with her. She has long legs under those jeans. She weaves through the hallway, pushing through groups of people who try to take up the whole space. He wonders if that’s how she acts at shows, too; she’s confident in her movements, unapologetic, like she knows that she has a right to this space just as much as the girls who touch up their lipgloss right in the middle of the walkway. He moves with just as much confidence, tries to communicate that just because he’s new, it doesn’t mean he’s a doormat for hallway antics. He’s not sure if it works, with some of the dirty looks thrown his way, but he keeps it pushing until they reach the band room and he sees Frankie sitting against a bank of lockers, laughing at something a boy sitting next to her is saying. The boy has very blue eyes. They’re a little scary when he looks up to smile at Mikey and look curiously at Pete. 

“Oh good, you made it,” Frankie says, still laughing a little. “Did you guys actually talk, or did Pete follow you like a stalker?” 

Mikey nods. “We’re well acquainted. He’s from Chicago.” She plops down next to the guy, pulling out a plastic container. 

Okay, at least one thing he said stuck with her. “Yep, that’s me, Pete from Chicago,” he says with an awkward laugh. 

“Pete from Chicago,” the boy next to Frankie says. “I like Chicago.”

Pete nods, a sudden pang of homesickness hitting him. He and the guys—usually just Patrick, who was always too nice to skip school, and Andy, who was actually a good student, and occasionally Joe, when he both made it to school and didn’t end up eating in his English teacher’s room—ate in the cafeteria, not right out in the open. “Chicago’s awesome. Yeah.” And he’s right back to no words. 

“This is Anthony,” Frankie says, and then she smirks. “Anthony from Doylestown.” 

Anthony rolls his eyes, grumbles. “I’ve lived here since sixth grade, dude, you don’t have to call me that.” 

“If he’s Pete from Chicago….” Frankie laughs as Anthony rolls his eyes. 

Pete sits on Mikey’s other side. Maybe this will force a real conversation. 

It does not. Mikey immediately falls into step with Anthony, clearly old friends. Frankie joins in too, but Anthony’s in the middle of it, most of it directed at him. He’s wearing a tattered shirt, like Frankie, but this one is faded so much that Pete can’t tell what it is. He’s the common denominator in this trio, probably another person going to shows with them. 

Frankie brings up a basement show in Kearny, a place Pete does not know, and Mikey calls the band “The Rodneys,” a name Pete does not know, and Anthony cackles, a sound Pete doesn’t know how to interpret. 

“I’ve seen them a couple times,” Anthony says. “I’m pretty sure one of their songs is about having gay sex with Boba Fett.” 

Pete knows Star Wars. This is a good place to jump in. “Any band singing about Boba Fett is a band I like.” 

Mikey cracks a smile. It’s a very nice smile, even if it’s teasing. “Even when it’s gay sex with him?” 

Pete bites the inside of his cheek, suddenly unsure what the right answer is. Back home, most of the people in the scene were progressive, some of them were outright gay. He has no idea if it’s the same here. He’ll take the risk, test the waters; if they are homophobic, he doesn’t want anything to do with them anyways. “Yeah. I mean, he could be ugly under that helmet, but….” 

Mikey nods approvingly and goes back to her sandwich. Pete smiles. Nice. 

“Yeah, gotta get the helmet off,” Anthony says. “I wouldn’t want to get all naked and everything and turns out the dude is ugly.” 

Frankie reaches across Anthony to poke Mikey in the leg. “Tell your sister to tell the noble Shawn Dillon that none of us want to have gay sex with Boba Fett if he’s ugly.” 

“G hasn’t seen Shawn in ages,” Mikey says, a hint of annoyance in her voice. “Why do you think she keeps bugging us?”

Anthony juts his chin out, pointing without making it obvious. “Speak of the devil….” 

Pete follows his line of site to a girl who looks kind of like Mikey, but also not at all. Rounder face, no glasses, choppy black hair, baggier clothes. She doesn’t stop, just waves a quick hello before disappearing into a nearby classroom. 

“She could have hung out with us,” Frankie says. “We don’t care.” 

Mikey shrugs. “She’s too old to hang out with freshman. Or at least, that’s what she says.” Anthony nods sagely. “She’s fine, though. She’s got her whole, like, Ferris Bueller cool nonchalant thing going on.”

“I’m a sophomore,” Pete says. Everyone ignores him. 

“And she has her artsy people, or whatever,” Mikey continues. “She doesn’t need to eat lunch with me.” 

Frankie snickers. She laughs a lot, usually right before she says something negative. “Last time we were over, she spent half of The Blob complaining about her artsy people.” She pitches her voice a little higher, a bit more nasal. “‘They’re all so pretentious about their paintings, no one cares about animation, or comics, blah blah blah.’” 

Pete starts taking mental notes on this mysterious G Way, who, for some reason, is the cause of Mikey’s self-imposed dating rule. Artsy, likes comics, knows this Shawn guy from The Rodneys, cool like Ferris Bueller.

“Get her to a show,” Anthony says. “It’s her friend’s band.” 

“Her only friend that isn’t you,” Frankie adds, with her usual snarky laugh. 

Mikey laughs too, but not in a mean way. She’s clearly just fine being her sister’s closest friend. “She’s been a total hermit, dude. She’s holed up with her portfolio. She goes to school, work, and the movies. I don’t think I can drag her to a show anytime soon.”

Frankie sighs dramatically, shakes her head. “Not even for the noble Shawn Dillon. That’s just sad, man.” 

Pete adds hermit to the list before he butts in again. “Who’s the noble Shawn Dillon?” he asks before anyone else can speak. “Also, why do you keep calling him that?” 

Frank leans over to poke Mikey again, and she bats the hand away. “Mostly a joke.” Mikey glances at the door her sister disappeared through. “G came home from art camp one day all pissy because some guy was hitting on her, and Shawn got him to fuck off. So.” 

“Like a knight in shining armor,” Anthony says. “The noble Shawn Dillon.”

“Oh,” Pete says, and he adds it to the list: does not like guys hitting on her. “Did they have a thing or something?” Mikey and Frankie cringe in unison. “What?” 

“Dude, she’s totally gay,” Frankie says. “Like, full on lesbian.” 

Mikey wrinkles her nose. “Okay, don’t put it that way. You sound like a douchebag.” She turns to Pete. “She is gay, though. So she had a good reason to be pissy.” 

And that piece of information goes to the top of the list in big bold letters. Mikey’s older sister, who is the reason she doesn’t date, is gay. Huh. 

“Anyways,” Mikey continues, “she needs to finish that portfolio before she leaves for college, or no one will ever see her again.” 

The others nod. Pete adds it to the list. 

Pete eats lunch with them everyday, tries to dig a little deeper into why Mikey doesn’t date without being obvious. Most of his questions just have to do with getting into the scene, which doesn’t help his investigation but does help him find out what shows are coming up. Very few have to do with G, because Mikey keeps her sister’s privacy, and Pete has to give up. 

A lot of them just have to do with Mikey. That’s his new list. 

The Mikey Way Fun Fact sheet: Her favorite band is The Smashing Pumpkins, and she also likes The Smiths, Black Flag, and The Misfits; her favorite local venue is a VFW hall in Arlington; she’s good at coming up with band names; she’s been given the nickname “Mikey Party,” but she won’t elaborate on why, and neither will her friends. Her messenger bag is a hand-me-down from G, hence the doodles on it; her favorite color is blue; she likes to read; she’s learning to play guitar. 

Most of his questions are asked during Bio, so her friends don’t feel left out, even though he’s pretty sure they wouldn’t care. She hates Bio and is more than happy about being distracted. She seems kind of aloof and stoic, but when she gets going, she really gets going. And he’s happy to listen to her. 

After a week, armed to the teeth with Mikey knowledge after getting her to open up, he decides he can brave it. Maybe all his interest has changed her mind on the “no dating” thing. He’s charming enough to do that, he’s pretty sure. 

He catches her after lunch. They both have math next, but she usually stays behind to get her book out of her locker. Pete carries his around, because he can’t remember his combination. 

Today, he sticks around, leaning against the bank of lockers next to her and listening to her talk. Something about pirating movies and Smashing Pumpkins, but it’s drowned out by the noise around them, and he only catches a few words at a time. 

She slams her locker shut and shrugs. “Anyways, I don’t think I have enough to go more than three times, but we’ll see.” 

“Three times,” Pete echoes as they head toward the stairs. “Dedication.” Mikey shrugs again, looking almost embarrassed by how much she cares. He likes it, though, the devotion, the genuine care. “Sounds like it’ll be worth it.” 

“Yeah, I think so.” She adjusts her messenger bag as she starts up the stairs, keeping it from bouncing against her leg. Pete likes her legs. They’re good legs. 

“Hey, I was wondering if you’d wanna go out sometime,” he says without thinking. “Dinner or something.” 

Mikey stops at the top of the stairs, looking at him with surprise. “Um,” she says quietly, “I mean… look, Pete, I think you’re cute, and I like hanging out with you, but….” She brushes her hair out of her face, and he can see the start of a blush. “It’s complicated. There’s just… with my sister and everything… I’m not dating until she leaves for college. Maybe longer.” 

“Oh,” he says, as if he didn’t already know this, but the surprise of it is real; it was arrogant to think this would work how he planned. “Why?” 

Mikey looks around at the dying stream of students. “I mean, it’s not a secret that she’s gay.” For something that’s not a secret, she sure is speaking quietly. “But she’s the only gay girl at this school, as far as we know, so….”

“So?”

She rolls her eyes, but she has a slight smile, like his charm has worked, just not well enough. “It would be really unfair of me to parade a boyfriend around while she doesn’t even have the chance to find someone here. When she goes to college, it’ll be better. Bigger fish, and all that.”

Pete nods slowly. It makes sense, logically—sisterly solidarity in the face of having no options—but at the same time, he can’t imagine having that line of thinking for his siblings. “That makes sense, I guess.” He looks at her for a second, the blush on her cheeks, her eyes big behind her glasses. “Was it your idea, or….” 

Mikey frowns. “Of course it was my idea. She wouldn’t ask me to do something like this. She doesn’t like that I’m doing it at all.”

“Right, yeah, of course,” Pete says. It was stupid to think otherwise. “So… if G started dating someone, you’d be open to dating?” 

Mikey nods, laughs a little. “I mean, yeah, that’s kind of the whole point. But, like I said, there’s no other lesbians here. That we know of, at least.” 

“Yeah, of course,” he says, but his mind’s already running scenarios, planning something cool to say. “I mean, I have a great gaydar, so, I bet I could find someone.” That does not sound cool at all. He sounds like a douchebag. 

She stares at him for a long minute, like she’s trying to figure out if he’s right. “Okay,” she says, still a hint of doubt in her voice. “If you find another gay girl nearby, and they hit it off—yes, I’d go on a date with you.” 

Pete resists the urge to pump his fists, because that would really cross the line into douchebag. “Cool.” He manages to keep his voice level. “Alright. I’ll start looking.” 

“Cool.” Mikey stares at him for another few seconds, and then she turns, disappearing into her classroom while Pete trudges into his. 

He does have a pretty good gaydar—perks of being around gay people all the time back home, and sparing a glance at the occasional guy himself—but if none of them are out… that puts a damper on things. Mikey didn’t say at this school, though. She didn’t say anything other than ‘nearby.’ 

Pete Wentz is going to go cruising for lesbians. He’s pretty sure it’ll be worth it. 

It is not worth it. 

Two weeks of watching the senior girls at Belleville, two weekends at shows in Kearny and Arlington, and Pete’s come up empty. Half the girls he sees are dating boys and seem happy about it, and the other half are either pining after a boy or are disinterested in the whole idea of dating. No one sets the gaydar off, not even a little bit. 

“She wasn’t kidding,” Pete grumbles. He has a death grip on the steering wheel, eyes darting around frantically as he drives like a grandma. He rarely gets car privileges; he’s not going to risk anything, especially not with Frankie in the passenger seat. “There’s zero lesbians in New Jersey.”

“There are definitely lesbians in New Jersey,” Frankie says. “They’re just all in their thirties.”

Pete thinks for a second, fingers tapping as he brakes hard at a yellow light that he probably could have made. “Yeah, that won’t work.” He sighs mournfully, slumps down a little in the driver’s seat. “I guess that’s that. She’s never going to date me….”

Frankie grins at him self righteously. “I told you so.”

He sighs again. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Yeah,” she says, “but you’re still driving me to Arlington, so….”

“Asshole.” The light turns green. “This better be a good show.”

“It won’t be,” she promises. “The band is called Hobosexuals, dude, it’s gonna suck ass.”

It sucks ass. The sound system is terrible, but even if it were halfway decent, it wouldn’t stop the band from sucking ass. Still fun, though; people shoving each other to the staticky noise, overwhelmingly loud and obnoxious. No one in Hobosexuals seems to know how to play their instruments, but that’s excusable if it lets Pete and Frankie push people around with smiles on their faces.

The party starts to break up when the set ends, and Pete’s ready to leave—it’s almost curfew, and he doesn’t want to get grounded two weeks into new friendships—but someone wanders over, calling out to them.

A tall-ish guy with short hair and ripped jeans smiles at Frankie, totally ignoring Pete. “You’re friends with G’s sister, right? I’ve seen you at shows with her.”

Frankie nods and says, deadly serious, “The noble Shawn Dillon.” Pete looks at her in surprise; he didn’t think anyone would call him that to his face. But the noble Shawn Dillon laughs. “Yeah, I’m Mikey’s friend. Frankie.” She gestures vaguely at Pete. “That’s Pete. He just moved here. I’m showing him the ropes.”

The noble Shawn Dillon nods. “Cool. Welcome to town, dude.” He claps Pete on the shoulder, too. “Hey, you guys wouldn’t happen to know anyone who plays bass, would you? Our guy George broke his arm last week, and we’re kinda SOL until he’s back.”

Pete perks up. “I play bass,” he says quickly. He doesn’t add that he’s not all that great at it, but from what he’s heard about The Rodneys and their Boba Fett gay sex song, he’s pretty sure it won’t matter. “I could help out.”

The noble Shawn Dillon nods again, one side of his mouth quirking up. “What are you, a freshman? You sure you can get a ride?”

“Sophomore,” Pete says, trying to keep a scowl off his face. “And yes.”

“Alright. Let me write down the address for you.” The noble Shawn Dillon rumages around in his pockets and pulls out a crumpled up receipt and a cheap looking pen. “Turn around, Frankie, I need a desk.”

Frankie rolls her eyes, but obliges.

“We practice tomorrow afternoon,” the noble Shawn Dillon says. “Consider it an audition.”

Pete was not expecting an audition—they sound desperate for a bassist, but maybe there are other people clamoring for a spot in a band. “Sounds good,” he says, hopefully sounding casual. “See you then.”

The noble Shawn Dillon nods before turning to Frankie. “Tell G I said hi, will you? I’ve been trying to get her to come to a show.”

Frankie smirks. “She’s too artsy and pretentious for your shitty punk band.”

The noble Shawn Dillon laughs. “Yeah, well. Try anyways. See you tomorrow, Pete.”

Pete and Frankie say their goodbyes as he wanders off. “Ready to go?” Pete says, a little anxious. Half hour til curfew, and he has to drop Frankie off—he’s going to have to use the Ieros’ phone to apologize for missing curfew.

Frankie nods. “Yeah.” Her face screws up like she’s swallowed a lemon or something. “That band really sucked. My middle school band sounded better than that.” Judgmental, but a little wistful, too; she’s talked about her last band, and Pete thinks she needs a new one.

They dodge around the crowd, groups of people blocking their way to the door. Frankie shoves her way through. Pete just tries to keep up.

“What do you know about that band?” Pete asks when they’re in the car, turning out of the neighborhood.

“Hobosexuals? Just that they blow.”

He shakes his head. “No, the noble Shawn Dillon’s band.”

Frankie snorts out a laugh. “They also blow.”

He rolls his eyes. “You are very unhelpful.”

“I know.” She reaches over to hit him in the arm. “I don’t know, man, it’s the noble Shawn Dillon’s band with his buddies. Mostly dudes, one girl, which is cool. Shitty punk. Boba Fett gay sex song. That’s basically it.”

Pete raises his eyebrows. “One girl?”

“Yes, one girl,” Frankie says, a little annoyed, “no, she won’t date you, either.”

“That’s not what I was thinking.” An idea is forming in his head and starting to snowball. Girl in shitty punk band full of guys—sounds gay to him. Maybe that’s stereotypical, but most of the gay girls he knew at home hung out with guys. “Maybe she could date G….”

Frankie snickers. “Yeah, sure. And if she says no, you just bribe her.”

Pete nods. He didn’t even think of that. “Yeah. Say I can get them a good show, or something. Good idea.”

Another snicker. “I was joking, don’t actually do that.” Pete hums non-commitally. “Pete. Seriously. That’s a dumb idea.”

“Sure,” Pete says, “maybe.” It’s not a dumb idea. He can maybe think of a few ways it could blow up in his face, but if he recognizes them, he can avoid them. “We’ll see.”

“You are one of the dumbest people I have ever met. I don’t know how you’ve lived this long.”

Pete smiles.

Good plan. Good plan forming. He’ll ask the girl from The Rodneys to hang out with G, and he’ll get to hang out with Mikey, and it’ll work out. Hopefully.

Chapter Text

Ray Toro doesn’t like being the butt of a joke, even an accidental one. Her friends all know that; they’ve been around long enough to see what happens when she’s made a fool of.

Which is why she’s pissed off at Shawn, who’s smiling sheepishly while a kid who looks barely old enough for a learner’s permit bounces on the balls of his feet, clutching his bass like he thinks he’s already in the band.

She glances around the attic, trying to gauge the others’ reaction. Otter doesn’t seem to care, Other Shawn is covering his mouth like it can hide his laughing, and George, who should care the most, meets Ray's eyes and shrugs. Traitor.

“He’s buddies with someone I know,” Shawn says defensively. “I met him at a show last night.”

Ray knows what show that was. “Seriously, dude? You went recruiting at a Hobosexuals show?” Not that The Rodneys are winning awards anytime soon, but really, of all bands.

The kid—Pete, she reminds herself—blurts out, wide-eyed, “Yeah, I was there with Frankie Iero, do you know her?”

Great. A name-dropper. “No,” she says flatly.

Ray,” Otter says, sounding a little irritated, “no one else has asked to audition, and we have a show next week. Can you pull the stick out of your ass for five minutes so he can play?”

“I don’t have a stick up my ass!” She kind of does—she’s an admitted perfectionist—but that doesn’t mean Otter of all people can say it. “I just don’t want us to completely suck,” she says grouchily, flopping down on the couch.

Other Shawn mumbles something that rhymes with ‘witch’ under his breath. George punches him with his good hand. At least someone up here is on her side.

Shawn shoots Ray a pleading look, and she sighs. “Alright,” she says, folding her arms. “You want to play? Play.”

Pete’s cocky grin flickers when he actually plugs in, but he still nods like he’s got it in the bag.

He’s not bad. Not as good as George, nowhere near Ray, and his bass is out of tune. He misses a couple notes, rushes through others. But the worst part is the pleased look on his face, as if he did it just right, like he’s never been told he could do better. Ray’s jaw tightens. Otter already drags the whole band half a step behind the beat; layer cockiness on top of sloppiness, and things will spiral fast.

“Think you can learn the set by Saturday?” she asks, leaning over her guitar. Pete nods so fast she almost laughs. “Good. You’re coming in for extra practice—Tuesday and Wednesday. Just you and me, basslines only. Got it?”

Pete beams like she just handed him a record deal. “Cool, yeah, sounds good. So… can I practice with you today?”

By Saturday, he’s better. Not perfect—he still drops a note here and there, and Ray has to bite back corrections when he starts showboating—but better. He shows up on time, which is good. He works hard, which is better. he only messes up once or twice during practices, which is also good, and he’s okay at matching Otter’s out-of-time drums, which is more than Ray expected.

But there’s something a little off about him, though. She can’t put her finger on it.

“He doesn’t have an ulterior motive,” Otter says, slumped over in the passenger seat. “You’re so paranoid, Ramona.”

“Fuck you, Matthew,” she grumbles. If she wasn’t driving, she’d punch him. “I just think it’s weird.”

“You’re being kinda hard on him,” Other Shawn says from the backseat. “Just chill out for once, Jesus.”

Ray rolls her eyes. She and Other Shawn aren’t close—they’re friends, technically, but only because he’s in the band. He doesn’t get to tell her to chill. “I am chill,” she says. “I just care about the music.”

Otter laughs. “Yeah, she’s only like this when it comes to band stuff. You should see her talk about Gundam.”

Ray risks running them off the road, grinning when he clutches his arm.

Otter’s staring at her again. He does this whenever they step onstage, lately. Every time she looks over her shoulder, trying to follow his rhythm, she catches his eye for a millisecond before he glances away, trying to pretend he wasn’t watching her. It’s like he discovered flirting recently and decided to use Ray as his test subject. It’s stupid, and annoying, and a little gross. There’s nothing wrong with him; she just doesn’t like him like that.

There are a lot of feelings she can’t really explain. She tries not to think about them.

“Emerge” finally rolls around, the last song of the night, and when Ray turns back to the rest of the band, she can see Pete laughing. He’s amused by the idea of a Boba Fett song. He’s amused that it’s gay. He told them as much during his first practice, right after getting into the band.

Ray doesn’t find it all that funny. Probably because she doesn’t want to have sex with a Star Wars character, but she gets why someone might. The only one who’s ever made sense to her is Leia. Not that she wants to have sex with Leia, but she can at least understand why people talk about her that way. She’s smart, she’s a little mean, and the bikini of it all…. It’s just good filmmaking. The kind that makes even a straight girl like Ray pay attention in ways she normally wouldn’t.

And if she sometimes catches herself thinking about Leia more than Han, or noticing the sharp set of her jaw, or the way she carries herself—it’s not because she actually wants her. It’s just… craft. Storytelling. The kind of movie that can slip past Ray’s defenses, just for a moment. That’s all it is.

It’s not a bad show, all things considered. She says as much to Otter while they lug his kit back out to her dad’s truck, and he laughs. Not in a genuine way, in a weird, flirty, fake way.

“Great show,” he says from the bed, taking the snare out of her hands. “Don’t sell us short.”

Ray rolls her eyes. “I just mean that we have someone new, and it was his first show, and he laughed through most of the last song. So. Better than I expected.”

“He’s got a good guitar player to follow.”

She doesn’t like the way he’s looking at her. She turns away, avoiding his smile. “Yeah, well,” she mumbles, “as long as it comes together in the end.”

There’s a thump as he jumps out of the truck bed. “Always does with you.”

Her face heats up, her stomach turns to knots, her nose wrinkles. “Shut up, dude,” she says, embarrassed, and starts walking away as fast as she can without looking insane. “We’re all trying, it’s not just me.”

Otter catches up and puts his arm over her shoulders. If it was a few months ago, Ray wouldn’t think anything of it. But it’s not, and she has to keep herself from tensing at the touch. There’s nothing wrong about it, or bad, it’s just… weird. Very weird. He squeezes her, an awkward, walking side hug. “Whatever, Toro. We all know you’re the best player in town.”

“Thanks.” She shakes him off, hopefully in a casual way and not in a grossed-out way, and pulls the door open. “What’s left? Amps and my guitar?” She doesn’t hold the door for him.

Pete’s standing awkwardly by the makeshift stage, looking around the crowd. There’s another band playing after them, so no one’s left yet. Ray, Otter, and Other Shawn are supposed to stick around for a while and watch, but Pete should have gone home by now. Sophomores and their curfews. He waves Ray over when he spots her, and she takes a deep breath. It can’t be that important, but he looks like it’s a matter of life and death.

She nods in greeting. “What’s up? Are you missing something?”

“I have a question,” Pete says.

“I have an answer.”

Pete gets up on his tiptoes and points over the crowd. “You see those girls?” Ray follows his line of sight and nods. Two girls, one probably around her age, the other closer to Pete’s. The older one has jet black hair and a round, pale face; the younger’s hair is lighter, her face more angular. “I was wondering,” Pete continues, “if you’d maybe want to go out with the dark-haired one.”

She almost nods. It’s a close call. She’s still on autopilot, her head lost twenty minutes ago in their set. “I—what?”

“So, the other one, that’s her sister,” he says. “And she won’t go on a date unless her sister gets a date, and I thought, ‘hey, Ray’s gay, she might want to go out with G’—that’s her name, by the way, G Way—so, do you?”

Ray tears her eyes away from the girls. The older one, G, has had her fingernails in her mouth for a while, and Ray can’t really make out her face, but she’s been looking at her sister intently. “Um,” she says eloquently, “I’m not gay. Why did you think I was gay?”

Pete looks crestfallen. “Most of the chicks I knew in Chicago who were in bands with guys were gay,” he says, and he has the decency to look ashamed. “I just assumed that you were, too.”

“Oh.” She thought she’d be relieved, get some good feeling out of it, like, Oh good, I don’t seem totally unavailable, but that’s not really what’s settling in her gut. “That’s the only reason?”

Pete shrugs. “You just seem like a bro. I don’t know.” He looks back over at G and her sister, sighing wistfully. “Well,” he says forlornly, “I mean, even if you aren’t gay, could you maybe… pretend?”

Ray shakes her head. “Dude, what the fuck?” She knew there was something off about this whole situation, but she never would have expected something like this.

“What?” Pete says defensively. “I’m not saying you have to kiss her or something. Just, like, hang out with her.”

“That’s kind of fucked up,” she says, offended on G’s behalf. “I’m not going to lead some poor girl on so you can hook up with her sister.”

Pete crosses his arms. “What, are you homophobic or something?” he says, a challenge in his voice.

“No,” Ray says, “that’s just… really mean, dude.” It hurts a little bit, the idea of it a dull pain in her chest. “I just—I don’t think it’s right, Pete. I don’t want to hurt her.”

Pete gives her puppy-dog eyes. “Just think of it as being friendly. Please?”

“No, Pete.” She’s immune to puppy-dog eyes, luckily; it’s something she learned from her mom, who was constantly saying no to Ray and her older brothers. “Good luck, though.”

She turns away, moving to where her guitar case is propped against the amp, but Pete calls out, “Wait!” She sighs, turning around and looking at him expectantly. “I can get you guys into better venues,” he says, quick but confident. “Just help me out with this, and I can get some good shows for you guys.”

Ray laughs in disbelief. “How would you do that? You’re a kid. And didn’t you move here like a month ago?”

He shrugs. “My friend Frankie knows some people. And some of the guys I know back home, they have connections. I could get them to help. But only if you help me….” The skepticism must be obvious on her face, because he keeps talking. “Just hang out with her a few times,” he pleads. “I’m not asking you to get married. You don’t even have to call it a date!”

She looks back to where she last saw G, but the Way sisters have disappeared. She’s a little disappointed; if she’s going to pretend to be into a girl, she’d like to get a good look at her, at least. “Her name is G?”

“Like the letter. His sister’s name is Mikey.” His voice is three shades more cheerful when he says it.

G. Interesting. Mysterious. Ray kind of wants to know what it stands for. She kind of wants to ask, just to see what happens. Maybe, if she plays it right, she could make a pretty cool friend out of it, and finally get a break from all these boys. From Otter’s sudden weirdness, and Other Shawn’s chauvinistic comments. “Three times, max,” she says reluctantly. “And you have to pay for stuff. Radio Shack isn’t exactly a moneymaker.”

“Done,” he says without hesitation. “Thank you, Ray, you’re a lifesaver.”

Ray shrugs, forcing her face to stay neutral. “Whatever. You hold up your end, and I’ll hold up mine.”

“Yeah.” Pete sounds a little too proud of himself for her liking. “Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Ray nods, says a quick goodbye before he scurries out, leaving her alone with the weight of what she’s agreed to.

Oh, fuck, what did she just agree to?

She doesn’t really know what G looks like, didn’t get to see her clearly enough to tell. She doesn’t know anything about her other than she’s gay and has a younger sister. She doesn’t even know if she’s G’s type—Ray doesn’t know if she’s anyone’s type. Other than Otter’s, apparently.

She doesn’t recognize the feeling settling in her chest, wrapping around the ache the plan has left there. It feels almost like excitement.

It’s not like first date jitters, or even the excitement of making a new friend. It’s twisty and light and warm and completely unfamiliar. It’s almost comforting, it’s definitely weird, it’s completely terrifying.

Ray chalks it up to shock. Of all the things Pete could have wanted out of her and the band—better connections, a stepladder to another band, anything—a date is completely out of left field. A date with a girl. She never considered the possibility.

George sidles up next to her, snapping her out of her thoughts when he kicks at her guitar case. “You gonna put this in your car, or are you going to make me do it?” He waves his arm around, his blue cast looking more green in the yellow light. Someone added flames coming out of the mouth of the shitty dinosaur she drew next to her signature, so it looks more like a dragon.

“Oh, yeah. I got it.” She picks it up, holding the handle tightly. “Are you sticking around for the next set?”

He nods, rolling out his shoulders. “Not that they’re better than us,” he says with mock sincerity, “but if I can’t play, I might as well watch, right?”

Ray laughs. They both know that, despite Ray and Shawn’s best efforts, The Rodneys aren’t as good as they want to be. “Let me put this away before I get yelled at. Can you grab me a water?”

Maybe that’s who she should talk to about this, she thinks as she heads back to the truck. George could help her figure out why she agreed to it, and why she’s so wired at the prospect. Or Lou—yeah, Lou would have good advice, he always does.

Or she could not tell anyone. Just in case things go bad, or something. Not that either of them would be weird about the fake dating thing, and not even about the fact that it’s with a girl, Ray’s pretty sure, but nothing’s impossible. She puts the case in the backseat, lets it thud against cushions. Maybe it’s different when it’s their friend—or sister, in Lou’s case—even if she’s not actually gay.

The door squeaks as she opens it, almost silenced by the music over the speakers. Otter’s nowhere to be found, thankfully, and she slips back into the room without any fuss. No fuss—yeah, that sounds good. No one needs to know she’s ‘dating’ G. Just that they’re friends. Other than Pete, obviously, and G’s sister.

And G. Ray feels sleazy when she thinks about it for too long.

There’s probably not a lot of gay girls in Belleville. She can’t think of any in Kearny, either. G’s probably not single for lack of trying. She’s probably been waiting for another girl to be brave enough to come out as gay.

Ray’s not brave. She doesn’t have to be, because she’s not gay. If anything, this whole thing makes her feel like a coward. Ray hates being the butt of the joke. It’s what she’s always been: the girl in the band, in the Iron Maiden t-shirt, who always takes it way too seriously. And now she’s making G the butt of Pete’s joke. And if G somehow magically has feelings for her—

She can cross that bridge when she gets to it. It’s just hanging out, that’s what Pete said. A new friendship. Let G’s sister, Mikey or Mickey or whatever it was, think it’s romantic so she can go out with Pete, and if G starts thinking of it the same way, Ray can play the fool and say that she thought they were just friends. Not a joke: just a misunderstanding.

The next band has started by the time Ray makes it back to George. He hands her a water wordlessly, head nodding to the music. It’s a lot better than theirs. She lets herself drift with the crowd, the flow of the audience distracting her from the plan.

Three hangouts with G Way.

Ray has no clue what she’s getting herself into. 

Chapter Text

Monday rolls around, and Pete feels good. Actually, he feels more than good. He feels like a winner. Thank you, Ray Toro.

Mikey talks to a guy at their table for most of Bio, but Pete doesn’t feel ignored. Her knee is touching his, which is impossible to do accidentally on tall stools, and she smiles at him every few minutes, and she leaves stars doodled in the margins of his notebook. It’s probably a good thing he’s not the center of her attention right now. That means he can’t blurt out anything stupid. He’s been known to do that. 

And he really needs to watch that urge now, because if Mikey found out what he was up to….

“You guys didn’t go to Pete’s show!” Mikey points accusing fingers at Frankie and Anthony as she sits down by the lockers. Pete, who scrambled to keep up with her on the walk from class, scrambles to sit down next to her, landing with an awkward thump he hopes no one heard. “G came and everything, and you two phonies couldn’t?” 

Anthony shrugs, sheepish, as Frankie stares in mock horror. “No,” she says with a gasp, drawing out the word, “you’re telling me the vampire came out of her den?”

“You didn’t really miss anything,” Pete says, digging through his backpack. There’s a sandwich in here somewhere, probably crushed by now. “I’m pretty sure I sucked, so….” 

Mikey swats at him playfully. “You didn’t suck.” 

He already knows that, but man, it’s nice to hear her say it.

“But that guitar player—what’s her name again?” 

Pete looks up, surprised. “What? Oh, Ray. Toro.”

Mikey nods. “Yeah, Ray. G was talking to me after, said she’s the best guitar player she’s ever seen.” 

Alerts go off in Pete’s head, sirens and red lights and neon signs saying Hello luck, happy to have you on my side.

Anthony snorts, kicks out at Frankie. “Lost your spot, man, how’s it feel?” 

“Fuck you,” Frankie grumbles. “We’ve seen her play, dude, you know G’s probably right.” 

“Yeah, but at least I’ve had the decency not to tell you that.” 

They start bickering, which isn’t unusual, but Pete still doesn’t really know how to handle it. Ignore them? Butt in? Pick a side? He settles on ignore and goes back to hunting for his sandwich, which may have fallen into a black hole. He really needs to clean out his backpack. 

Mikey picks at her food—something brown and mushy and not appealing in the slightest—and turns to face him. “Hey, do you want to come study at my place this week?” Pete must have a pretty dumb look on his face, because she starts laughing at him. “Test on Friday, remember?”

“What test?” Pete can’t remember what he’s looking for in his backpack, let alone a test; when Mikey Way smiles like that, everything else is out the window. “Wait, your place?” 

“Mmhmm.” She makes a face at her brown mush—some kind of stew maybe?—and closes it back up, trading it for an apple. “G’s working until seven most of the week, so we can have the basement.” 

“Yes,” he says, maybe too quickly, but Mikey just smiles and takes a bite of her lunch. Studying with Mikey is already a win. Studying with Mikey in G’s room—it’s the perfect opportunity to add to the very short list of things he knows about the mysterious Way sister, and if Mikey thinks it’s weird, he can say it’s for Ray. Yeah, that’ll work. Pete’s got nothing but good ideas.

Pete has practice on Tuesday and Thursday, and Mikey has to run errands with her grandmother today, so they settle on Wednesday. Only two days, but it feels like an eternity. 

Today is a free day, which means he has plenty of time to work out what he’s looking for in G’s room, and plenty of time to worry about what he should wear. His clothes are only half unpacked, and nothing seems quite right, but he has no idea where the rest of his wardrobe is. He’s stuck with the clothes his mom likes.

Tuesday is rehearsal with the whole band, which he wasn’t expecting; last week, it was just him and Ray, and sometimes Otter. But both Shawns are here, and so is George, who’s friendly enough but a little overbearing. Pete can’t really judge him, though. After all, Pete’s his replacement. 

They get through practice without any hiccups and only minor bickering—Other Shawn wants to know why Otter can’t pick up the pace for “Dino Beer”—and Pete even gets some praise. 

“Good job,” Ray says as she picks up her backpack. She went from school to work to here, and she sounds as tired as she looks, which makes it even more special. “You’re a fast learner.” 

Pete beams, and then tries to tone it down, at least try to play it cool. “Thanks. I had a good teacher.” Ray laughs, pushing her glasses up to rub her eyes. “Hey, I have some good news,” he says, taking advantage of her good mood.

She hums a questioning note as she picks up her guitar case. “About?” 

“G Way.” Nope, he’s ruined it, Ray’s shoulders are tensing up and she looks annoyed.

But then, almost immediately, she’s relaxed, her face neutral. “I didn’t realize you were asking her out for me,” she says calmly. 

“No, that’s still your job.” Ray sighs, and Pete presses on. “But Mikey said that G said you were the best guitar player she’s ever seen.” 

She snorts, shaking her head. “Okay, dude, sure she did.” Her head tips down, hair swinging forward like a curtain, but Pete can see a blush starting up through the curls. “You’re just telling me that to make it easier to ask her out.” 

“I’m serious,” he protests. “Mikey was talking to Frankie and Anthony about the show, and she told us that G thinks you’re the best. That’s exactly what she said.” Ray still doesn’t look like she believes him. “I mean, you’re already the best in the band,” he adds. “Is it really that hard to believe that someone thinks you’re the best ever?”

“Yeah,” Ray says, blunt but light, “because there are about a thousand great guitar players out there, so….” 

“Just take the damn compliment, Toro,” the noble Shawn Dillon says, poking his head back in. “Especially if it’s from G. She’s not a liar.” 

Ray looks up, startled. “How long have you been standing there?” she asks, sounding a little panicked. 

“Just long enough to hear that G likes your playing. Did I leave my sunglasses around here?” 

Ray helps him look, and Pete should too, but he’s back to thinking about the plan. 

He’ll go to Mikey’s tomorrow and find things for Ray to talk about with G that aren’t how good she is at guitar. He’ll invite Mikey and G to another show, and Ray can meet them. They’ll go on first dates. Easy peasy. 

But Ray still looks a little freaked out when the noble Shawn Dillon leaves. “Can we talk about these things more privately in the future?” she says through gritted teeth. “I don’t need people to know I’m going out with a chick.” 

Pete nods. “Yeah, sure. Sorry.”

Ray’s expression doesn’t change. “Great. After you.” 

They scurry down the stairs and spill out Otter’s front door. He’s waiting by Ray’s car, and he smiles when she unlocks it. Right, they had plans after this, and Pete held Ray up. Whoops. 

Wait. Ray and Otter have plans. Just the two of them. A guy and a girl. 

Aw, shit. They’re going on a date. 

It’s possible Pete didn’t think this through. It’s possible he’s in over his head. It’s possible that asking a straight girl to pretend to be gay was a bad idea. 

But, hey, Ray agreed, didn’t she? And he really did think she was gay, all the signs were there. And he told her to just treat it like hanging out with a friend, so, it can’t go super wrong. She just needs to never say anything about dating Otter ever, and it’ll be fine. 

Three dates. That’s all they need to get through. 

“So,” Pete says, scanning the basement. “This is your sister’s room.” 

Mikey nods, pulling out her notebook and pushing her hair back from her face. “She got sick of sharing a room with me when she started high school, so she got the basement. She lets me hang out down here though, so….” She shrugs and flips through the pages. “It’s better than studying upstairs.”

“Yeah, for sure.” It isn’t that much better. The only upside is that there aren’t any parents hovering over their shoulders, even with the open door. And there’s a TV. But other than that, it’s like a cave, dim and stale, all the light coming from the ceiling lamp and tiny window, almost no airflow at all. “Cool of her to let you use it.” 

She hums in agreement and settles on a page. “Okay, how much do you remember about this unit? Because I’ve got nothing.”

Pete also has nothing, and neither of them took good notes, so Mikey excuses herself to grab her textbook, leaving him alone in the basement. 

He feels like a spy, or an undercover secret agent; he’s infiltrated the target, now he needs to collect the evidence. 

G has a lot of posters on her wall. Most of them are pictures of girl bands, Sleater-Kinney and whatever, but The Smiths and Black Flag stick out, too. A lot of horror movies, and some dorky stuff. G Way is a nerd and a rocker chick and a hermit. 

The CD and movie selection is more of the same, but with a lot more Star Wars. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t need to look at the bookshelves. He’s got the picture. Her nightstand has a sketchbook and pencils scattered around, a lighter and a pack of cigarettes next to them. Pete’s not a fan of smoking. 

“I know, she’s a nerd.” Pete startles at the sound of Mikey’s voice, jumping as if he’s actually done something wrong, and she laughs. “Don’t judge her too hard, half of my room looks like this.” 

“Not judging,” he says quickly, “I was just curious. I mean, I’ve only ever seen her, and she’s your sister—I should learn something, right?” 

It’s not a total lie. Pete’s been getting better at not totally lying. Half truths, a necessary cover just in case. He does want to know more about G for Mikey’s sake, but the intel is more important. Which is for Mikey’s sake too. Kind of. Sort of. That’s how he’ll justify it to himself, at least. 

Mikey gestures at the walls. “This is pretty much everything there is to know. She likes music and nerdy stuff.” 

“How does she feel about the Boba Fett gay sex song?” 

Mikey laughs. It’s the best sound Pete’s ever heard. 

“I’ll see you at the show this weekend, right?” Pete’s lingering at the front door, taking as long as he possibly can to leave. “And your sister?” 

Mikey nods. “Well, I don’t know about G yet, but I’m trying to convince her.” 

Pete hums, a little disappointed, but then—of course, like a warm up, so it’s not a total surprise. “Tell her Ray wants to meet her. The guitarist she likes.” 

Mikey smiles. “That might work, actually. She wanted to talk to her anyways….” 

“So, you think she'll show?” he says hopefully. 

She shrugs, but she’s still smiling. “You never know with her. But I think she might.”

“Awesome.” He tries not to sound too pumped, but it comes out anyway. “Alright, well, I’ll see you in class tomorrow.” 

Pete's stuck taking the bus, both his parents at work and no car to use, and he spends the ride thinking over everything in G’s room. The riot grrl posters, a gazillion books, VHSs with blood and monsters on the covers. And the lighter and cigarette packs. Gross. Pete doesn’t know how that’ll go over with Ray, so he’s stuck praying she won’t mind. Maybe she smokes, too. 

“Ew,” Ray says, “seriously?” She wrinkles her nose and adjusts her glasses, hunching over her guitar. They're at her apartment today so she can drill the bass parts into him without Otter looming. “I can’t stand cigarettes.” 

Pete shrugs. “Can you deal with it for three dates?” 

“I guess,” she says sullenly. “What else did you find out?”

“She likes a lot of those girl bands. Bikini Kill and all that.” He crosses his fingers. Please let Ray like that….

No luck. She rolls her eyes. “You're kidding me.” 

Pete groans, impatient and stressed. “Dude, come on. You’re already going out with Otter, do you have to make this worse?”

Ray barks out a laugh, a noise both surprised and embarrassed. “I’m not going out with Otter. Jesus, of all the boys in this band—Otter?” 

“But—you left with him the other day—”

“My brother was in town. They're friends. So we got dinner.” She mock shudders. “Otter. He’s like a third, worse brother.”

Pete shrinks down in his seat, embarrassed, but more happy to be wrong. “Well. Good. That would mess with things.”

“You know what's really gonna mess with things?” Ray’s picking absently at her guitar. She plays softly, just a bit of melody audible. Something Pete hasn’t heard before. “Her smoking.”

He rolls his eyes. “Can’t you ignore it?”

“Not if she’s gonna make me listen to her angry girl music.” 

He stares for a second, and then laughs, incredulous. “Dude, you're making angry girl music. But with dudes.” He has half the songs memorized. A lot of them are angry. “You’re a hypocrite.”

“Whatever, man,” she says snarkily. “Just—play your stupid bass.” 

“Play your stupid guitar,” he snarks back. “Will you at least try some of her angry girl music? Any of it?”

A long pause as Ray scratches the back of her neck, looking over Pete’s head to the wall like she’s thinking. He mentally crosses his fingers. If this doesn't work—if Ray refuses on the grounds of cigarettes and music—well, he’s completely fucked. 

“Fine,” she says finally. “It can't all be bad.”

Pete lets out a long sigh of relief. “Great. Thank you. Was that so hard?” 

“Yes.” She's blunt when she's irritated. Pete hopes G won’t irritate her. “Just play.”

He plays. But his mind is on Saturday. It’s like preparing to storm the beach at Normandy. But instead of a bunch of soldiers dying, it’s when he maybe gets a first date with Mikey Way, which is just as scary—and when Ray maybe meets G, which is getting more worrisome by the minute. 

“You missed a note,” Ray says with an exasperated sigh. “Go again.”

Very irritable, and she hasn't even met G. 

Pete thought this would be the easiest set up ever—what could possibly go wrong? 

Apparently, the answer is a lot.

Chapter Text

For someone who isn’t gay, Ray sure is freaking out about Shawn maybe, possibly, overhearing her and Pete’s conversation. She hasn’t seen him since, dipping in and out of their shared classes as soon as the bell rings, avoiding their usual lunch spot. It could be explained away so easily, too, hanging out with G a few times because Pete said they’d get along. It’s simple. It’s believable.

But no, she has to spend two days worrying. Never mind that he said he didn’t hear anything.

At least, as weird and uncomfortable as the idea is, she has her “date” with Otter as a cover. Not that she’d ever date him. If she had to pick anyone from the band, it would be George, but even that’s strange to imagine.

The thing is, Ray doesn’t really date. There were some one-offs with guys from school—including, embarrassingly, Shawn at Homecoming last semester, just to see what it would be like—but never any chemistry, no desire to go out with them again. She and Shawn had both laughed during a slow dance, knowing it wasn’t a good fit. Travie, in junior year, who she only kind of knew, had let her down as gently as she was going to do to him, said she was sweet, but he didn’t feel a spark. Tucker, whom she met at a show back in July, was funny, but he was more fun when she’d been drinking with his band. A few others sprinkled in, but they were never quite right, never any feelings.

“Wait til you get to college,” Danny told her when he was home for Christmas, laughing as she complained about her options. “High school dating sucks.” Easy for him to say; he met a girl in his freshman seminar and they’ve been together ever since.

“You’ll find someone,” her mami had said after her date with Tucker. “Don’t worry, mija.” Easy for her to say; she and Ray’s father were high school sweethearts, and maybe that’s warped how Ray thinks about dating, but she can’t tell.

It’s not like there’s been anyone she’s been, like, attracted to. Just boys who were there, cute and nice to her, instead of sleazy and flirty, looking at her instead of her chest.

Someday, at college, like Danny said. Ray won’t worry about that. She just has to worry about whether Shawn knows about G.

Friday practice rolls around, and Pete doesn’t bring any of it up, and Shawn acts like nothing is any different. Maybe she’s in the clear. Maybe no one knows.

“You know G, right?” she asks him during a break, carefully looking to make sure no one’s eavesdropping, but they’re all absorbed in their own conversation, and Other Shawn is in the bathroom. “Pete was telling me he thinks we’d be good friends.”

Shawn lets out a little laugh. “Yeah, I know her.” He shrugs, taking a sip of the juice Otter’s mom brought up for everyone. “I think you would like her, sure. But she’s kinda… I don’t know, a hermit. You gotta open her up. Like an oyster.” Ray snorts, making him grin. “You’re the same kind of nerdy,” he adds, and it’s so matter of fact that she can’t help but make a noise of complaint, and he laughs again. “You know I’m right! All your Pokemon and superheroes.”

“Oh, fuck you,” she grumbles, but he is right. She pats her pocket, a habit she’s had since freshman year, her little action figure a hard lump of comfort. “I trust you a lot more than I trust Pete,” she says, glancing over at the kid. He’s not really talking to anyone, just running through the chords without strumming. It’s possible Ray’s been too hard on him the last few rehearsals. “So if you think we’d be friends, then. Cool.”

“Yeah.” Shawn looks thoughtfully at her, like a bug under a microscope. “Shit, if she was a guy, I’d say you’d be, like, into her.”

Ray’s face heats up. It’s a little too close to the truth. To Pete’s plan and her fake dating. Maybe he did overhear….

“Alright,” Otter says, doing a quick drum roll as Other Shawn walks back in. “Everyone ready?”

Ray slings her guitar back over her shoulder and nods. No time to think about Shawn’s words. There’s music to play.

Saturday nights are, more often than not nowadays, show nights. Ray’s not entirely sure how The Rodneys have become big enough in the tiny scene of the suburbs to keep getting shows, but here they are, third weekend in a row of carrying equipment down someone’s basement stairs. It’s almost always a basement, sometimes a garage, occasionally an actual venue closer to Newark. The goal is a show in actual Newark, but promoters don’t seem to want a bunch of kids on their stages or in their basements, so they’re stuck in Kearny, Belleville, and Arlington. But that’s okay—everyone applied to colleges close by, so the band can stick together long enough to get bigger shows when they aren’t considered kids anymore. They can wait, or Ray can, at least. 

Otter’s more impatient about it. “We practice in my attic,” he grumbles as he lugs his bass drum down with Ray’s help, “and we play in basements. I don’t remember the last time I was in the middle part of a house.”

Shawn laughs as he follows them down the steps, the cymbals jangling with each step. “You were in my kitchen yesterday.”

“And then your mom kicked us out, and we ended up in the basement.” 

That makes sense. Otter’s one of Ray’s closest friends, other than her oldest brother Lou, George, and Shawn, but he can be incredibly annoying. And it’s been worse recently, now that he’s discovered flirting with her. It makes her stomach twist a little. It’s not pervy or anything. Just new, unwanted attention. She misses when he was just friendly, when he didn’t care that she was a girl, just that she could play guitar better than anyone else in Kearny. 

They set up quickly, used to the layout of these kinds of venues—if they can be called that—and warm up for a few minutes. 

Right before they start, Pete scurries over to stage left, Ray’s side, and says, “Mikey and G are here.”

Ray’s eyes widen. “Right now?” 

Pete nods and grins. “Yeah. don’t know where they are—oh, Mikey’s right there—okay, so I don’t know where G is, but she’s somewhere….” 

Fuck. 

“Great,” Ray mutters. “Just great.” One more thing to worry about.

Pete grins like a moron and goes back to his spot, and then they start. 

The show goes fine, or at least, as well as Ray can hope for; it’s only Pete’s second show with them, so he’s still a little stumbly, and Otter may be one of Ray’s best friends, but he sucks at drums. But it’s not an important show, no one to impress in this basement. 

Except for one person. Because G Way is there, somewhere, hidden behind people or in the shadows, and Ray wouldn’t be nervous about it if Pete hadn’t told her literally right before they went on. She likes to think she’s immune to that, and maybe she is—she didn’t have any big fuck ups, at least—but her hands shake now, fumbling her guitar when she tries to put it in the case. The crowd is thinning now that the show’s over, enough people left to still call it a “party,” but few enough that when Ray looks up, she spots two girls who must be G and her sister. 

Pete does too, because he hollers to Mikey and gestures for her to come over. G follows her, a few steps behind, looking tired and a little annoyed, but Mikey’s smiling. 

“That was great,” she says, and it sounds earnest. “You guys are awesome. I told Pete that after the last show I went to, but really, you’re awesome.” 

“Thanks,” Ray says, but her eyes aren’t on Mikey. G has a fingernail in her mouth as she nods absently, staring at the door, eyes heavy with dark liner. She’s wearing ripped, baggy jeans and a Batman shirt, and it’s a little baggy, too, draping off her chest, held away from the rest of her torso by… Ray doesn’t want to be crude, the way boys talk about girls, but Jesus, G has big boobs. Breasts. Whatever. Ray knows the t-shirt struggle all too well, never likes the way her shirts fit, either too tight or hanging off her chest, but somehow, G makes it look kind of… good. Intentional, not awkward, uniquely stylish, not dorky. “Glad you guys came,” she says, tearing her eyes away from G. “I’ve, uh, heard a lot about you.” 

Pete smiles, and it almost looks devious, like his plan is really coming together after a total of three sentences. “All good things,” he promises, winking at Mikey. It looks like he’s having a miniature stroke, but she laughs anyway. 

Someone calls out, “G Way!” Ray looks for the source of it—Shawn, coming back through the basement door, waving. “Hey, man, didn’t know if you were coming!”

G smiles, and it’s a little adorable. She has small teeth. Ray doesn’t know why that strikes her. “Yeah,” G says. “Mikey dragged me along.” 

“Glad she did,” Shawn says. 

Ray wonders, just for a second, what their relationship is—Shawn’s a friendly guy, always has been, but she scans his face for a sign of anything more, if he looks at G the way Otter sometimes looks at her. But there’s nothing but friendship there. It’s reassuring. Not that G would go out with him, the whole gay thing and all, but. No competition. 

Ray doesn’t like thinking of it as competition. She’s not sure why she is in the first place.

“Have you met the guys?” Shawn asks. “Other than Pete, anyways.” 

“No,” G says, and that smile is gone, eyes narrowing, as if she’s shielding herself. 

“Otter’s over there getting his drums out, he’ll be back in a minute. George is the one sitting on the couch, he’s who Pete’s replacing. No clue where Shawn is. And this is Ray.” Shawn points at them in turn. When he gets to Ray, he adds, “She’s the real star of the show.”

“I’m not the star,” she protests.

He waves her off. “Of course you are.” He turns back to G. “You gotta show me what you’ve been working on,” he tells her, and at Ray’s questioning look, adds, “we know each other from art camp.” 

Of course that’s what it is. Not romance or anything. Ray’s an idiot for thinking it would be like that. Artist connection. 

Shawn holds out a hand, poised for one of those “bro” hugs Ray always gets dragged into, and G takes it, the two of them clapping each other on the back once and pulling away. Ray thought she’d be reluctant about it, the way she was when she trailed after her sister a minute ago, but she takes it willingly. “I’m ditching early,” Shawn says. “I have work tomorrow. But come by more often, I gotta show you my new stuff.” 

G nods. “I’ll call you. I have something going, too.” 

“Awesome.” Shawn holds out his hand the same way to Otter, then Ray, then Pete, a complete circuit of dude affection. “I’ll see you guys at practice. Good to see you, G.” 

A chorus of goodbyes, and then he’s out the door, and suddenly, it’s awkward again. Mikey and Pete chat as guitars are leaned against walls and speakers are unplugged—not that Mikey’s helping—but G looks at Ray, like she’s expecting something. Or checking her out. Ray doesn’t know which option stresses her out more. 

“Um,” Ray says, and then she curses herself for saying um. “I, uh, I like your shirt.” It’s true, she does; it’s just also a good cover in case G noticed her looking at her boobs. Breasts. Ray really needs to stop hanging out with guys. 

G looks surprised, glancing down at the logo. “You don’t think it's nerdy?” That sudden shield is gone, eyes opening wide. 

Ray fumbles around in her pocket. “I’d be a hypocrite if I did,” she says sheepishly, pulling out her Spider-Man action figure. She’s too old to be carrying a toy around with her, but something about it is comforting, a little piece of home, a superhero to guide her. 

G laughs, a real one, almost a cackle. It’s cute. Ray’s never thought a laugh was cute. Maybe she just thinks that because it’s such a switch from brooding behind her sister with a fingernail in her mouth. “Do you carry that around?” 

Ray nods, tries for a laugh back, but it definitely doesn’t sound as nice as G’s. “Yeah, sometimes.” All the time, but she won’t admit that. “My brother Lou got it for me a few years ago.” It was for her birthday, right before she started high school. If Peter Parker can survive high school, anyone can, he told her, ruffling her hair as if she were 4, not 14. 

“Cool,” G says with an approving nod. “Superhero for a super shredder.” 

Yeah, she’s definitely checking Ray out, eyes sweeping over her body with a little smile, a long stare at her lips before meeting her eyes again. Ray’s cheeks heat up. She hopes it isn’t noticeable. 

It’s not like Ray’s never been flirted with, stared at by boys in school, or at shows, or when she picks up comics and guitar magazines. But it's always surprising. She figured it was because of her boobs, when t-shirts pull tight around them or dresses she’s worn for dances and band class concerts dip a little too low. Other than her rare dates, that’s how it’s been since middle school. But G wasn’t looking at her chest, at least not for long. Her eyes were focused on Ray’s face, her eyes and her lips and her nose. Ray thinks—knows, really—that she’s not pretty like other girls, despite reassurances from Mami. Maybe that’s self-deprecating, but it’s true. And that makes it extra surprising. A girl—a pretty girl—looking at her like she is. 

She changes the subject, maybe a little too abruptly. “Y’know, Pete and I were talking about going to the arcade next weekend, the one in Belleville.” She scratches the back of her neck, nerves from earlier coming back. “You guys should come. If you’re free, I mean.” 

Pete looks over. “We were?” Ray gives him an impatient look. “Right! Yeah, we were, you should totally come.” His invitation is directed only to Mikey, who he can’t seem to look away from. 

G looks at Mikey with a raised eyebrow. It reminds Ray of the way she and her brothers look at each other sometimes, quick, silent communications that mean Why is Mami being insane? and That guy at the register is so annoying. 

“Sounds like fun,” Mikey says with a smile. “I haven’t been in a while. Frankie’s always doing her band stuff, and Anthony isn’t into it that much, and you’re—” she points at G accusingly, “—always holed up with your art stuff.” 

G shrugs. “Need to build my portfolio before college,” she mumbles. 

“Oh,” Ray says, “I mean, if you have stuff to work on—” 

“Nah, I’ll come.” G looks back at Ray intently. “I probably need to brush up on my pinball skills to impress the college girls.” 

Ray nods, hopes it looks flirty and not weird. “I love pinball.”

“Awesome. You guys can have a competition or something,” Pete says, waggling his eyebrows again. He looks like an idiot, but Mikey seems to be into it for some reason that Ray will never understand. At least Otter is okay at flirting. “Saturday? At 2?”

Another look between the Way sisters. “Works for us,” G says. “We should head out, so, uh, see you then.” 

“See you then,” Ray says, turning Spider-Man over in her hand. She wonders if she should do that bro hug thing, but decides against it; they just met, after all. And Ray doesn’t know what it would be like with two sets of boobs in the way. Uncomfortable, probably. 

Her skin tingles a little at the idea. 

Mikey hugs Pete, though, a real hug, and climbs up the basement steps, G in tow, just behind her, watching her back. But she looks back, just for a second, and Ray darts her eyes away, hoping she didn’t see her staring. And then they’re gone. 

“Good call, dude,” Pete says approvingly. “First date all set up.” 

“I don’t think this is a first date,” Ray warns. “Not if it's all four of us.” 

“Don’t you want it to be a date?” he asks, laughing a little. “One down, two to go or whatever?”

She shrugs, glancing back to the door. It remains solidly closed, no Ways in sight. Not that she wants them to come back, especially not during this conversation. “I’m the girl here, dude. Hanging out as a group isn’t a date. Don’t get your hopes up.”

He laughs some more, which is somehow more irritating than anything else he’s done, including asking her to play gay. “I thought you’d want this over with ASAP, but sure. ‘Group hang,’” he puts the words in air quotes, “until proven otherwise.” He claps her on the shoulder and picks up his guitar case. “I’m gonna go wait for my ride.” He attempts a bro hug, but Ray manages to side-step it. If she gets one more of those tonight, she’ll kill someone. 

Ray’s shoulders slump a little as Pete climbs up the steps. The nerves from earlier have washed away, and for a second, she lets herself feel excited. An arcade trip, a first hangout, getting some time to really talk to G, learn about this girl she’s supposed to be interested in. But then that’s gone too, crushed by something heavy looming over her. She can’t figure out what it is; some mystery emotion she’s never quite felt, but familiar at the same time. Something newer and more intense than anything she’s felt before. 

“All good?” George asks. He’s not carrying anything, arm in a sling, but he shoulders Ray’s acoustic case. Ray’s gear is all that’s left, and she’s George’s ride, so it’s nice of him to help out. 

“Yeah,” she says, trying to keep that heaviness out of her voice. “Did Otter leave?” The last thing she needs to hear tonight is more flirtation. 

George shakes his head. “He said he’s gonna stay a while. Party’s not over, or something.” He looks Ray up and down. “You sure you’re all good?” 

“Do I look weird or something?” 

“No, just… tired.” He knows her too well. “Let’s get you some beauty sleep.” 

“Fuck you,” Ray says with a grin. She shoulders her other guitar and picks up her amp. 

They’re both quiet on the drive back, aside from random thoughts blurted out about whatever song is playing. It’s nice, because Ray can think about asking G to the arcade. It’s also horrible, because Ray can think about asking G to the arcade. 

When Pete first proposed the plan, she felt weird about it, skeevy and mean. Now that it’s in motion, she feels worse. 

It would be one thing if she really was making a friend—and she does want to be friends with G, talk about superheroes and arcade games and music with her—or if she was actually into girls, because it wouldn’t be a complete lie, and she wouldn’t be leading G on. Something could actually happen. But this is wrong. A straight girl pretending to be gay. That’s not fair, to G or herself—but mostly to G.

And that weight on her shoulders. She can’t find a word for it. 

“You sure you’re okay?” George asks before he gets out of the car.

“Stop asking me that,” Ray says absently. “See you tomorrow.” 

He nods, but she can tell he doesn’t believe her. “Yeah, see you then.” 

And Ray’s stuck in silence again. That heaviness hasn’t left. It’s not guilt, although that’s there, too, or shame, or something like that. It’s like…. 

It’s like she can still feel G’s eyes on her, still feel flushed and confused by the attention on her face rather than her chest. Like she can still hear G’s laugh, feel the weird intrigue about her small teeth. Like she can still see G’s Batman shirt, the way it hung off her chest, and G’s mouth forming the words super shredder. 

Ray pushes it aside. 

She doesn’t have to do this for long. Just until Mikey agrees to go out with Pete. And then she can let G down easy, ask to still be friends, and she won’t have to deal with thinking about someone’s smile or anyone checking her out for a little while.

She’s not a bad person, doing this to someone she couldn’t possibly be interested in. She’s just…. 

“I’m just hanging out with a new friend,” she tells herself as she pulls up to her apartment building. “That’s all it is.” Justification, probably untrue, but some of the guilt goes away as she lugs the amp and guitars inside, the physical weight some sort of penance. 

The apartment is quiet, her parents asleep in bed. If her brothers were still here, the TV would be on, but they’re away at college, watching their own TVs while Ray brushes her teeth in the bare bathroom they used to share and curls up in her bed. If her brothers were here—if Lou was here—she could tell them about this maybe fucked up plan, about G’s nerdy shirt and dark eyeliner, about the heaviness that settles over her as she closes her eyes.

But he isn’t. The apartment is quiet. Her chest aches under the pressure. 

She grabs her Charmander plush, looks at Spider-Man on her nightstand, and squeezes her eyes shut. 

G’s Batman shirt and cackle pop up in her dreams.