C H A P T E R F O U R — P O R E S

"Before the period ends, I'd like to make an announcement. As you all know, today is the one month anniversary... of the tragedy at Melody Lane... and the murder of Mike Newton."

"Boring," my voice rings out. Any bell like qualities it might have possessed are gone. My tone is dull and flat and human.

"Jesus," Jessica begins.

Lauren finishes with, "what a bitch!"

"As I was saying, Jennifer and Needy," he pauses long enough to throw us both a patronizing look before continuing on with his speech. "I finally have some good news to share with all of you. The members of the rock and roll group Low Shoulder have decided to extend a helping hand to our community. As you all know, their song, 'Through The Trees,' has become our unofficial anthem of unity and healing. And they have decided to release it as a benefit single. Three percent of the profits will go to local families who have been affected by loss."

"What about the other 97 percent? I mean that's just crass right?" Needy questions, baffled.

At the blank looks of the classmates, and Mr. Molina, our science teacher I elaborate, "Crass. It means greedy, exploitive, scummy."

"Like, no way would, like, crass and Low Shoulder even, like, exist in the same world as, like, each other." Every other word coming out of Jessica's mouth is 'like.'

"Low Shoulder are totally American heroes..." She trails off, as if distracted by steady stream of air breezing through her ears. "Like totally," she says finally. Every other word coming out of her mouth is 'totally.'

I roll my eyes. Sneering, "me thinks thou dost protesteth too mucheth." It's been 29 days and 7 hours and 45 minutes since I took a big bite out of Mike Newton and already my voice is sounding dull and flat.

Needy, bless her heart, refutes Lauren and Jessica's claims. Says, how we were there. Says, how they didn't help anyone escape the fire. Says, how it's all just one big rumor. Says, how they probably started the fire.

"Rumor?" Jessica screeches. "Rumor?" She's standing up in her seat, indignant. I roll my eyes, surprised that she completed a sentence without 'like' stuffed in between every other word.

I haven't looked in a mirror for weeks, but it's like I can just feel the imperfections marring my once perfect face.

"It's totally true," Lauren sneers, flipping her dull and oily hair behind her shoulders. "It's on the Wikipedia."

"We wouldn't even know who they were if they weren't playing that night. They used us."

Jessica is off her seat so fast that it falls backward. Recoiling off of the floor. Her pointer aimed at my bestie, she screeches, "you take that back Needy Webber!"

I am boiling inside, I dubbed thee Angela Webber, Needy, and I feel protective of the name now that it is being used in vain by Jessica.

"Girls-" Mr. Molina reprimands.

"We need them now more than ever," Lauren drones on, admiring her nails. Which are short and stubby.

My nails, which are sharp, even though they are no longer perfectly manicured, grate into the surface of the desk.

"That's enough!" Mr. Molina shouts. He is drowned out by the sound of the bell going off, and in an instant we are all out of our seats.

"I'm already sick of that song," Needy tells me.

"Yeah, it's really poorly produced. I mean could the bass be any lower in the mix?" I question.

"No offense," Needy says. "But you look really tired. Is everything OK?"

"No, I feel like boo-boo." I tell her. Suddenly feeling as horrible as I'm sure I look at this point. "My skin is breaking out, and my hair is dull and lifeless. God, it's like I'm one of the normal girls." I say this so casually I almost flip my shit. Dropping words like normal like I'm not… Normal that is.

Needy takes this as a comment about my self-assuredness, my beauty. My dominant attitude, my usual dose of bitchiness.

"Are you PMSing or something?" She wonders idly.

"PMS isn't real Needy." I give her a scathing look. "It was invented by the boy-run media to make us seem crazy."

"Don't look at me like that," I tell her. Paranoid all of a sudden. Jittery.

"It's just wearing off or something," I mumble to myself. Sneaking a glance at myself in Needy's glasses. Even in the small frames I can tell that I look seriously fucked up.

"What's wearing off?" Needy wonders, interrupting my musing.

"Hello, Needy." Erik greets, all slick black hair and pierced and emo and shit.

"Hi," she greets him in return.

"Jennifer," he says, biting his lip, running his tongue over his piercing. Looking up and down my body.

"Erik," I reply. Bored. Admiring the network of bluish colored strings weaving up his neck.

"Can I borrow your English homework again? I forgot to read Hamlet." He says, running his hand through his hair. Flicking his tongue from between his teeth, licking his lips.

"Is he gonna fuck his mom?" I question with a blank look. Practically drooling at the sight of Erik Yorkie. At the sight of his carotid artery. At the sight of his yummy blood running through his veins.

"No— I don't— I don't— I don't think so." He says, chuckling lightly. He turns to me, smirking, and says, "Um, I actually wanted to ask you something."

"You wanna know if I'll go out with you?"

He tries to protest, but is stopped by my indigent snort. Tyler Yorkie is not the first to proposition me and will certainly not be the last.

Roman, he used to keep the sharks at bay, his presence alone enough to ward off the unwanted affection offered by other boys.

Roman with his bulging biceps and 6'5" height, he could keep Muhammad Ali from fucking with me.

"How'd you know," he wonders. Tonguing the metal adorning his lower lip.

"Just go ahead with the pitch."

"Okay. Um— well, we've been having a lot of fun in class, you and I, and I thought that maybe you'd like to go see a movie or something. There's a, uh, midnight showing of Rocky Horror at the Bijou next weekend—"

"I don't like boxing movies," I cut him off.

"Yeah, but it's not— it's not a... fucking boxing movie. Um, fuck it. Okay. Forget it." He mutters, sauntering off. I admire the way that the purplish blue swirls travel up and down his forearms as he walks away. A month later, and I'm feeling the effects of not feeding.

"That was random," Needy cuts in.

"I'm used to boys asking me out Needy," I tell her. Because pre and post Roman Bella attracted a lot of attention.

"Erik is really nice."

"He's into maggot rock. He wears nail polish. My dick is bigger than his."

"Well, I think that he's really cool."

"You do?" I wonder, incredulous.

"Yeah."

"Wait, Erik." I call out after him. "Why don't you come by my place tonight? I just got Aquamarine on DVD. It's about a girl who's half-sushi. I guess she has sex through her blow hole or something."

"OK," he says, smiling crooked.

"OK," I chorus. Telling him, "I'll text you my address."

..

I'm standing half-naked in my lingerie, a spoonful of Half-Baked between my teeth, when Erik walks into "my place." Really, it's a drug house my father busted a year and a half ago that no one claimed. It's been abandoned ever since the drug raid and doesn't have a door from where the police knocked the old one down. In summary it is a piece of shit but has the added advantage of being void of a certain chief of police snoring in one of the bedrooms.

"You made it," I tell him, admiring the way his pants bulge in response to my lack of clothing. I saunter up to him, grasping the carton of ice cream in one hand and the spoon in the other.

"This isn't really your house is it?"

"No baby," I purr, slipping a spoonful of Half-Baked between his lips. "This is our house, just for you and me." The spoon in his mouth, my other hand free, I rip open his shirt, the buttons falling on the ground. I dip my hand into the carton, lathering it with ice cream, smoothing Ben & Jerry's over the planes of Erik's chest. "We can play Mommy and Daddy," I whisper into his ear.

"Do you even know my last name?"

"Yorkie," I whisper to him, my tongue capturing the ice cream from his chest. "I've been sending you signals all year. Couldn't you tell? You give me such a wettie." I tell him, moaning into his chest.

He's distracted by the mouse that skitters across the floor. By the insects surrounding the candles that I lit for lighting. For incense. For a romantic vibe.

"What? Are you scared? I thought boys like you were supposed to be really into vermin and death and shit." I tell him.

I slide the zipper of his jeans down, telling him, "Nice hardware Ace."

Capturing his mouth in mine. Leading him towards the bed. This is all happening so fast and not fast enough.

My mouth on his neck, on the network of veins that drew us together. I tell him, "I need you frightened."

My hands taking off his pants. I tell him, "I need you hopeless."

My mouth opening wider, my tongue running along my sharp teeth. I tell him, "hopeless. Hopeless. Hopeless."

Me pushing him into the mattress in the corner of the room. Me straddling his thighs, my hands pressing him into the mattress with holes on it from who knows where, I take a bite into Erik Yorkie.

Telling him, "hopeless. Hopeless. Hopeless." Until his pulse is gone and his body turns cold.

Still in my underwear. Covered in blood. Erik's blood. I retrieve the Half-Baked from where I left in the middle of the room. Sitting next to Erik's body, my bloody hands dipping into the carton. I suck on my ice cream covered fingers.

Telling him," hopeless. Hopeless. Hopeless."