Punk Love

This guy, who wore everything black, was vegan, quoted Karl Marx, and was like an exotic bird to me.

I had to talk to him. Failure at becoming his best friend was simply not an option. He was my ticket out of the mind-numbing bore that was this town. We were going to have great conversations and even greater time exchanging notes about new, cool indie bands.

Now, here is something you should know about fifteen-year-old me: I still very much looked like a good girl who wore fishnets as some kind of a rebellious, cute statement. I had a really wholesome appearance. I was still very much torn about whether I was a punk rock chick or a normal girl who (tragically?) didn’t surf. The commitment to being a part of the freak crowd…well, it freaked me out.

And so, aside from the fishnets, I wore the expected uniform of pastel miniskirts, fancy sneakers, tattoo chokers, and high-neck stripy shirts.

At first, when I approached him, I thought Ryan for sure suspected I wanted to mock or taunt him. I could see his shoulders square as I bulldozed my way to him, swatting people from debate club like they were bothersome flies in the process. But then I showed him my sketchbook, and complimented him on his music (which I’d never heard) so he relaxed.

To make a long story short, two months after the school year started, Ryan and I were practically besties. We talked about his music and veganism and about my sketches and aspirations of becoming a fashion designer (aspirations not even I believed in, mind you, but I needed a goal, right? The first thing they teach you at creative writing school is that a heroine needs a goal, an aim, a passion. Fashion design seemed like a safe bet. I couldn’t just be That Chick Who Doesn’t Know How to Surf).

I was only half-listening whenever he talked about his bandmates. After all, this was pre-Facebook, and I had no indication whether they were hot or not, so why would I care?

I did gather that there was Tom, the vocalist, who sounded like an ego-maniac, Daniel, the guitarist, and also the perpetual stoner, Ryan was the bass player, and then there was Alex, who was the drummer. Ryan said very little about Alex, and none of it was good. Alex sounded like a real jerk, which, naturally, instantly piqued my interest.

About three months after we became good friends, Ryan asked me if I wanted to hang out over the weekend. He didn’t ask if I wanted to watch Daria or MTV2 or hang out at the mall (PARTLY BECAUSE HE REFUSED TO PHYSICALLY ENTER MALLS. HE WAS THAT AGAINST CAPITALISM. TRUE FUCKING STORY, GUYS). He asked if I was interested in going to a semi-violent demonstration against force-feeding geese for foie gras.

All I heard was “violent”, “dangerous”, and “illegal” and my adolescence brain immediately said—yes, please.

By that stage, I was flirting with vegetarianism and wanted to learn more about the subject. My mother was horrified because I’m the most anemic person on planet Earth (80% sarcasm, 10% blood, 10% bullshit, she fondly says). But anyway, I said yes, and Ryan and I agreed that I would come over to his place and we’d take the bus together the evening of.

Fast forward to The Day That Changed My Life.

I arrived at Ryan’s place ten minutes early, the thirsty ideological bitch that I was. I still remember what I wore because I replayed that evening again and again and again in my head weeks after. A red kilt, dirty Chucks, and a cropped top. I said hi to his mom and petted his dog. We went into his room and I tried to push away the idea that his mom probably thinks we’re bumping uglies, because aw.

That’s when Ryan said, “Oh, hey, and by the way, we don’t have to take the bus anymore. Alex will give us a ride. He should be here any minute. He’s a bit of an asshole so don’t mind him.”

Famous. Last. Words. Y’all.

“Cool. Whatever.” I nodded. I mean, Alex DID kind of scare me, just from listening to stories about him, but I’d never met him before, so it felt unfair to judge him based on what Ryan had said about him (all of which would make Lucifer’s mom proud).

I did know that he was always happy to get into fistfights, always won, was rude to everyone around him, and was an only child of two elitist doctors who wished nothing more for him than to become a doctor, too.

I also knew MY non-elitist parents were going to ground me well into my next decade for getting into a car with two seventeen-year-olds I barely knew, but considering we were heading to a fucking illegal demonstration, I didn’t think now was the time to grow a conscience. Or a working brain, for that matter.