Punk Love

There were a few things I didn’t take into consideration. Like, oh, I don’t know, the fact that as with most demonstrations, there were people there. Lots and lots of people. And that I was/am an introvert with a huge case of social anxiety.

I didn’t do too well with people. I was an introvert by nature, choice, and DNA. The place was not only teeming with a ton of protesters and even more cops, but a lot of these people looked like they were Alex and Ryan’s crowd.

Even before Alex parked his Volvo in the small parking lot right next to the duck and geese farm, he rolled down his window and bumped fists with other punk rockers who slowed their step to greet him.

I am not going to lie—I was impressed.

I mean, I had been impressed with Ryan for being a person with an entire personality of his own. With views and morals that hadn’t been spoon-fed to him by the educational system, but Alex was a whole different ball game. He had Ryan’s intellectual shine, plus he looked like a blonder version of Ben Robson. And he was nonchalant as shit about it.

Like, he fought for the cause, but wasn’t hysterical about it.

Or maybe I was just justifying to myself what I was planning to do, if Alex showed a shred of interest in me. Which was, largely speaking, breaking hooking up with my best friend’s frenemie. Because, as I said—there was no love lost between Ryan and Alex.

“We’re here.” Ryan unclipped his seatbelt from the passenger seat gleefully. The adrenaline was already pumping in my veins just from seeing the crowded farm, the metal bars by the cages where they kept the geese, and the police officers around. Other than that, the most exciting and dangerous place I’d ever been to was our neighbor, Mrs. Lipshitz’s basement (there was nothing particularly dangerous about her basement, but she collected porcelain dolls and my auntie, who is also an author, used to tell me stories about how these dolls were actually real, little girls’ taxidermy).

“No shit,” Alex said drily, flinging his door open. “Your friend might be a bit slow—she is friends with you, after all—but she is not fucking blind.”

“Thanks, Ryan,” I said, ignoring Alex completely. I still hadn’t figured out how to deal with the giant Viking, but I suspected I was going to taunt him to the bitter end. It was a knee-jerk reaction, after all. “Let me just call my parents real quick, tell them that I arrived safely.”

Technically, I’d told my parents I was helping farmers pick organic vegetables today and distribute them to people in need, but at least I gave them the right location. More importantly, I didn’t give them something else—a heart attack. Which was exactly what they’d have if they knew what I was really up to.

“Rock on.” Alex let out a snort, just when I slid out of the backseat of his car, his back already to me as he advanced toward a crowd of people who waved at him.

“You drive a fucking Volvo, dude,” I muttered under my breath.

He stopped.

Turned around to look at me.

Oh, fuck. Getting killed by my crush was such a lame way to go.

“What did you say?” he asked seriously and darkly, and…okay, fine, sexily, too.

“I said,” I spat out the words, yanking out my fridge-sized phone, “before you taunt me for my lack of coolness, just remember you drive a. Fucking. Volvo.”

Welp. I went there. More like galloped there on the back of a pissed off horse. I had no one but myself to blame if I was going to get murdered. Silver lining: surely, he’d touch me if he killed me.

Alex shook his head and turned his back to me. It was only then that I realized Ryan was standing by my side. I hadn’t even noticed him, and if that wasn’t sucky of me, then hell, I didn’t know what was.

“C’mon.” Ryan tugged me by my cropped shirt. “Let me introduce you to the gang.”

“The gang” was a bunch of gangly, long-limbed teenagers with pronounced Adam’s apples, all on the acne spectrum, in Black Flag, Subhumans, Minor Threat, and Anti-Flag shirts. I don’t know how to explain it, but they all gave me intense rich kid vibes. There were a few girls, too, and I am ashamed to say the first thing I did was eyeball each of them, trying to assess my competition.

I did not believe for one second Alex didn’t get any action with the opposite sex. He was too brilliantly different in the landscape not to stand out. Now it was just a question of who he was doing, not if.

The girls looked vastly different from me. That’s the first thing I noticed. With multi-colored hair, extremely short skirts, and several piercings and tattoos. I looked depressingly tame in comparison, and basically screamed GOOD GIRL and FAKER, all in capital letters. I did have a nose ring and wore ripped leggings, but that was the extent of it. Tattoos were a step too far for me. I couldn’t commit to a lifetime with the same ink at fifteen. Hell, I couldn’t even commit to the same shampoo. I was constantly overwhelmed by the options whenever my mom dragged me with her to the supermarket. Did I want my hair to smell like coconut or lemon? Who the hell knew?