“Oh, who cares—fuck Matt. Don’t let that a-hole control your life. You know the only reason he’s still in the band is ’cause the other guys outvoted me, although you have to admit he’s a bomb guitar player. He’s basically Hendrix, like, reincarnated into the body of a suburban teenage white kid….” He trails off and gets a faraway look in his eyes, and I know I’m about to be subjected to some long diatribe about music and his band, so I interrupt.

“Fine, fine. Whatever. Fine. But we have to drive Gwenie home first. She’s had a shit day. I’m not making her take the bus.” I fill him in about this morning’s spray-paint incident on the garage.

“Jesus. Gwen saw that shit?” He shakes his head. “All right, well, we know your dad hasn’t done anything about it.” I shrug. Can’t argue with that. “So we’ll stop off at the hardware store to get some paint. We’ll just put a quick coat or two over it before we take off, okay? And then we’ll roll out to practice and you can watch these auditions?”

This is why even though Conor can be really self-centered, he’s still kinda great. He’s pushy and irritating and ignorant to the rest of the world, but he always comes through in a pinch. No one else would voluntarily offer to paint my garage door with me. It doesn’t exactly qualify as a fun after-school activity.

“Cool. See ya later.” Conor slaps me on the back of the head and I give him a tired nod. He retreats down the hall.

I sigh, slam my locker shut, lean back against it, and close my eyes, trying to motivate myself to get through the day.

Coming to school didn’t use to be like this—utterly draining, a void filled with white noise and Conor’s voice. I used to have friends. A girlfriend. A life.

—

I slide into drama class late. I was forced to sign up for this elective after I procrastinated and didn’t register for classes until the last possible second this past fall. I had other things on my mind, like, you know, my girlfriend of a year telling me she needed a break because I was shutting her out of my life, after which, in a fit of total stubbornness, I told her, Sure, SURE—go ahead and say yes to my absolute dickhead of an ex-friend who asked you to fall formal, what do I care. Oh, and everyone in school except Conor hating my guts.

Fun stuff like that.