Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Damned If I Do Ya (Damned If I Don't)
A/N: GUYS. You commented and rated my last chapter too? :'D I LOVE YOU. FREE COOKIES FOR EVERYBODY. Yes well. Here is the next chapter, Frank's point of view. Enjoy!
The weekend passes by in a blur of empty boxes and coffee cups, and Sunday evening comes around all too quickly. I can’t help but dread the prospect of having to enrol at my new school tomorrow. At least I know one person going, not that I expect him to acknowledge me or anything, I am pretty sure he doesn’t want me as a friend. Speaking of whom, I haven’t seen him since he barged out of my house, not bothering to give an explanation as to where he was going.
That doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about him, though. On the contrary, I can’t seem to stop thinking about him.
My face strives for the tickle of his breath, my body strives for an electric touch between us, and I can only hope I won’t make a fool of myself in front of him again. Of course, the way to make sure that never happens is to stay away from him, but neither me or my Gerard-obsessed brain are prepared to do that.
I cannot deny the fact that I want him. Badly. But I know he’s just too… insanely out of my league. Not to mention straight. Ugh.
To vent my frustration, I scoop up my battered acoustic guitar and strum out chord after chord furiously, thanking God this room is soundproofed. Mom knows I only ever play like this when I’m pissed. My fingers start to hurt and even bleed because I‘m not using a pick, but I have to keep going. Playing guitar is familiar, and it’s the only home comfort I have left, everything else has been taken away from me. The song is unrecognisable, it changes from Dark Side of the Moon, to Jealous Again, to Astro Zombies. It’s messy, unrefined and ridiculous, but even after 10 minutes or so, I begin to feel calmer, more ready to face the challenges ahead.
One of said challenges is having to face Gerard tomorrow.
Oh God.
*
The moment I step onto the grounds of the school I know this is a bad idea.
I decided this morning to go for the ‘I’m-the-new-kid-and-this-is-who-I-am-so-accept-it-or-fuck-off’ approach.
So basically, I am wearing my favourite eyeliner smudged generously around my eye sockets, my mini-Mohawk is gelled down so my bangs cover half my face, all black clothes, and red earrings that are designed to stretch the lobe.
Not to mention the sour expression on my face to match the faggy-emo-punk kid look.
Everybody turns to stare at me and I hear whispers of “the new kid” mingled with a few “what the fuck?”s and even some “poor kid”s which, I guess, means there is some sort of bully around here, and I look like his prey.
Fabulous.
I never really had a problem with bullies at my old school, just a bit of name calling and a few punches thrown here and there, but I could handle it.
To my immense relief, the bell goes and everyone shifts their focus from me, to their impending classes. I wander around aimlessly for a while, knowing that at some point I will have to try and locate the Head’s office and be sent off to class.
I signed up for English, Biology, Music, Geography and Maths. English and Music being the only things I am remotely good at, I never really try at anything else.
The secretary raises her eyebrows at me until they disappear behind her bangs, and after the initial shock of seeing me, drawls something unrecognisable into the phone on her desk.
I hear a faint ‘Alright, send him in’ and stand up tall, ready to face my new Head.
“You can go in.” the secretary says robotically, returning to the hard work of filing her nails, chewing gum, and bidding for something on eBay.
The door to the Head’s office swings open before I can get to it, and I am ushered in by what seems to be a Hobbit. He is shorter than me wearing a frayed old suit, huge glasses that make him look like an owl, and stupid comb-over, trying to hide the fact he has about 3 strands of hair left. He stutters something in my direction and I sit at his desk across from him.
He seems to want to talk to me as little as possible, which is fine by me, as he just asks a few generic questions and blurts “Here’s your timetable Mr. Iero, and a map. Thank you for joining us here at Belleville High” I try my very hardest not to roll my eyes at him, and trudge out of his office, my Converses squeaking against the polished wood floor.
I groan in frustration when I notice I have Biology first, and now that everyone has gone to class, I will have to walk in alone.
I knock timidly on the wooden door, on it a plaque etched with ‘S4 - Mr. Lincoln’ and draw in a breath, waiting for the jeers and vicious whispers to commence. However, when I am told to come in, silence descends on the class, and I shuffle head down, to a vacant seat at the front trying to ignore the 30 pairs of eyes all trained on me.
“As I was saying…” the teacher drones on, turning back to the board and he seems to have ignored my entrance, which I am immensely grateful for.
I slump down on the uncomfortable stool, throw my bag on the floor and rest my head in my hands.
“Th-the Misfits? Cool, I like them too” a timid voice suddenly stutters next to me, they must have noticed my badges, and I grunt in reply.
I’m not going to even try to make friends here.
While unpacking my bag I turn slightly so I can observe the guy sat next to me. He looks young, younger than me, and I can only really describe him as… odd. He has glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose, poker straight brown hair, and a Ramones t-shirt covering his slouched, bony frame. This guy looks alright, so I decide to make him my acquaintance, seeing as I will have to sit next to him for the rest of the year at least.
“I’m Frank” I sigh and continue, “you look real young, no offence or anything, but are you sure you’re in the right class?” Oh shit. He looks offended. First prize for excellent tact goes to Frank Iero.
“Mikey. And yes, I’m in the right class, thanks. I was just bumped up a year to this class.” Then he frowns, as if contemplating something of great importance, “And um… did you… move in to No. 70 Salter Place on the, er, weekend?”
What? Are you actually kidding me? I don’t need anyone else at this school knowing where I live, so I just ignore this and gush “Woah. So, you’re like, really good at Biology, or something?” I widen my eyes and lean towards him a little, and he shifts backwards, as I expected.
I find flattery can always warm someone’s opinion towards you, he looks startled, blinks quickly and pushes up his glasses, mumbling
“Well. I was actually put up a whole year, in-in everything” suddenly, his cheeks flush pink and he visibly shrinks away from me, ashamed.
“Woah” I repeat, actually stunned this time. This kid must be smart as fuck, I’ve never heard of anyone being put up a whole year before.
We carry on exchanging information about ourselves and it turns out we have a lot in common, he likes the Smiths, Black Flag, Star Wars, and he even plays guitar, like me.
… Maybe one friend.
“I guess we’ll have music together next, too then” he whispers and smiles, “I play bass, you?”
“Acoustic” but I add “I’m not very good, it’s more of a hobby, y’know?”
This is mostly true, and I know it sounds lame, but I do want to play in a band one day.
The bell goes and everyone packs their bags lazily, reluctant to go to the next lesson, but I can’t wait. Mikey said the music programme here is great, but that the guitars are shitty, so I make a mental note to bring mine to school everyday.
Mikey and I walk to Music together, enthusing about various bands and their members, and then sit next to each other. I decide I like this kid, despite myself, it feels like I have known him for way more than an hour, and I even agree to sit with him and his friends at lunch. Sociable and Frank Iero usually don’t go in the same sentence, but I just can’t seem to say no today.
Music turns out to be pretty awesome. Mikey is immense at bass, his fingers fly over the strings with alarming speed and precision, and we just end up jamming to the Misfits together, completely oblivious to the venomous glances being thrown at us from around the room. I’m not too keen on the crappy ‘Music Department’ branded acoustic I’ve been stuck with, but it’ll do.
The teacher is a total hippie, her hair is long and blonde, and she wears hideous tie-dye clothes which physically hurt your eyes if you look at them long enough. She is a brilliant teacher. And by brilliant, I mean she sits around drinking out of a flask and lets us do pretty much what we want.
Its over all too quickly and I help Mikey put away his bass, but I never touch it, as I found out earlier that it is more important to him than comics, his straighteners and well, his life.
“CAREFUL WITH TREVOR!” he screams at me when I tuck the shoulder strap into the case, swatting my hands out of the way with his extremely bony ones.
“Ouwwch!” I complain, “Dude, please don’t call your guitar by its name in public. Its an inanimate object. Calm it.”
Still breathing heavily and tenderly stroking ‘Trevor’ he turns to me, stunned. “You haven’t given your guitar a name?!”
“Er… no. It’s not something normal people tend to do. Plus, as I said before, it‘s more of a hobby than a…”
“Frank, you’re fucking good at guitar, okay? You will get attached to yours whether you like it or not. It’s gonna need a name sooner or later.” He sighs when I roll my eyes dramatically at him, and continues “C’mon, my brother is waiting outside, he’s in our year too.”
Then he smirks a little for some reason, and I follow him out and find myself face to face with-
Oh.
A/N: Dun dun DUN. Hope you liked it :D Tell me what you think please :) I like this one a little better than chapter 3 hehe. OH AND ANOTHER IN GERARD'S POINT OF VIEW NEXT. Gosh I am good to you people. LUV YA! xo
The weekend passes by in a blur of empty boxes and coffee cups, and Sunday evening comes around all too quickly. I can’t help but dread the prospect of having to enrol at my new school tomorrow. At least I know one person going, not that I expect him to acknowledge me or anything, I am pretty sure he doesn’t want me as a friend. Speaking of whom, I haven’t seen him since he barged out of my house, not bothering to give an explanation as to where he was going.
That doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about him, though. On the contrary, I can’t seem to stop thinking about him.
My face strives for the tickle of his breath, my body strives for an electric touch between us, and I can only hope I won’t make a fool of myself in front of him again. Of course, the way to make sure that never happens is to stay away from him, but neither me or my Gerard-obsessed brain are prepared to do that.
I cannot deny the fact that I want him. Badly. But I know he’s just too… insanely out of my league. Not to mention straight. Ugh.
To vent my frustration, I scoop up my battered acoustic guitar and strum out chord after chord furiously, thanking God this room is soundproofed. Mom knows I only ever play like this when I’m pissed. My fingers start to hurt and even bleed because I‘m not using a pick, but I have to keep going. Playing guitar is familiar, and it’s the only home comfort I have left, everything else has been taken away from me. The song is unrecognisable, it changes from Dark Side of the Moon, to Jealous Again, to Astro Zombies. It’s messy, unrefined and ridiculous, but even after 10 minutes or so, I begin to feel calmer, more ready to face the challenges ahead.
One of said challenges is having to face Gerard tomorrow.
Oh God.
*
The moment I step onto the grounds of the school I know this is a bad idea.
I decided this morning to go for the ‘I’m-the-new-kid-and-this-is-who-I-am-so-accept-it-or-fuck-off’ approach.
So basically, I am wearing my favourite eyeliner smudged generously around my eye sockets, my mini-Mohawk is gelled down so my bangs cover half my face, all black clothes, and red earrings that are designed to stretch the lobe.
Not to mention the sour expression on my face to match the faggy-emo-punk kid look.
Everybody turns to stare at me and I hear whispers of “the new kid” mingled with a few “what the fuck?”s and even some “poor kid”s which, I guess, means there is some sort of bully around here, and I look like his prey.
Fabulous.
I never really had a problem with bullies at my old school, just a bit of name calling and a few punches thrown here and there, but I could handle it.
To my immense relief, the bell goes and everyone shifts their focus from me, to their impending classes. I wander around aimlessly for a while, knowing that at some point I will have to try and locate the Head’s office and be sent off to class.
I signed up for English, Biology, Music, Geography and Maths. English and Music being the only things I am remotely good at, I never really try at anything else.
The secretary raises her eyebrows at me until they disappear behind her bangs, and after the initial shock of seeing me, drawls something unrecognisable into the phone on her desk.
I hear a faint ‘Alright, send him in’ and stand up tall, ready to face my new Head.
“You can go in.” the secretary says robotically, returning to the hard work of filing her nails, chewing gum, and bidding for something on eBay.
The door to the Head’s office swings open before I can get to it, and I am ushered in by what seems to be a Hobbit. He is shorter than me wearing a frayed old suit, huge glasses that make him look like an owl, and stupid comb-over, trying to hide the fact he has about 3 strands of hair left. He stutters something in my direction and I sit at his desk across from him.
He seems to want to talk to me as little as possible, which is fine by me, as he just asks a few generic questions and blurts “Here’s your timetable Mr. Iero, and a map. Thank you for joining us here at Belleville High” I try my very hardest not to roll my eyes at him, and trudge out of his office, my Converses squeaking against the polished wood floor.
I groan in frustration when I notice I have Biology first, and now that everyone has gone to class, I will have to walk in alone.
I knock timidly on the wooden door, on it a plaque etched with ‘S4 - Mr. Lincoln’ and draw in a breath, waiting for the jeers and vicious whispers to commence. However, when I am told to come in, silence descends on the class, and I shuffle head down, to a vacant seat at the front trying to ignore the 30 pairs of eyes all trained on me.
“As I was saying…” the teacher drones on, turning back to the board and he seems to have ignored my entrance, which I am immensely grateful for.
I slump down on the uncomfortable stool, throw my bag on the floor and rest my head in my hands.
“Th-the Misfits? Cool, I like them too” a timid voice suddenly stutters next to me, they must have noticed my badges, and I grunt in reply.
I’m not going to even try to make friends here.
While unpacking my bag I turn slightly so I can observe the guy sat next to me. He looks young, younger than me, and I can only really describe him as… odd. He has glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose, poker straight brown hair, and a Ramones t-shirt covering his slouched, bony frame. This guy looks alright, so I decide to make him my acquaintance, seeing as I will have to sit next to him for the rest of the year at least.
“I’m Frank” I sigh and continue, “you look real young, no offence or anything, but are you sure you’re in the right class?” Oh shit. He looks offended. First prize for excellent tact goes to Frank Iero.
“Mikey. And yes, I’m in the right class, thanks. I was just bumped up a year to this class.” Then he frowns, as if contemplating something of great importance, “And um… did you… move in to No. 70 Salter Place on the, er, weekend?”
What? Are you actually kidding me? I don’t need anyone else at this school knowing where I live, so I just ignore this and gush “Woah. So, you’re like, really good at Biology, or something?” I widen my eyes and lean towards him a little, and he shifts backwards, as I expected.
I find flattery can always warm someone’s opinion towards you, he looks startled, blinks quickly and pushes up his glasses, mumbling
“Well. I was actually put up a whole year, in-in everything” suddenly, his cheeks flush pink and he visibly shrinks away from me, ashamed.
“Woah” I repeat, actually stunned this time. This kid must be smart as fuck, I’ve never heard of anyone being put up a whole year before.
We carry on exchanging information about ourselves and it turns out we have a lot in common, he likes the Smiths, Black Flag, Star Wars, and he even plays guitar, like me.
… Maybe one friend.
“I guess we’ll have music together next, too then” he whispers and smiles, “I play bass, you?”
“Acoustic” but I add “I’m not very good, it’s more of a hobby, y’know?”
This is mostly true, and I know it sounds lame, but I do want to play in a band one day.
The bell goes and everyone packs their bags lazily, reluctant to go to the next lesson, but I can’t wait. Mikey said the music programme here is great, but that the guitars are shitty, so I make a mental note to bring mine to school everyday.
Mikey and I walk to Music together, enthusing about various bands and their members, and then sit next to each other. I decide I like this kid, despite myself, it feels like I have known him for way more than an hour, and I even agree to sit with him and his friends at lunch. Sociable and Frank Iero usually don’t go in the same sentence, but I just can’t seem to say no today.
Music turns out to be pretty awesome. Mikey is immense at bass, his fingers fly over the strings with alarming speed and precision, and we just end up jamming to the Misfits together, completely oblivious to the venomous glances being thrown at us from around the room. I’m not too keen on the crappy ‘Music Department’ branded acoustic I’ve been stuck with, but it’ll do.
The teacher is a total hippie, her hair is long and blonde, and she wears hideous tie-dye clothes which physically hurt your eyes if you look at them long enough. She is a brilliant teacher. And by brilliant, I mean she sits around drinking out of a flask and lets us do pretty much what we want.
Its over all too quickly and I help Mikey put away his bass, but I never touch it, as I found out earlier that it is more important to him than comics, his straighteners and well, his life.
“CAREFUL WITH TREVOR!” he screams at me when I tuck the shoulder strap into the case, swatting my hands out of the way with his extremely bony ones.
“Ouwwch!” I complain, “Dude, please don’t call your guitar by its name in public. Its an inanimate object. Calm it.”
Still breathing heavily and tenderly stroking ‘Trevor’ he turns to me, stunned. “You haven’t given your guitar a name?!”
“Er… no. It’s not something normal people tend to do. Plus, as I said before, it‘s more of a hobby than a…”
“Frank, you’re fucking good at guitar, okay? You will get attached to yours whether you like it or not. It’s gonna need a name sooner or later.” He sighs when I roll my eyes dramatically at him, and continues “C’mon, my brother is waiting outside, he’s in our year too.”
Then he smirks a little for some reason, and I follow him out and find myself face to face with-
Oh.
A/N: Dun dun DUN. Hope you liked it :D Tell me what you think please :) I like this one a little better than chapter 3 hehe. OH AND ANOTHER IN GERARD'S POINT OF VIEW NEXT. Gosh I am good to you people. LUV YA! xo
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