Cheer me up, cheer me, up I'm a miserable fuck
Cheer me up, cheer me, up I'm a tireless bore
Cheer me up, cheer me, I'm invisibly stuck all in myself
Yes I'm a vanity whore

"Kid Gloves" - Voxtrot

"This is bullshit," Michael Lynch's nasally voice made itself evident against the silence of the cold, winter air. Henrietta had suggested they all go to the Village Inn instead of participating in organized education. Except the Village Inn was closed and Henrietta Biggle's plan had crumbled beneath the veil of reality. Michael stomped on the butt of his cigarette before pulling another from the nearly empty pack, "what the fuck do we do now?"

The neon sign in front of the building was missing some of the letters, so it read 'Viage n', a pseudonym freshman hipsters adopted and used to refer to the café. For the present misery quartet, it would always be the Village Inn.

"We aren't going back to school, that's for fucking sure," Pete emphasized, picking at his fingers, a nervous habit he had developed in grade school, "Let's go to Henrietta's house."

"Dude," the aforementioned girl chimed in, "why is it always my house?!"

"Because all our records, books, movies and other forms of media under the category of goth-as-shit are in your room."

"Fair enough," and they shuffled back into Michael Lynch's car, the steady vroom of the motor accentuating the bass from the radio. Siouxsie Sioux's vocals further set the mood as they sat in their regular configuration: Michael taking the front seat with Firkle in the passenger's seat, leaving Henrietta and Pete to encompass the roomy back.

This is how their Mondays usually went, they'd skip school and end up in Henrietta's room with no parental supervision for about 7h.

Upon arrival, Firkle nearly leapt out of the vehicle and waited impatiently at the front door while the chubby girl fiddled with her keys: "Calm down, dude."

Her room smelled vaguely of incense and strongly of cigarette smoke and hairspray. Peter Grey was the first to sit down, taking his place on the floor with his back against her bed. She sat across from him and on either of their sides sat Firkle and Michael.

"Can we talk about how Bebe fucking Stevens asked me to the prom?" and their regular banter ensued, in which Michael denounced even the idea of prom and Henrietta's eyes scanned Pete who sighed inaudibly.

"Maybe prom isn't so shit, Michael," Pete offered, "I mean, yeah, Stevens is a poser douche-bag but," he paused, Michael arched a brow, "it would be cool to go with someone you like. Like, not attend just... y'know, the sentiment of asking someone to a shitty poser high school dance. The ideal of every indie teenage angst love story."

Henrietta stood up, delivered a "I'll be right back," and left the room, leaving the boys on their own. Firkle leaned against the wall and played with his dark grey lighter while Michael shifted closer to his other friend.

He was so close, Pete could swear he could feel his breath ghost across his lips when he spoke, "you really think that?" and his throat constricted so he didn't answer. Michael took it as a prompt to elaborate, "that prom thing, I mean."

"Uh," he breathed, "yeah..."

"Do you wanna go, then?" he began, "with me. We can just sit on the parking lot and smoke."

Just as Pete was about to answer, the door clicked open and Henrietta walked back inside, drying her hands on the sides of her dress and nudging the door shut.

"I'll tell you later," Peter whispered to his friend before averting his attention to Henrietta Biggle, who sat back down on the floor and lit a cigarette, the holder making it tough for her to align the flame. She inhaled deeply and then sighed.

"You guys, we cannot stay in all day," she droned, "the entire point of going to The fucking Village Inn was to avoid being hermits at least a bit. But it seems like all our options include giving into the dogma of teenage socialization."

"What do you suggest?" Firkle piped in, having been quiet until that point. He ruffled his hair and waited for a response.

There was none. Michael sighed wearily before getting up, "I say we all go home and then meet up later this evening at the graveyard," and hastily adding, "with alcohol."

Pete's voice was caught in his throat as he coughed, "Dude, I can't walk home."

"I'll drop you off," he offered in a way that made Pete's chest tighten so all he could do was nod.

Henrietta showed them all out and they concluded they would contemplate the details via text. "Tell me when you assholes wanna meet up," as Firkle eloquently put it.

The walk to Michael's car felt like an eternity for Pete, the sudden change in temperature seemed to affect him more than usual and his hands felt like icicles before he climbed into the passenger's seat and fumbled around with the seatbelt with shaky hands. The door closed shut and he turned to look at Michael.

He looked menacing like that, one hand on the wheel and the other releasing the parking brake. Pete tried to avert his eyes when he caught himself staring. Michael's features were intense, focused, and the shadows of his face made him look intimidating. Pete quickly turned to gaze out the window, huffing under his breath.

"So," Michael began, "prom. Or should I take your silence as a subtle, yet stern rejection?"

Pete almost laughed, but it came out as more of a scoff, "Don't say that," he said, before adding, "I'd love to."

Silence.

Doubt seemed to overtake Pete's mind as he wondered if he had said the wrong thing. Had he sounded too eager? Michael shifted gears and Pete realized he didn't recognize the area they were in.

"Where are we going?"

"Wasting my dad's gas," was the only answer Michael gave, "we'll go to your place in a bit."

Peter Grey accepted this answer as he knew the disdain Michael bore towards his father. Pete wasn't exactly a fan either, so he could hardly argue. The air conditioning of the car produced a steady whir, heating up the vehicle sufficiently. The Cure served as a white noise for when the conversation went silent.

They drove around the town before returning to familiar grounds, the car slowing down to a halt outside of Pete's house. His chest felt tight again as he got out of the vehicle and waded through the snow to the front door. Michael waved a goodbye through the window and Pete's expression changed into the closest thing to a smile he was capable of.