Chapter Text
Illi shouldered her way through the crowd of teenagers that had gathered on St. Matthew’s front steps. One by one, cheerleaders, jocks, and nerds alike slipped into the cliques that had disbanded for two excruciating months. People liked belonging somewhere, and Illi was no different – only she definitely didn’t belong here.
The summer had been her haven, where she left behind all expectations of normalcy and lost herself in the noise of the local music scene. Nobody bothered her there, bar a few piss-drunk jerks who plagued some of the venues. That was her community, where she could fall into arms that welcomed her. Now that was gone, replaced by a school full of machines with rigid notions about how people should look and act.
She recognized a few faces, unable to put names to any of them. Familiar eyes caught hers in passing, some darting away as if peculiarity was contagious, others accompanied by sneers and lingering stares.
New year, same assholes.
Illi and Ray – her anchor throughout the past three years – had compared schedules the day before, disappointed to find that they had no classes together. She’d spotted him talking with her brother as she stepped through the gates, but they’d both wandered off by now. Awesome. She was being thrown into the fiery pits of hell without so much as a wink goodbye.
The front doors were propped open in a welcoming gesture, but instead gaped like neglected mouths begging for food. Illi preferred it when they kept the doors closed. It created a distinct separation between home and school, and Illi was very careful not to let the two bleed together. Years worth of backlogged homework made her Public Enemy No. 1 among the teaching staff.
Everything was lifeless, despite the people flocking together in the halls. Her homeroom was no exception, posters taped sporadically across its sterile white walls in a sorry attempt to liven the place up. A quick sweep of the room revealed a list of hotlines tacked to a bulletin board. She scoffed. Like they actually cared.
Every sight she beheld was a punch to the gut, further confirmation that this year wouldn’t be any different, that she would need to keep fighting tooth and nail to receive even an ounce of respect. David Byrne’s voice resonated in the back of her mind, and while the music almost brought a smile to her face, the grim message twisted like a knife in her chest.
Same as it ever was.
Same as it ever was.
Same as it ever was.
Until something else grabbed her attention. At the back of the room, a boy sat, one leg kicked out in front of him and the other bouncing incessantly, his eyes glued to the floor. He looked awful, face drained of any color and mouth pulled taut in a grimace. She smiled to herself before sliding into the seat next to him. Fresh meat.
“You look like you’re about to vomit. Or pass out.” She paused. “Or both.” He glanced up, eyes darting around the room like he was unsure who she was talking to.
“Yeah, feels like it too,” the boy grumbled softly. His gaze dropped back to the floor as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Illi studied him for a moment.
The front of his hair was flattened to his head, the ends curled into points that perfectly framed his face, while the back stuck up in little spikes. It was probably intentional, but Illi wouldn’t put it past this guy to roll out of bed and only bother himself with the hair he could see in the mirror. Either way, it looked good. Combined with the piercings – which were definitely against the dress code – he looked punk as hell.
Illi reached into her messenger bag, pulling out a sketchbook and pen. It was just a sketch, a few quick strokes to immortalize her soon-to-be friend in ink and paper.
“I’m Illi.”
Silence.
“Hi Illi. You’re drawing me.” It wasn’t a question, but something in his tone made it clear that he expected an answer. Illi smiled again, looking up from the page.
“You’re supposed to tell me your name now. It’s the rules,” she explained matter-of-factly. The guy raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah? What rules?”
Her voice dropped to a playful whisper.
“Society’s.”
The hiss was long and drawn out, her eyes wide while the hand gripping her pen gestured wildly in the air. This earned a snort from the mystery kid. Success. He fidgeted with his lip ring, contemplating, before leaning forward and wiping his sweaty hands on his slacks.
“Frank.”
Illi scribbled his name down underneath the portrait, closing her sketchbook with a satisfied thump.
“Frank, you’re new. You’re new because I don’t know your face and you have the kind of face I would remember.” He looked taken aback by this, almost flattered. Seeing as that wasn’t really a compliment, he mustn't have received much praise in his day-to-day life. Illi was going to fix that. “And I mean that in the best way – you have a very pretty face.”
A red tint crept across his cheeks and he hid his face in his hands.
“That’s such a lie,” he groaned.
Illi shook her head, her hair swaying by her shoulders.
“I’m serious!”
“No, I’m so sick, I look like something out of a horror movie.” He let his hands drop back into his lap and picked at his chipped black nail polish. His eyes flitted up at her, clouded by something unreadable.
Illi grinned.
“Undead chic is so in right now.”
The screech of the bell sliced through their conversation. Fine, she didn’t want to scare him off just yet.
With no further Frank sightings, the day trekked on like any other. It was straight to work, with barely any acknowledgement of the whole ‘first day of senior year’ situation.
By last period, Illi could’ve killed a man. This school was fucking her straight to hell without even a glimpse of foreplay. However, by some miracle, her bad mood was squished like a bug when she stepped into the chemistry lab.
“FRANK, MY MAN!”
He looked up with a startled flinch, shrinking into his too-big blazer as the room erupted into muffled laughter and judgmental whispers. The stool beside him was empty, and Illi, taking that as an invitation, flung herself onto it, tossing her bag to the floor.
“Did you miss me?”
“Big time,” he shot back, sarcasm dripping so thick she could almost see it pooling in his mouth. From the way his hands trembled and tension gripped every muscle in his body, Illi could tell he still felt horrible. Her face fell, more serious now.
“I’m going to tolerate your bad attitude, but only because you look like shit and should really go to the nurse.”
Frank rolled his eyes. “I’m fine, I can handle a little pain.” A hand appeared from behind them to place two worksheets on their lab bench. He glanced up appreciatively before returning to Illi.
“Kinky,” she joked.
Frank nodded in resignation, pressing his lips together in mock defeat, when a tilt of his head revealed a tattoo, just barely peeking over the collar of his shirt. Illi gasped and reached out instinctively, fingers brushing his neck before he ducked away from her touch.
“Is that real?” she breathed. Frank’s brows knitted together and his hand clasped at his neck, hiding the mark from her All-Seeing Eye. “Like, in your skin with an actual needle?”
His face relaxed. “It’s a scorpion.”
Illi remained transfixed.
“In my skin with an actual needle,” he teased, the mocking edge returning to his voice and only faltering briefly to answer the roll call.
They were both quiet for a moment, watching each other, before Illi spoke.
“You know, it’s not every day you meet an inked up seventeen year old.”
A flicker. So small she almost missed it, but a flicker nonetheless. Her words had struck a nerve.
But it was a nerve that she had no time to ponder on, because Mr Rhodes, who she’d been stuck with almost every year at St. Matthews, had just called out her name.
It wasn’t her name though, not anymore. It belonged to a kid who was at war with themself. Who had an itch beneath the surface of their skin that they didn’t know how to scratch, so instead they clawed and slashed until they were covered head to toe in invisible lacerations.
That name had no right to burn her anymore. Most of the staff didn’t get that memo. She fought for herself at first, but her teachers were immovable objects, and she was not an unstoppable force.
So she didn’t fight anymore.
“Here.”
Frank cocked his head at her and clocked the way she winced when Rhodes read out that name. She braced herself for the fallout of his impending realization, but it never came. Instead –
“Her name is Illi.” Frank stared daggers past the stacks of paper that had already begun to pile up on the man’s desk. His voice was calm, but it carried a fire. For once, Illi wasn’t the one being engulfed in flames.
She nudged him and shook her head, urging him to drop it. Jeering faces stared their way and Mr Rhodes scoffed before continuing down the list.
He’d gotten two names further before Frank called out again.
“What the fuck is your problem?”
The gasps in the classroom were almost comical. Honestly, the whole situation felt like a scene from a movie.
Mr Rhodes pushed himself up from his seat, gripping his desk like he was afraid it was going to walk away.
“Excuse me?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. Oh man, he was fuming.
“When she tells you her name is Illi, you call her Illi. It’s not hard, you’re just an asshole.”
Illi ran a hand through her hair, tugging on the ends the way she always did when she was nervous.
“Get out. Both of you,” Rhodes barked. Frank shot up so quickly that his stool clattered to the floor behind him. He took Illi by the arm and led her out the door, thrusting a middle finger in their teacher’s direction and refusing to give him the dignity of eye contact.
The hallway was eerily silent except for the echo of their footsteps. Frank exhaled, hesitating before turning to her.
“Where-”
“I didn’t need you to save me,” she cut in. “I know that must’ve made you feel real good about yourself, but this is my life. I do this every day, and you don’t get to be crowned my lord and savior by standing up for me one fucking time.”
He blinked. “Sorry.” All the defiance that had coursed through him a moment ago was gone, leaving behind the weary kid she met that morning. “You shouldn’t have to accept their shit.” He fidgeted with his lip ring. “Sorry, Illi.”
She let out a breath. “Courtyard?”
He nodded and started down the hall, lagging a couple paces behind her.
The courtyard was enclosed by the walls of the school, each window serving as a watchful eye over the troubled youth. The ground was paved, except for a ring of grass on the outskirts and a tree planted dead center.
Illi slumped against the tree and patted the ground beside her, and Frank took his seat in the shade of the dispersing leaves. Cool autumn air ruffled their hair and rustled the foliage overhead. She said nothing as he tugged on the cuffs of his dress shirt. Thoughts hummed in Illi’s brain, crashing against each other until they fell into order.
“I kinda didn’t want you to know.”
Frank gave her a quizzical look.
“That I’m trans. I wanted you to look at me and just see a girl.”
“You are a girl.” Tilting his head slightly, Frank’s gaze swept over the outline of her side profile. She stared straight ahead, still sifting through her mind.
“Yeah. But I know what people think about me. I hear the way they hesitate before saying my name. Before calling me ‘she’. They don’t believe it, and for once, I wanted someone to believe it. You probably already knew, though.” She scoffed at herself. “I’m not exactly a covergirl for femininity.”
Frank leaned his head back, the rough bark of the tree brushing his scalp. His slow breaths lulled Illi into a peaceful rhythm.
“I didn’t know,” he said softly. “But nothing’s different now that I do. You’re Illi. That didn’t magically change.” She snorted.
“You’ve known me for less than a day.”
“Yeah, and you’ve already drawn my portrait, called me pretty, and yelled at me. I’ve got a fairly good idea of who you are.”
Illi held her hands up in resignation, then pulled her knees to her chest.
“Enough about my issues, what about you?” Quiet washed over them, Illi’s silence giving him space to speak, while Frank’s was thick and smothering. After a moment, she rested her head on her knees, staring sideways at him. “Not your issues, just you.”
With a shrug, he looked down at his lap, where he was wringing his hands together. Was this kid scared of her or just being humble?
“I’m an artist,” Illi said, trying to ease him into conversation. “I got really into working with ink recently, so my sketchbook is smudged to oblivion.” Frank perked up at this, his hands still clasped together but no longer twisting.
“I, uh, play guitar sometimes,” he admitted. With a raise of Illi’s eyebrows, he continued. “I’m in a band. Kinda. I’m taking a break because I don’t feel great at the minute.” His enthusiasm faded and the words became sharp against his tongue.
A band, huh?
“What’s it called?”
Wisps of fog snaked around him, tightening at his ankles and dragging him into the fragmented maze of his memory. A smile twitched on his face, then faltered, disappearing like a bird shot from the sky.
“We’ve changed it a few times, but we’re, uh, Mass Convulsions.” He didn’t meet her eye, as if he’d revealed a hideous, gaping wound that festered underneath his disheveled uniform. Illi clutched the ground on either side of where she sat.
Mass Convulsions was the gig Illi had returned home from a changed woman, concerning Mikey and their parents with a newfound determination to change the world, if only the one inside her head. Now the guitarist was on the ground beside her — and he was just a guy, the same way she was just a girl. She could deify a stranger, but he wasn’t a stranger anymore. The collision of her two worlds was surreal and made her insides curl. This was Frank, the highly strung sore thumb she’d only met that morning, who stuck up for her when no one else ever did. But it was also Frank, who thrashed around at damp, poorly air-conditioned house shows, charged by the buzz of his guitar strings and cheap craft beer.
“Holy tits dude, I saw you guys!” she exclaimed, squirming in place. “You played in what’s-his-face’s basement last month and I bought your CD!” A wave of bright red washed over his face again. She squinted at him. “You look way different, I didn’t even recognize you.” He looked duller than he had before, his eyes missing their twinkle, his body tense and closed off. Illi decided to keep that part to herself, for it probably wouldn’t have gone over well.
She didn’t need to say it, though, because Frank was already retreating into himself. He knew. Of course he knew. She leaned in and bumped his shoulder.
“Different doesn’t mean bad.” Her eyes drifted down to the collar of his shirt. “That’s different,” she said, nodding toward the tattoo hidden under its fabric. The new topic of conversation didn’t entice him much, as he gave her a weak nod and an unintelligible mumble.
Hoarse caws of flocking birds draped over the tension, hanging loosely and rippling with every flap of a wing. Frank’s expression bore a striking resemblance to the space they’d created. His mouth was pressed shut and his jaw strained from pressure with which he clenched it, while his uniform hung around him — soft from wear, except for the blazer, which was brand new and massive against his frame.
He clearly did not want to talk about his scorpion friend, so Illi backed off, relieving the pressure for him to answer, and instead letting him listen.
“That Mass Convulsions set literally changed my life. The whole time you guys were playing, all I could think was, ‘this is what living feels like’ and it was like I realized I’d been dead all along and my heart hadn’t been beating until you hotwired it right then. But then it was. It was pounding in my chest and I never wanted it to stop because if it did, my death would be ruined by a thirst for life.” At that moment, Illi pressed a hand to her chest, closing her eyes and swaying with the rhythm of her beating heart. “When you guys finished your set, I grabbed a CD from the merch stand and I listened to that album religiously for weeks because I couldn’t stand the thought of listening to anything else.” She opened her eyes.
Frank was watching her again. He’d fallen still, completely immersed and visibly touched by her words. He said nothing, just blinked at her slowly, cat-like. She flashed him a toothy smile.
“Anyway,” she continued, “when you start playing again, let me know so I can come drool over you.”
They talked for the better part of an hour, laughing and cracking jokes until the bell rang. Illi pushed herself off the ground with a groan and brushed herself off. Turning her back to Frank, who had risen from his seat against the tree, she motioned to her pants.
“Is my butt dirty?”
Frank snorted and leaned back to check.
“You’re good, the shit stain was there before you sat down,” he joked. She whirled around with a gasp and gently shoved his shoulder. Without another word, she took his hand and led him through the double doors at the side of the courtyard, up the stairs, and back into hell. Or as it was better known: Mr Rhodes' classroom.
It smelled vaguely of sulfur, which slowly became suffocating in his dutch oven of a classroom. Piercing gray eyes snapped up at them, Rhodes' expression hardening.
“You two.” He beckoned them over with a single finger. Illi dropped Frank’s clammy hand, realizing she was still clutching it. The two of them approached his desk, footsteps heavy against the floor, which seemed to have its own gravitational pull.
He scrawled something onto two red slips of paper, then slid them toward the pair of delinquents.
“You’re back in school, and you need to act like it. When you put on that uniform this morning, you agreed to be pupils at St. Matthew’s and that means you uphold the school’s values, whether you agree with them or not.” He lingered on Frank. “You, get that metal out of your face.” Gaze flitting between them, he tapped the papers, a dull thud resounding as his index fingers collided with the desk. “You both have lunchtime detention with me tomorrow. This is your first offence of the year, and it needs to be your last. Next time either of you talks back, you’re getting more than a slap on the wrist.” He glared at them. “Get these signed by your parents.”
“I’m eighteen, I have legal autonomy!” Illi exclaimed.
“And I’m fifty three, deal with it.”
She snatched the slip of paper in a huff, stormed to the door, then paused until Frank reappeared by her side. It was 5 minutes past the last bell, which was far too long for Illi’s liking. Next objective: get the hell out of there. Her bag crashed into her thigh as a speedwalk turned into a jog, turned into a sprint. Huffs of laughter from Frank only made her go faster – test how far she could go before he got fed up with her and stopped running. Pretty far, it turned out, because Illi was the first one to slow down, gasping for air and clutching her knees.
Still panting, she gestured down the road to her right. “I’m going this way.” Frank readjusted the straps of his bag.
“Me too.”
After a minute of recuperation, the two headed down the street. Quiet again, but comfortable. The allure had returned to the route that she’d walked hundreds of times, fresh and exciting in the presence of this not-quite stranger. She noticed for the first time in years. Noticed the power lines that stretched across the sky and the birds that huddled together on them. A pair of crows sat separate from the rest, unmoving, except to turn their heads and meet the other in a polyphony of unsaid words. Beady eye to beady eye. Just like them, she thought.
Hardly any other words were exchanged until Frank had to split off down an unfamiliar road, where the sidewalk was overgrown with weeds and the asphalt was littered with cracks. With a wave, Illi watched him shrink into the distance and turn back a few times to smile at her.
She walked the rest of the way home with an image of him burned into her retinas and his voice still ringing in her ears. What a day.
The front door slammed behind her as she kicked her shoes off in the landing and rushed upstairs, where she peeled off her uniform and dropped it in a heap on the floor of her and Mikey’s shared bedroom. He could complain about it later (and he would). With one arm through the neck hole of a ripped up band shirt, she reached for the Mass Convulsions CD laid like a sacrifice on the altar of her desk.
Maybe Frank burned it himself. She smiled at the image of him hunched over at a computer, turning out copy upon copy by the dim light of a single lamp. Maybe he drew the design on the label, too. She popped it into her CD player, then put her arm through the correct hole in her shirt and pressed play.
This time, she really listened, letting the music flow through her and take her back to that night. She spent the whole thirty-something minutes sprawled out on her bed, eyes closed in deep concentration. Suddenly she was drifting among the stars, basking in the glow of their dying light. Time had no bearing on her anymore and she was free to float in the space between space itself.
When the music slowed to its end, she stayed there for who-knows-how-long with a cavity in her chest where the melody had just been. Finally, she took a deep breath and forced her eyes open. Mikey’s foot dangled from the top bunk.
“Didn’t realize you were home,” she murmured, kicking his mattress gently.
“You seemed busy. I didn’t wanna disturb you,” he replied. There was a shuffling above her and Mikey’s foot disappeared into his sanctuary. “Everything okay?” He was talking about the reappearance of that album. Thinly veiled worry coagulated in his throat and struck Illi in the chest, twisting in the empty space left when the music stopped. God, she needed everyone to stop treating her like she was made of porcelain.
“Do you remember when I went to that gig?”
Mikey paused. “Yeah?”
“I met the guitarist today,” she said, smiling through her fingers. Mikey’s head appeared, upside down and smirking, his hair unmoving and plastered to his head. “He got us kicked out of chemistry and scored us a lunchtime detention.” Mikey’s smirk turned into a grin.
“Shit, what did he do?”
Illi crossed her forearms over her face, hiding the flames that had crept into her cheeks. “He stood up for me when Mr Rhodes called me the wrong name.”
He hummed, amused. “He’s in love with you for sure,” he joked. When Illi groaned and kicked the air, he softened. “You really like him, huh?”
With a flinch, she propped herself up on her elbows. “Not like that, dickface.” When her face burned even redder, she groaned again. “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably. Shut up.” She rolled over, shoving her feelings into her pillow. This was not going to get in the way of their friendship. Not if she could help it. If she had to push her feelings down and pretend everything was fine and normal, then so be it.
Mikey retreated into the top bunk. “If he ever hurts you, just know that I’m not above murder.” She laughed, too loud and too uncomfortable. “Be careful, Ills.” That was where the conversation ended.