Pete
April 12th
I found out at 6:34 this morning.
A phone call, Travie's mom being the caller. I answered annoyed because of the early hour. But my mood promptly shifted to overwhelming sadness and disbelief when she cry-talk informed me that the funeral would be Sunday, held at the church they used to go to down the block from their house.
When my mom saw my tear-stained face in the kitchen, she pulled me into the hug I truly needed. She whispered about how sorry she was and how I could take the rest of the week off from school.
I called Dallon first. He was very upset, but said he'd tell Brendon for me. He offered to tell more people, but I denied. I'd call everyone.
Next I called Gerard. I figured Frank would be with him, and he was. At 7am. Weird-ish, but whatever. They send me their condolences and express how sorry they are, same old same old.
I then call Bob, he says he hopes I'm doing well. And then I call Hayley, and she says that it's hard and rough, and it's oh-so-sad and she sends love from the Soul Punk kingdom.
And finally, I call Patrick. At this point my legs hurt from the mass amount of pacing I'd been doing around my room, and I felt pissed off.
"Hey, Pete...what's up?" His voice so sweet and shy.
I can't seem to speak for a moment, from fear that if I say a word that tears will start streaming down my face.
....
"Travie's dead." I choke out.
"Oh," he says, "oh my god. Pete are you okay?"
That's different. I hadn't been asked how I was feeling, nor a 'I'm so sorry.' It felt like I needed to be careful wording what I needed to say.
"No." I say simply.
"Pete, I'm so sorry," and there it is, "I never knew him, but I know you fucking did. Your...your partner in crime has been caught, Pete, and I'm so damn sorry. You'll see him again someday, but for now I need you to promise me that you'll be alright, just for today. Just for the sake of me, and the others, and yourself."
"I will." I whisper.
———
3:46 p.m.
Gerard, Frank, Hayley, Bob, Patrick, Dallon, Brendon, Ashlee, Ashley, and myself sit in the church.
Not the one where his funeral will be held this weekend; the one we've made own with pillows and blankets and forts and our own teenage leave-behinds.
I don't even like the Ashlee(y)s, but they're here because they knew and loved Travie.
We sit on the stage, Travie's 'math notebook'—which is in reality just a notebook full of little raps he used to write. He dreamed he'd make it big one day. He dreamed a lot, and I admire that—resting in a stone pot on the ground.
We surround it with flowers, and I wrote down every rap in the notes section of my phone. We sit in a group behind it, and I hold a white candle in my sweaty hands.
I have a glare on my face when I set fire to the notebook, and I curse it out silently. I blow out the candle, and in my fit of rage, throw it somewhere. I sit back down, and Patrick starts rubbing my back to calm me down.
"It's okay, Sandman." He whispers along with other sweet nothings.
10:49 p.m.
And even though it's a Thursday, we all are going to in the church. Some of us will stick it out and go to school, but others will stay here for the rest of the week. At least one person from either kingdom needs to go to school tomorrow, we've agreed.
We all just need to be together.
However, Ashlee has gone home. Bitch can't even look at me.
"I can remember," Dallon says dramatically with a smile, "the day I met Travie."
We're all laying in the big fort, in one big circle; just telling stories about Travie. A few people loose it ever now and then, some tears and some laughs.
"That mother fucker had the nerve to approach me during bio chem. Fucking bio chem," a few people laugh, "and he was all like 'so, Weekes, heard you wanted to switch sides.' And that was the first thing he ever said to me, and..." Dallon laughs, "and I responded 'hell yeah, bitch. You got a problem with that?'"
Everyone lost it. Dallon would never say that. He's too proper and uptight, but apparently this time was an exception. I chuckle lightly.
"And this asswipe, holy shit was he mad. But he was trying so fucking hard not to laugh at what I said. So he looked at me menacingly, but, like, trying very hard to not laugh and was like 'no...*laugh*...not at all...good day, Dallon.' And he fucking RAN AWAY."
More laughs, Hayley giggling into Bob's shoulder. Ashley facepalms, muttering 'typical.'
"You know he called me 'Pattycakes the bitch-ass trick-ass twink' one time." Patrick smirks.
"WHAT?" I yell laughing, "he did not."
"Mhm, it was when I was hitting on Brendon." He laughs.
I look at Brendon, who is dying hysterically laughing and nodding.
"I remember I used to have a crush on you, Bren," Patrick looks at Brendon, "and I wanted to see how much I could piss you off with my gayness."
"Oh you did, Patrick. Fucking believe me, you did. I was just repressing shit, you know that." Brendon smiles.
"I know, and that's fine. I'm proud of you, Bren."
Patrick reaches across the circle and awkwardly, but passionately hugs Brendon.
"Man," Frank sighs, "he really was a weird dude."
And Travie really was, and I'm surprised that I'm holding up this well. I mean, I'm constantly on the verge of crying, but these guys are numbing the pain and replacing it was laughter and stories. This couldn't happen If Travie wasn't such a weird-ass, funny kid. He's done so much good, I love him to death—I guess literally.
"I'm going to bed." Bob mutters, "I'm going to school tomorrow."
"Yeah I'm going tomorrow too, I should as well." Dallon sighs.
"Yeah I'm going to school tomorrow as well, but I ain't going to bed yet." Hayley says, earning a few chuckles.
"Mood." Ashley says.
"You know, Ashley, I really haven't like you for obviously reasons, but you're funny." Patrick mumbles.
"Thanks, gay boy." She winks.
I raise an eyebrow, "Yeah, I hope you won't try to drown him anymore, Ashley." I say demandingly.
"Pete, it's fine." Patrick mumbles again.
"Maybe. I don't know, depends what I'm feeling..." she chips at her nail polish.
"Ashley if you even think about it, we can 'talk' some more in the back ally way." Bob hisses.
She smirks, "mhm, whatever."
Gerard kicks her side lightly, "seriously."
"Since when are you guys friends?" She look at Dal, Bren, and me; then the Soul Punks.
"Since someone we all cared about fucking died." Hayley spits.
"Whatever, I just thought the Young Bloods would be more tough. Maybe I'll start my own kingdom."
"Ashley, get the hell out." I say.
"You'll see more of me, Wentz. Believe in that." She stands up, grabs her backpack and walks out.
