Fucking emo

His fucking name

"That wasn't how it was supposed to happen. We were supposed to become friends.

I don't think I ever really had friends, but then I never really spoke to or even thought of anyone quite as much.

Yet the next school morning, he was a no-show. So was the next. And the next. No one missed him on the days he disappeared, as if he was just never there. No one mentioned him except in chem class where we were supposed to partner up. Being an odd group now, I was to work with two other girls.

"Hey, Nicholas," one of them said cheerfully.

"Hey."

"Glad you're alone today."

"Yeah, he ditched me, I suppose," I replied offhandedly. They laughed.

"Never mind about him. You'll be fine with us."

I smiled at them.

After class, I tried to take a sneak peek at the teacher's records to find his name. But not knowing anyone's name made it hard to single out any specific one at a glance.

Then the weekend came. I could write to him, but I felt weak. Why was I missing him? He was lame. I hated him. I hated him.

Monday morning came, and Mom left for the day early. I was supposed to leave for school, except I didn't. I sat at the piano and played.

Then the phone buzzed. It was Travis. I had both a nameless boy and a faceless name.

"U ok man?"

They were sweet, I suppose. Everyone had been so welcoming, really. They always were.

"I'm okay. Conservatory audition. Needed the extra practice."

"Thank god. Tc Xo."

Then the phone rang. It was my mom.

"Fuck. She could tell I wasn't at school by now. Fucking surveillance."

"I'm sorry, Mom. I just couldn't-"

"It's okay," she interrupted. "You okay, sweetie?"

"Yeah, I just-"

"I know, I saw the news on my way too. I'm glad you stayed. Don't leave the house. I'll try to be there early."

I said goodbye and turned on the TV. The same female reporter was on, this time in front of a fence somewhere familiar.

"...The third one this month. While authorities assure us that there is no evidence of foul play, they seem to be as determined as anyone to find the connection between the deaths. The breakthrough might be-"

I muted the TV. Hearing people talk always annoyed me. She talked in front of the fence and behind her were the police and the yellow ribbon sealing off the area.

"Double suicide at park on Wellington Street," read the ten bumper graphic. "Third one this month. Authorities puzzled."

They were not puzzled; they were looking for connections. Had my mother thought I was dead?

Then his face was on the screen, one of the pics in his profile.

"Wellington High student. Involved."

Right below the picture was a small caption with his fucking name.

"14-year-old Alex Villalobos."

☆