While Emo Kid truly believed that no one (with the possible exception of his new friend the raccoon) could possibly understand the depths of his tortured soul, there was one person in whom he confided anyway.
Kimberly Patterson, while not a member of the Emo clan, was what he considered a “sympathetic soul”. The soul in question, comfortably couched in the body which currently resided in the front seat of her mother’s sedan, suddenly felt a strong urge to look out the vehicle’s window. The sight that met her eyes temporarily stunned her; she cried out “Mom, stop!” but it was already too late. They had whizzed through the intersection and past the manhole—the manhole which she could have sworn had just opened to let through the bedraggled, eyeliner-streaked head of her best friend.
Said friend began to raise his hand to flag down the car, which he thought he recognized, but realized at the last moment that this would probably cause him to fall back down into the sewer. Instead, he dragged himself the last couple of feet onto the pavement, where he lay prone, ignoring the alarmed gazes of passers-by.
After several minutes, Emo Kid had at last gathered the energy to struggle to his feet. Fortunately his journey had not taken him far; he was, in fact, just two blocks from the place where he had been assailed by the Jock. He briefly considered going back to the alley in search of his backpack, but thought better of it. Instead, he turned and began staggering in the direction of his house.
It took him only fifteen minutes to arrive at his front door, but it felt like fifteen hours. He leaned lethargically against the door, struggling with the knob until it finally gave way and he lurched into the house. His mother was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of coffee and reading a magazine.
“Hey, hon. How was school?” She asked, not looking up.
“School, which ended two hours ago, was torture, as usual,” Emo Kid muttered. “However, what happened after school was much worse–”
“That’s nice,” his mother murmured absentmindedly. “Gotta keep those grades up. Have you made any new friends?”
“Emo Kid sighed, flopping into a chair. “I made friends with a raccoon, I guess.” Seeing that his mother still was not devoting her attention to him, he continued. “Oh, and the team quarterback. We’re best pals. He gave me these earrings.”
His mother’s eyes flickered unseeingly towards his ears. “Very nice dear,” she said almost inaudibly. “Though you know how I feel about you and those pierced ears.”
“Well, he liked them,” Emo Kid sniffed. “His name is, uh, Quigley. We’re going to Canada to get married,” he added, inspired.
For a moment it seemed that her attention was caught at last. “Canada? Fascinating,” she mumbled, taking another sip of coffee.
Emo Kid began to speak again, then sighed. What was the point? Instead, he pulled himself out of the chair and limped pathetically towards the bathroom.
“Your father and I are going out tonight, so you’ll have to get your own dinner,” his mother called after him. “Step-father,” Emo Kid muttered to himself, slamming the bathroom door shut.
Two hours (and three shampoos, two exfoliating body scrubs, and a very long session with his mother’s hairdryer) later, Emo Kid emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam. He briefly considered reapplying his makeup, but changed his mind when his eye fell on his guitar case.
“Let’s see,” he muttered to himself as he sat down on his bed, clutching the precious instrument close. He strummed a melancholy chord.
“I CAN’T,” he bellowed soulfully, “I can’t,” his voice dropped to a whisper. “I can’t get over you…the way you look at me with tearful eyes so blue…I can’t get oh-oh-oh-ver you…so you’ll have to move aside and let me through.”