You hear the doorbell ring and immediately know who it is. You race downstairs and open the door and there he is.
Frank Iero is standing in front of your door, little curls from his hair peeking from under his hat. He gives a weak smile and does a little wave, muttering a 'hey'.
"Hey," you smile. "so...should we...?"
"Oh, uh, yeah yeah we should go."
You grabbed your purse closed the door behind you, stepping out into the front steps of your house, while Frank led you to his car.
Well, his Mom's car. As a sophomore, there was no way he could afford one to himself...
It had been four days since Frank had asked you out randomly after school. You said yes, of course, I mean Frank was a cute guy. You hadn't really talked to him ever, but he seemed cool so you went with it.
He opens the passenger seat door for you, and you step in. Surprise chivalry.
He goes around the car and gets in the drivers seat, turning the car stereo on, and slipping a tape in.
You recognize the song, the moment it starts.
"Amputations."
He looks over at you, and looks a little stunned, and then smiles back 'Death cab. Yep."
"I love Death Cab," you half-whisper. He laughs and continues backing the car out of the driveway. "Good taste."
The song continues playing, while you watch the city whizz by from the window. You're not sure if you should engage in conversation, or just listen to the music. But the song ends, and there's some awkard 5 seconds before the next song starts, so you decide to intervene.
"So where are we going?"
"Oh...uh, to a show," he says. "Downtown."
"What kind of show?"
"Oh, you'll see," he smirks.
You kind of leave it there, and don't bother asking further because the next song, 20th Century Towers starts, and you can't help but melt.
Finally, you make it there, and once again, Frank opens the door for you. You walk onto the curb and look around. You're outside the Whiskey a Go Go...how could you not have guessed? Frank swoops around and takes your hand, spiraling his fingers inbetween yours and walking you towards the door.
It feels nice, this sort of small immature contact. You find yourself liking it. Frank's fingers are rough and callused, but his palms are smooth and warm. You expect Frank to go to the ticket counter, but he turns and goes through a different door you hadn't even noticed here, before.
"Wait..." you start to ask.
"I have backstage privileges," he says, taking two little badges with lanyards from out of his pocket and handing one to you, and doing a little smug smile, with a raise of his eyebrows. He licks his lips and watches you put yours over your neck, as he bobs back and forth, his breathe visible in the cold.
"Who's playing?" you ask, while he opens the door for you... again.
"This dinky band called Pencey Prep," he says.
A scary security guy sees us, and eyes the badges, then gives us the wave. You had never been backstage before. It was smelly. It stank like cigarettes, beer, vomit and urine. Hefty guys run back and forth, holding equipment and instruments, muttering into walkie talkies. Frank takes you through a hallway, and then turns to the right and into another door. He reaches for the door knob and then stops, and turns to face you.
