![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gala_applesDay One- Part Two
Mikey’s known Pete for seventeen years, both born to houses on Chessem Bay. It’s not eternity; if things work out positively it won’t even be a third of his life. That being said, it’s definitely long enough to know that Pete’s a jerk. Not a massive one, he’s no Parker James, beating up people who enjoy the gentleman’s game of chess. But he’s not particularly nice, or mannered, or articulate.
Granted, those probably aren’t Mikey’s top three qualities either. But at least Mikey’s family likes him, inasmuch as he sees them. Breakfast this morning was one of the most awkward meals he’s ever had. Pete’s sister didn’t even pass the Nutella when he asked, just pointed to it sitting on the table. He’s not sure he can make up an excuse that explains Pete and his two siblings utterly ignoring each other justifiably.
At the very least he and Pete are incompatible as hell. Which could be the reason this happened, some Power That Be making them walk the shoes of another. Literally, Mikey’s been lucky enough to have already heard a six minute lecture on how Pete wearing the red converse with the pink and grey star shoelaces means he’s feeling peppy. What it really means is somehow Pete has no black shoes and converse were about as good as he was going to get this morning. Metaphorically though, making people with disparate viewpoints understand each other seems to generally be the reason in most body switching programs and movies he can remember, and Mikey’s tentative prognosis is completely fucked, because Pete is not going to want to befriend him. He’s not exactly itching for the opportunity to be Pete’s bestie either. Hopefully they can have a less active role, and they’ll just pop back in a week after they realise each other’s lives are Very Hard.
It was just good luck that Patrick came up to him as he parked and led him to first period gym, he would have been fucked otherwise. He did know that Pete has sociology opposite him, as they pass each other entering and leaving, depending on what day of the cycle it is. It’s not until he gets Pete’s notes that Mikey can open his locker and take out the textbooks he’ll need while he pretends to be Pete. The lack of bulky hardcovers with dented spines raise his suspicions. Pete’s schedule is taped to the inside of the locker door, along with a mirror and a few 8x11 printer paper posters. The column outlining Pete’s day shows just how wrong they are to be switched. Of the six courses he’s taking, the only two that are tolerable are what Mikey has too, socio and band. Pete’s also got gym, athletic leadership, cooking and welding. A morning and afternoon class of running, on purpose, along with burning stuff and really really burning stuff. He can only hope Pete’s body has muscle memory, otherwise he’s going to die horribly. Or other people will. He’s pretty sure Ray or Frank or Bob or Gee would run screaming in the other direction if they saw him with a hose that shot fire.
Mikey doesn’t bother to write out his own hierarchy to give Pete in band, though he keeps Pete’s instead of writing his own notes in sociology. Mikey learns best through examples. His notes are littered with brackets with what something actually means inside them. Pete’s letter is an entire page of examples that’ll help him remember Maslow for the next test.
As far as Mikey can see, there are only four things that Pete needs to while pretending to be him. He’ll need his locker combination, since he’s got classes that actually involve learning things, classes that have homework. He’s feeling pretty confident that unless Pete’s got one of those flame throwing things in his basement his classes don’t have much to take home. From the notes it seems like Pete’s out a lot in the evenings, so that much at least won’t be suspicious as hell. But it does mean that he needs the house alarm code, as well as the location of the hidden spare key in case his shit gets stolen when he’s out and he can’t get in the house. Lastly, possibly most importantly, Pete’ll need the password for his computer.
Pete will probably bitch at the lack of information on the paper torn from his binder, but Mikey doesn’t see the point in trying to go all out. There are too many details Mikey could never explain about his life, and sometimes it seems like his entire existence is composed of details. No cheat sheet is going to tell Pete how to deal with Gerard threatening to Rocks Fall when JT isn’t listening to his DMing on Wednesdays, or how to make a perfect mix CD for the store, or how to properly conduct the ‘no, Catcher in the Rye isn’t the best book in existence’ argument with Frank. Pete just needs to keep his head down, keep waking up Gerard and otherwise let everyone think Mikey’s being a jerk because he’s on a binge or something. Sci-fi canon says they won’t be switched very long, Mikey can rebuild bridges later.
If Mikey needs proof of his point that you can never know enough about someone to make it realistic, all he needs is to look at first period. Pete didn’t say shit-all about having to write something for Patrick, and Mikey’s not planning on producing. If Patrick expects poetry on a daily basis Pete better email him some. Otherwise he’ll just have to give Patrick that woods less travelled one, and see if he notices. Even Mystique couldn’t be expected to write poems to keep up an act.
*
Ray’s cell buzzes against the hip of his jeans and he plunges his hand in to pull it out before it goes to message. He hates calling people back, it’s always awkward to be all ‘so, you called me, am I still relevant to your existence or has the moment passed?’, and so he tries to avoid it whenever he can.
The screen says Gerard, and considering the time he must be calling from work. It’s weird, but not entirely incomprehensible; if the Wi-Fi has gone down at the shop and he has a question about a movie that they can’t remember between the three of them, Ray and Mikey are both connections to the internet via the school library.
Instead of getting a blurted question about what was that Christmas horror movie where the woman gets impaled on deer horns -Gerard has never started a single conversation with ‘hello’ in the five years he’s known him- it’s something much weirder. “Has Mikey fainted from dehydration?”
Ray knows better than to even ask why. “No,” he says firmly. As much as he’d like to layer a what the hell into his answer, if Gerard thinks he’s saying no? he’ll start to pester him for proof.
Gerard doesn’t really hold the phone away from his face as he shouts at Frank, or Bob, most likely both, actually, “it’s not the faculty then.” His volume drops a notch as he asks “has he appeared to be holding one too many objects?”
“The hell?” Questioning tone is totally justified in this case, because what the hell?
“You know, like he’s got a third hand that you never really see. Or tentacles, even.”
“The hell” he repeats, changing the emphasis so it becoming a completely different phrase.
“We think he might be an alien,” Gerard explains.
The five minute bell goes, Ray being unlucky enough to have his locker situated right under it meaning it blares directly into his eardrums. Normally Ray flinches away, but in this case it’s a boon. There’s no way Gerard hasn’t heard it through the phone. If he can pretend that it was the last bell and Gerard buys it he can get out of this conversation with a minimum of confusion. “I gotta go.”
“Yeah, okay. Just come over after school, bring Mikey for me. Call your parents at lunch so you can come over.”
Ray’s not going to bother noting that he’s seventeen and his parents don’t give a shit what he does as long as he’s home for midnight curfew, nor that he hasn’t asked for permission to visit the Ways since junior high. Instead he goes with “it’s like two already.”
“Shit, really?” Sometimes Ray doesn’t understand how Galaxy doesn’t burn to the ground, with the amount of attention they pay to things that aren’t comic books-manga-graphic novels-Magic cards-action figures. To be fair though, he’s pretty sure there’s no clock in the store.
“Class, Gee. We’ll see you later.”
The drive to Chessem Bay is further than the street Ray lives on, the middle of suburbia rather than the poorer edges of it. His car is a piece of shit; Lou got someone to give it away for five hundred bucks, and while most things about it suck, including the way the rear view mirror falls off every ten feet, and two of the three seat belts in the back don’t click shut, the part that sucks the most is the front console. The radio dial is permanently stuck to AM, which is all talk shows, and it eats CDs so Ray can’t pop in one the hundred of mixes he’s gotten from Mikey. Normally he’d just put his iPod on, but it’s a dick move when he’s driving with someone else.
Mikey’s not really helping though. He’s being hangover quiet, even though Ray’s pretty sure he hasn’t drunk at school in a few weeks. He generally saves that shit for late night, with Gee or at clubs. It’s weird. It’s not ‘holy shit Mikey’s become a pod person’ weird, but it isn’t something Ray likes either. Gerard’s supposed to be the drinker with a bit of drugs, Mikey the drug user with a bit of alcohol, the rest of them partaking occasionally. If Mikey’s getting fucked up during school that’s all sorts of A&E channel Interventiony problems.
He’s saved from worrying about the sudden change when he spots the Hummer in the lane behind him. The day he knew he was going to be friends with Mikey Way was the day they were both standing at the front of the front of the junior high waiting for their respective rides, and a silver Hummer pulled up and this weedy kid with horrible hair muttered that it looked like an AT-AT. Before he could stop himself he’d mentioned that it didn’t have legs, and the kid just looked at him evenly for a minute before acknowledging that was the major issue.
“Rogue three!” Ray waits for ‘copy rogue leader’, so he can come back with ‘Wedge, I’ve lost my gunner, you’ll have to take the shot, I’ll cover for you’, and Mikey will tell him to set his harpoon, he’ll follow him on the next pass.
Mikey doesn’t say anything, so Ray tries again, voice louder. “Rogue three!”
“The fuck?”
Ray doesn’t try to start another conversation.
It’s strange to see all of three of them in the Way house so early. Gerard works nine to three, with the understanding that after Mikey graduates he’ll stay until four. Bob and Frank switch off for the noon to seven shift, but the one that’s not working usually visits for the afternoon. Not that Ray skips to go hang out at Galaxy often. If he goes Mikey wants to come, and Gerard flails at the idea of Mikey skipping class and failing and ruining their future plans. Besides, unless there’s a release or a tournament, they can hang out in the evening.
Mikey kicks off his shoes at the door and goes straight for his bedroom, not saying anything about the freakish occurrence that is the three of them closing the shop four hours early. Ray pokes his head into the kitchen for a moment to say hi to Mr and Mrs Way before he takes off his and crashes in the space between Gerard and Frank perched on Bob.
“How was school?”
Whenever his brothers ask he kind of wants to punch them in the face for being so condescending. Everyone has to go through high school; just because they’re college age doesn’t make him completely idiotic. Bob always asks it differently though, like he actually gives a shit. More often than not, Ray ends up telling them the shit that happened in his tiny section of Washington that day.
Today is not one of those days. “Yeah, no, you’re totally right. He didn’t know I was quoting Empire.”
“Mikey. Didn’t know... just to be clear, you are talking about Empire Strikes Back empire, right? Not, like, that band?”
“Rogue three?” Ray says tiredly.
“He didn’t say copy rogue leader? The fuck.”
“I know.” Ray’s not really a believer. Not the way the Ways and Frank are. He watches and reads horror and scifi because it’s entertaining, not because he thinks he’s learning things. But for Mikey to not know Star Wars? Something seriously fucked up has to be happening.
*
Pete would have to be a fucking moron to not know they’re talking about him in the living room. He just doesn’t know what to do about it. Mikey didn’t give him a list of ways to lead his life properly until they switch back. He’s working off memories of the Ways being loners in their single digit years, and the few times he’s seen Mikey at the same all ages club that he’s at. He sure as hell doesn’t know enough about him to push his brother and best friend and whoever the hell the other two are into being happy with him. Mikey Way is a complete dick for leaving him no way to handle this.
He gets incontrovertible proof when the four of them go into the guest bedroom. The wall between Mikey’s room and the guest room is as thin as the wall between his and Hilary’s at home. It’s probably the same in all the identical houses on Chessem, shoddy contracting Mike Holmes style. He can hear them talking about different aliens that might be possessing Mikey, and he laughs for a minute before he remembers that body switching isn’t exactly more plausible.
After nearly forty-five minutes they finally seem to run out of possible supernatural causes. Pete would be impressed with the breadth of their knowledge if it wasn’t on stuff that’s so nerdy. If Gerard or Ray knew the World Cup standings, or the collected works of Chris Crutcher, that would be different.
“What if it’s not though? What if-” Ray pauses for a minute and Pete can almost see him shoving his hair off his face nervously. He’s done that about once every three minutes since he met him in the morning. “Let’s take him to the hospital.”
“What?” Frank doesn’t seem impressed by the idea, and Pete shares the sentiment. Nothing good ever comes from being in the Hospital Wing. Very, very bad things happen in the Hospital Wing.
“I’ll be right back.” Pete can hear springs squeaking as Ray levers himself off the bed, and then a different squeak of the floorboards under the carpet. Pete follows, instinctively hugging close to the wall. If he’s got to bolt every extra moment he has helps.
Ray heads straight for Mikey’s parents, who have reclaimed the living room; feet propped on mismatched footstools, ashtray sitting on the empty middle cushion. He doesn’t talk to them about inanities like Pete always tries when he goes over to Ashlee’s or Joe’s. He doesn’t even greet them politely, just cuts straight to the chase. “I think Mikey’s really sick. A concussion, or a fever that’s cooking his brain.”
“Why do you say that?” Mikey’s mom’s voice is thickened with three decades of smoke. It makes Pete wonder what Joe is going to sound like when they’re all middle-aged, and if he’ll still know him, or if they’ll have drifted into meaningless tweets and Likes on Facebook after high school.
“He doesn’t remember the dialogue or action sequences in Empire Strikes Back.”
Pete’s expecting them to laugh. They don’t. Instead they sound horrified. “Ray, you’re sure?”
“Not a word.”
“We knew he went out a lot, but to think he’s killed his brain that bad... Ray, do you know what he took, where he went last night?”
Pete’s heart is about to burst out of his chest. This is the perfect opportunity for him to be ratted out on in order for him to get favour. It doesn’t matter that this is the middle of suburbia, Pete’s eyes are closed and he can feel James’ hand on his back.
“Um, I don’t think he did? He doesn’t actually take stuff, he just drinks. He comes over a lot, I’m teaching him to play guitar.” It’s beyond obvious that Ray is bluffing. Pete would know even if he hadn’t accidentally taken Mikey’s party backpack to school. A six year old could tell he’s bluffing. But Pete’s never been more grateful for a shitty lie in his life. As Ray exits the living room and pushes by him in the hall Pete flashes a smile at him. A small one, not a normal one, but he thinks that’s one of the things that got him caught out in the first place. He can’t help it. No one would have ever done that at camp, and Ashlee, Patrick, and Andy are all brutally no regrets honest while Joe doesn’t often see through his haze to know what to say besides the first thing on the top of his brain.
Pete retreats to Mikey’s cave of band posters and crappy lighting. It’s easier to put on a movie and ignore the voices from the next room than to think about if he owes Ray, and how he might be expected to pay him back. When his brain is stuck between the rules drilled in from before, and how things work now, it’s best to distract himself if he can.
He’s halfway through one of the lame downloads on Mikey’s computer -movies fucked him over once, he won’t let it happen again; he should probably watch all the shit Mikey has- when the door opens. Gerard arms are crossed across his chest, and Pete has no doubts that the last ten minutes in the guest room have been a pep talk to convince him to do this. “I know you’re not my brother.”
“Are you on crack?” he adds a chuckle to round off the reply.
“See, Mikey wouldn’t say that. He’d make a reference to something, Slapshot, or the Boondock Saints.” Pete’s at least heard of those, but it’s a bit late now. Before he can attempt, Gerard asks “Did you do this?”
“Do what, Gee?”
For the first time Pete’s ever witnessed, Gerard is pissed. “Don’t call me that when you’re not him. That’s not cool. Did you do this? I don’t think you did because if this was an infiltration you’d know so much more about him to be able to be undercover.”
Pete gives up pretending. “I’m not an alien. I’m not a demon or anything either. I’m just a guy. I have no idea what happened, and it’s not like I like being not me.”
“Do you know who he is now? Is he you now?”
Pete lies. He doesn’t even think about it, it’s instinctual. Mikey’s made it pretty clear that he just wants to wait until they pop back into their rightful bodies, and having the entire Way family rush to his house to see him would be terrible on several levels. “My name is Seymour, I’m from Buffalo. When I called my home my voice wouldn’t admit to being not me. I’m sure when he figures out a way to contact you safely he will. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to freak you out?”
Gerard shakes his head, crestfallen. “That’s not right. I’m the older brother.”
Pete doesn’t know what to say to that. Even before camp his parents fostered individual strength. When he got back Andrew and Hilary were scared of him, Mom and Dad refusing to tell them why he was sent away compounding in their heads until their older brother became a monster. He’s never gotten to take care of a younger sibling.
“Look, I know you’re not him. But I could use a hug right now and Mikey would give me one. Could you just, like, pretend for a second?” The concept of a loving sibling sounds nice. Pete hugs him.
*
It’s not sneaking out in the traditional sense. There’s no curfew he’s evading. He’s not like Alan from Intimidation Program, a band that would be doing a lot better if their singer was allowed to be out later than ten at night. Nor are there bed checks that he carefully avoids with a perfectly created pillow arrangement. In the Johnson home a closed bedroom door is as good as an electrified fence, and Andy Hurley spends nearly all his time with said door firmly shut. There aren’t even any fancy escape plans based on making blanket ropes or climbing down a plant lattice. Yes, his bedroom is on the second floor, along with all the Johnson’s bedrooms, but he takes the stairs like a normal person.
It’s really only sneaking out because he doesn’t want to attract attention to himself leaving. It’s hard to say what would be worse, his stepfather noticing, or his stepsiblings noticing. The former would try to make it into a conversation what band-good venue-what genre-I remember when I was younger I liked-do you need money for merch and the trying to be friends thing is still as awkward as it was the first day Andy met him. Maybe worse, you’d figure by now he’d realise Andy doesn’t want to be friends and stop trying. The drama that would come with his stepsiblings knowing he was going to a band would depend on which one found out, and neither option is good. He doesn’t want to take Valerie and Gemma with him, and he doesn’t want to listen to Anchor telling him his bands have sold out, and he needs to listen to underground band titled whateverthefuck. Most of the bands he sees don’t even have merchandise yet, just EPs. It’s impossible to relate that message though, not that he cares about the opinion of a dick named Anchor. Really it should have been a clue for his mom too, that the man she was interested in had poor decision making skills. Who names someone Anchor?
Andy makes it out the back door unnoticed, and get the tops of his shoes wet with dew as he sneaks through the back yard. Once he’s at the front he sits in the dark on the step, the cold of moonlit concrete burning into his ass. There’s a bit of a wind too, enough to make his shirt flap. It doesn’t matter though, he’ll warm up in the car. There’s no coat check in Wake, and hoodies are too hot for a mosh pit.
It takes Pete an unprecedented ten minutes to get to his house. Andy runs down the sidewalk and pulls the seat belt around him with one hand, cranking the heat dial with the other. Once both tasks are done and Pete’s safely driving again Andy deems it safe to ask “you got stuck in traffic?”
“I’m on time.” Yeah, it’s technically true. But the thing is Pete doesn’t do on time when he’s picking up Andy. He’s always early, always waiting by the time Andy gets out of the house. They both have high discomfort levels about their families, and Pete likes to be around when Andy has to flee. It’s weird.
Really, Pete’s been acting weird all day. Of course, Pete acting weird isn’t that weird. Andy’s the only one of their group of friends that knew Pete before camp. He’s pretty much come to terms with the fact that Pete will always be a little screwed up.
High school tends to be an every man for themselves enterprise, but Andy likes to imagine he can help Pete best of them all. Not because he knows pre-camp Pete; for the most part that person has nothing to do with post-camp Pete. No, the reason he can help is because he has trauma no one else does. Ashlee and Joe’s parents are happy, Patrick’s are divorced but civilised. Andy’s the one that went for a week long vacation with his dad only to be dragged home by the cops, learning too late that his dad didn’t have visitation rights. Keeping his last name is his only source of connection. Every time he signs a test he thinks of his dad. He and Pete are the dysfunctional ones, and sometimes you need to hear other people screaming about how fucked up the world is to make that okay.
So Pete’s acting weird, and tomorrow morning Andy’s going to have to thank his step-father for ‘going out of his way’ to make vegan pancakes, but tonight none of it matters. Tonight there are four bands battling for who deserves a headliner role Friday night. It’s obviously going to be a popularity contest. Whoever is able to fit the most friends in the club will win, not the deserving band. Andy doesn’t know any of the bands though, so it won’t upset him if the wrong one wins.
They go straight for the front at the middle of the stage after they get their hands stamped to show they can’t buy drinks. The first band is pretty decent, more thrash than lyrical. Andy doesn’t time the set, but when the lead singer throws the microphone to the ground he figures it’s been about forty minutes. In that time they’ve been shoved to the middle of the pit. Andy’s dripping with sweat, throat dry and sore from wordlessly screaming along. They can either get water together and probably lose their spot, or one of them can go and they might lose each other. Andy turns to ask Pete what he’d rather, and he’s gone. Being jostled is a hazard that comes with being in the pit, but he’s not in any direction, neither side, nor in front or behind.
He worries for a second, then shakes it off. Pete probably went to take a piss, or shove toilet paper up a bleeding nose. They’ve both used Charmin tampons before, so they can keep moshing instead of being stuck in the bathroom for an act. It’s not until Pete still isn’t back several songs unto the second act that Andy’s worry comes back. The pit is pretty small tonight, he should be able to spot him. It’s not like Pete is a noob, scared to wade through the bodies to get to where he wants to be. If someone headbutted Pete he could be passed out in the bathroom with a concussion.
Andy shoves his way out, intent on rescuing Pete from brain hemorrhage. Fucking figures Pete wouldn’t tell him, just slip out sideways and try to deal with it himself. Damn that fucking camp, teaching him to consider injury personal weakness. The bathroom is empty too. Andy wants to be relieved to not see Pete splayed over a toilet, but it’s just more worrisome. They’re quickly running out of options, getting dangerously close to kidnapping territory.
He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t have his phone. It’s too likely to get broken in his low hanging pocket, and he doesn’t want to answer a call from his step-father asking how the band is either. He’s not sure who he could call anyway, the cops wouldn’t give a shit. Andy’s not related to Pete, and Pete has a record of reckless behaviour. But at the very least he needs more options. Which means pay phone just outside the door, so he can get Patrick to call everyone else. Screw authorities, they can have their own search party.
Pete’s standing outside, with a bunch of guys. He doesn’t catch Andy’s concern, just nods a hey.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“I got tired of getting whacked, so I found some guys to hang out with. Want a smoke?”
There is so much wrong in that sentence Andy doesn’t even know where to start. Pete knows that he’s straight edge and doesn’t put toxins into his body. And Pete’s never turned down the chance to be in a mosh pit. For fucksakes, he tried to start a pit at homecoming, to Blink 182. There’s something seriously fucked with Pete tonight, and Andy’s not going to even try and fix it. Pete’s clearly too far gone tonight for anyone to be able to help him. Andy shakes his head and re-enters the club, flashing his stamped hand at the bouncer.
Part Three
Mikey’s known Pete for seventeen years, both born to houses on Chessem Bay. It’s not eternity; if things work out positively it won’t even be a third of his life. That being said, it’s definitely long enough to know that Pete’s a jerk. Not a massive one, he’s no Parker James, beating up people who enjoy the gentleman’s game of chess. But he’s not particularly nice, or mannered, or articulate.
Granted, those probably aren’t Mikey’s top three qualities either. But at least Mikey’s family likes him, inasmuch as he sees them. Breakfast this morning was one of the most awkward meals he’s ever had. Pete’s sister didn’t even pass the Nutella when he asked, just pointed to it sitting on the table. He’s not sure he can make up an excuse that explains Pete and his two siblings utterly ignoring each other justifiably.
At the very least he and Pete are incompatible as hell. Which could be the reason this happened, some Power That Be making them walk the shoes of another. Literally, Mikey’s been lucky enough to have already heard a six minute lecture on how Pete wearing the red converse with the pink and grey star shoelaces means he’s feeling peppy. What it really means is somehow Pete has no black shoes and converse were about as good as he was going to get this morning. Metaphorically though, making people with disparate viewpoints understand each other seems to generally be the reason in most body switching programs and movies he can remember, and Mikey’s tentative prognosis is completely fucked, because Pete is not going to want to befriend him. He’s not exactly itching for the opportunity to be Pete’s bestie either. Hopefully they can have a less active role, and they’ll just pop back in a week after they realise each other’s lives are Very Hard.
It was just good luck that Patrick came up to him as he parked and led him to first period gym, he would have been fucked otherwise. He did know that Pete has sociology opposite him, as they pass each other entering and leaving, depending on what day of the cycle it is. It’s not until he gets Pete’s notes that Mikey can open his locker and take out the textbooks he’ll need while he pretends to be Pete. The lack of bulky hardcovers with dented spines raise his suspicions. Pete’s schedule is taped to the inside of the locker door, along with a mirror and a few 8x11 printer paper posters. The column outlining Pete’s day shows just how wrong they are to be switched. Of the six courses he’s taking, the only two that are tolerable are what Mikey has too, socio and band. Pete’s also got gym, athletic leadership, cooking and welding. A morning and afternoon class of running, on purpose, along with burning stuff and really really burning stuff. He can only hope Pete’s body has muscle memory, otherwise he’s going to die horribly. Or other people will. He’s pretty sure Ray or Frank or Bob or Gee would run screaming in the other direction if they saw him with a hose that shot fire.
Mikey doesn’t bother to write out his own hierarchy to give Pete in band, though he keeps Pete’s instead of writing his own notes in sociology. Mikey learns best through examples. His notes are littered with brackets with what something actually means inside them. Pete’s letter is an entire page of examples that’ll help him remember Maslow for the next test.
As far as Mikey can see, there are only four things that Pete needs to while pretending to be him. He’ll need his locker combination, since he’s got classes that actually involve learning things, classes that have homework. He’s feeling pretty confident that unless Pete’s got one of those flame throwing things in his basement his classes don’t have much to take home. From the notes it seems like Pete’s out a lot in the evenings, so that much at least won’t be suspicious as hell. But it does mean that he needs the house alarm code, as well as the location of the hidden spare key in case his shit gets stolen when he’s out and he can’t get in the house. Lastly, possibly most importantly, Pete’ll need the password for his computer.
Pete will probably bitch at the lack of information on the paper torn from his binder, but Mikey doesn’t see the point in trying to go all out. There are too many details Mikey could never explain about his life, and sometimes it seems like his entire existence is composed of details. No cheat sheet is going to tell Pete how to deal with Gerard threatening to Rocks Fall when JT isn’t listening to his DMing on Wednesdays, or how to make a perfect mix CD for the store, or how to properly conduct the ‘no, Catcher in the Rye isn’t the best book in existence’ argument with Frank. Pete just needs to keep his head down, keep waking up Gerard and otherwise let everyone think Mikey’s being a jerk because he’s on a binge or something. Sci-fi canon says they won’t be switched very long, Mikey can rebuild bridges later.
If Mikey needs proof of his point that you can never know enough about someone to make it realistic, all he needs is to look at first period. Pete didn’t say shit-all about having to write something for Patrick, and Mikey’s not planning on producing. If Patrick expects poetry on a daily basis Pete better email him some. Otherwise he’ll just have to give Patrick that woods less travelled one, and see if he notices. Even Mystique couldn’t be expected to write poems to keep up an act.
*
Ray’s cell buzzes against the hip of his jeans and he plunges his hand in to pull it out before it goes to message. He hates calling people back, it’s always awkward to be all ‘so, you called me, am I still relevant to your existence or has the moment passed?’, and so he tries to avoid it whenever he can.
The screen says Gerard, and considering the time he must be calling from work. It’s weird, but not entirely incomprehensible; if the Wi-Fi has gone down at the shop and he has a question about a movie that they can’t remember between the three of them, Ray and Mikey are both connections to the internet via the school library.
Instead of getting a blurted question about what was that Christmas horror movie where the woman gets impaled on deer horns -Gerard has never started a single conversation with ‘hello’ in the five years he’s known him- it’s something much weirder. “Has Mikey fainted from dehydration?”
Ray knows better than to even ask why. “No,” he says firmly. As much as he’d like to layer a what the hell into his answer, if Gerard thinks he’s saying no? he’ll start to pester him for proof.
Gerard doesn’t really hold the phone away from his face as he shouts at Frank, or Bob, most likely both, actually, “it’s not the faculty then.” His volume drops a notch as he asks “has he appeared to be holding one too many objects?”
“The hell?” Questioning tone is totally justified in this case, because what the hell?
“You know, like he’s got a third hand that you never really see. Or tentacles, even.”
“The hell” he repeats, changing the emphasis so it becoming a completely different phrase.
“We think he might be an alien,” Gerard explains.
The five minute bell goes, Ray being unlucky enough to have his locker situated right under it meaning it blares directly into his eardrums. Normally Ray flinches away, but in this case it’s a boon. There’s no way Gerard hasn’t heard it through the phone. If he can pretend that it was the last bell and Gerard buys it he can get out of this conversation with a minimum of confusion. “I gotta go.”
“Yeah, okay. Just come over after school, bring Mikey for me. Call your parents at lunch so you can come over.”
Ray’s not going to bother noting that he’s seventeen and his parents don’t give a shit what he does as long as he’s home for midnight curfew, nor that he hasn’t asked for permission to visit the Ways since junior high. Instead he goes with “it’s like two already.”
“Shit, really?” Sometimes Ray doesn’t understand how Galaxy doesn’t burn to the ground, with the amount of attention they pay to things that aren’t comic books-manga-graphic novels-Magic cards-action figures. To be fair though, he’s pretty sure there’s no clock in the store.
“Class, Gee. We’ll see you later.”
The drive to Chessem Bay is further than the street Ray lives on, the middle of suburbia rather than the poorer edges of it. His car is a piece of shit; Lou got someone to give it away for five hundred bucks, and while most things about it suck, including the way the rear view mirror falls off every ten feet, and two of the three seat belts in the back don’t click shut, the part that sucks the most is the front console. The radio dial is permanently stuck to AM, which is all talk shows, and it eats CDs so Ray can’t pop in one the hundred of mixes he’s gotten from Mikey. Normally he’d just put his iPod on, but it’s a dick move when he’s driving with someone else.
Mikey’s not really helping though. He’s being hangover quiet, even though Ray’s pretty sure he hasn’t drunk at school in a few weeks. He generally saves that shit for late night, with Gee or at clubs. It’s weird. It’s not ‘holy shit Mikey’s become a pod person’ weird, but it isn’t something Ray likes either. Gerard’s supposed to be the drinker with a bit of drugs, Mikey the drug user with a bit of alcohol, the rest of them partaking occasionally. If Mikey’s getting fucked up during school that’s all sorts of A&E channel Interventiony problems.
He’s saved from worrying about the sudden change when he spots the Hummer in the lane behind him. The day he knew he was going to be friends with Mikey Way was the day they were both standing at the front of the front of the junior high waiting for their respective rides, and a silver Hummer pulled up and this weedy kid with horrible hair muttered that it looked like an AT-AT. Before he could stop himself he’d mentioned that it didn’t have legs, and the kid just looked at him evenly for a minute before acknowledging that was the major issue.
“Rogue three!” Ray waits for ‘copy rogue leader’, so he can come back with ‘Wedge, I’ve lost my gunner, you’ll have to take the shot, I’ll cover for you’, and Mikey will tell him to set his harpoon, he’ll follow him on the next pass.
Mikey doesn’t say anything, so Ray tries again, voice louder. “Rogue three!”
“The fuck?”
Ray doesn’t try to start another conversation.
It’s strange to see all of three of them in the Way house so early. Gerard works nine to three, with the understanding that after Mikey graduates he’ll stay until four. Bob and Frank switch off for the noon to seven shift, but the one that’s not working usually visits for the afternoon. Not that Ray skips to go hang out at Galaxy often. If he goes Mikey wants to come, and Gerard flails at the idea of Mikey skipping class and failing and ruining their future plans. Besides, unless there’s a release or a tournament, they can hang out in the evening.
Mikey kicks off his shoes at the door and goes straight for his bedroom, not saying anything about the freakish occurrence that is the three of them closing the shop four hours early. Ray pokes his head into the kitchen for a moment to say hi to Mr and Mrs Way before he takes off his and crashes in the space between Gerard and Frank perched on Bob.
“How was school?”
Whenever his brothers ask he kind of wants to punch them in the face for being so condescending. Everyone has to go through high school; just because they’re college age doesn’t make him completely idiotic. Bob always asks it differently though, like he actually gives a shit. More often than not, Ray ends up telling them the shit that happened in his tiny section of Washington that day.
Today is not one of those days. “Yeah, no, you’re totally right. He didn’t know I was quoting Empire.”
“Mikey. Didn’t know... just to be clear, you are talking about Empire Strikes Back empire, right? Not, like, that band?”
“Rogue three?” Ray says tiredly.
“He didn’t say copy rogue leader? The fuck.”
“I know.” Ray’s not really a believer. Not the way the Ways and Frank are. He watches and reads horror and scifi because it’s entertaining, not because he thinks he’s learning things. But for Mikey to not know Star Wars? Something seriously fucked up has to be happening.
*
Pete would have to be a fucking moron to not know they’re talking about him in the living room. He just doesn’t know what to do about it. Mikey didn’t give him a list of ways to lead his life properly until they switch back. He’s working off memories of the Ways being loners in their single digit years, and the few times he’s seen Mikey at the same all ages club that he’s at. He sure as hell doesn’t know enough about him to push his brother and best friend and whoever the hell the other two are into being happy with him. Mikey Way is a complete dick for leaving him no way to handle this.
He gets incontrovertible proof when the four of them go into the guest bedroom. The wall between Mikey’s room and the guest room is as thin as the wall between his and Hilary’s at home. It’s probably the same in all the identical houses on Chessem, shoddy contracting Mike Holmes style. He can hear them talking about different aliens that might be possessing Mikey, and he laughs for a minute before he remembers that body switching isn’t exactly more plausible.
After nearly forty-five minutes they finally seem to run out of possible supernatural causes. Pete would be impressed with the breadth of their knowledge if it wasn’t on stuff that’s so nerdy. If Gerard or Ray knew the World Cup standings, or the collected works of Chris Crutcher, that would be different.
“What if it’s not though? What if-” Ray pauses for a minute and Pete can almost see him shoving his hair off his face nervously. He’s done that about once every three minutes since he met him in the morning. “Let’s take him to the hospital.”
“What?” Frank doesn’t seem impressed by the idea, and Pete shares the sentiment. Nothing good ever comes from being in the Hospital Wing. Very, very bad things happen in the Hospital Wing.
“I’ll be right back.” Pete can hear springs squeaking as Ray levers himself off the bed, and then a different squeak of the floorboards under the carpet. Pete follows, instinctively hugging close to the wall. If he’s got to bolt every extra moment he has helps.
Ray heads straight for Mikey’s parents, who have reclaimed the living room; feet propped on mismatched footstools, ashtray sitting on the empty middle cushion. He doesn’t talk to them about inanities like Pete always tries when he goes over to Ashlee’s or Joe’s. He doesn’t even greet them politely, just cuts straight to the chase. “I think Mikey’s really sick. A concussion, or a fever that’s cooking his brain.”
“Why do you say that?” Mikey’s mom’s voice is thickened with three decades of smoke. It makes Pete wonder what Joe is going to sound like when they’re all middle-aged, and if he’ll still know him, or if they’ll have drifted into meaningless tweets and Likes on Facebook after high school.
“He doesn’t remember the dialogue or action sequences in Empire Strikes Back.”
Pete’s expecting them to laugh. They don’t. Instead they sound horrified. “Ray, you’re sure?”
“Not a word.”
“We knew he went out a lot, but to think he’s killed his brain that bad... Ray, do you know what he took, where he went last night?”
Pete’s heart is about to burst out of his chest. This is the perfect opportunity for him to be ratted out on in order for him to get favour. It doesn’t matter that this is the middle of suburbia, Pete’s eyes are closed and he can feel James’ hand on his back.
“Um, I don’t think he did? He doesn’t actually take stuff, he just drinks. He comes over a lot, I’m teaching him to play guitar.” It’s beyond obvious that Ray is bluffing. Pete would know even if he hadn’t accidentally taken Mikey’s party backpack to school. A six year old could tell he’s bluffing. But Pete’s never been more grateful for a shitty lie in his life. As Ray exits the living room and pushes by him in the hall Pete flashes a smile at him. A small one, not a normal one, but he thinks that’s one of the things that got him caught out in the first place. He can’t help it. No one would have ever done that at camp, and Ashlee, Patrick, and Andy are all brutally no regrets honest while Joe doesn’t often see through his haze to know what to say besides the first thing on the top of his brain.
Pete retreats to Mikey’s cave of band posters and crappy lighting. It’s easier to put on a movie and ignore the voices from the next room than to think about if he owes Ray, and how he might be expected to pay him back. When his brain is stuck between the rules drilled in from before, and how things work now, it’s best to distract himself if he can.
He’s halfway through one of the lame downloads on Mikey’s computer -movies fucked him over once, he won’t let it happen again; he should probably watch all the shit Mikey has- when the door opens. Gerard arms are crossed across his chest, and Pete has no doubts that the last ten minutes in the guest room have been a pep talk to convince him to do this. “I know you’re not my brother.”
“Are you on crack?” he adds a chuckle to round off the reply.
“See, Mikey wouldn’t say that. He’d make a reference to something, Slapshot, or the Boondock Saints.” Pete’s at least heard of those, but it’s a bit late now. Before he can attempt, Gerard asks “Did you do this?”
“Do what, Gee?”
For the first time Pete’s ever witnessed, Gerard is pissed. “Don’t call me that when you’re not him. That’s not cool. Did you do this? I don’t think you did because if this was an infiltration you’d know so much more about him to be able to be undercover.”
Pete gives up pretending. “I’m not an alien. I’m not a demon or anything either. I’m just a guy. I have no idea what happened, and it’s not like I like being not me.”
“Do you know who he is now? Is he you now?”
Pete lies. He doesn’t even think about it, it’s instinctual. Mikey’s made it pretty clear that he just wants to wait until they pop back into their rightful bodies, and having the entire Way family rush to his house to see him would be terrible on several levels. “My name is Seymour, I’m from Buffalo. When I called my home my voice wouldn’t admit to being not me. I’m sure when he figures out a way to contact you safely he will. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to freak you out?”
Gerard shakes his head, crestfallen. “That’s not right. I’m the older brother.”
Pete doesn’t know what to say to that. Even before camp his parents fostered individual strength. When he got back Andrew and Hilary were scared of him, Mom and Dad refusing to tell them why he was sent away compounding in their heads until their older brother became a monster. He’s never gotten to take care of a younger sibling.
“Look, I know you’re not him. But I could use a hug right now and Mikey would give me one. Could you just, like, pretend for a second?” The concept of a loving sibling sounds nice. Pete hugs him.
*
It’s not sneaking out in the traditional sense. There’s no curfew he’s evading. He’s not like Alan from Intimidation Program, a band that would be doing a lot better if their singer was allowed to be out later than ten at night. Nor are there bed checks that he carefully avoids with a perfectly created pillow arrangement. In the Johnson home a closed bedroom door is as good as an electrified fence, and Andy Hurley spends nearly all his time with said door firmly shut. There aren’t even any fancy escape plans based on making blanket ropes or climbing down a plant lattice. Yes, his bedroom is on the second floor, along with all the Johnson’s bedrooms, but he takes the stairs like a normal person.
It’s really only sneaking out because he doesn’t want to attract attention to himself leaving. It’s hard to say what would be worse, his stepfather noticing, or his stepsiblings noticing. The former would try to make it into a conversation what band-good venue-what genre-I remember when I was younger I liked-do you need money for merch and the trying to be friends thing is still as awkward as it was the first day Andy met him. Maybe worse, you’d figure by now he’d realise Andy doesn’t want to be friends and stop trying. The drama that would come with his stepsiblings knowing he was going to a band would depend on which one found out, and neither option is good. He doesn’t want to take Valerie and Gemma with him, and he doesn’t want to listen to Anchor telling him his bands have sold out, and he needs to listen to underground band titled whateverthefuck. Most of the bands he sees don’t even have merchandise yet, just EPs. It’s impossible to relate that message though, not that he cares about the opinion of a dick named Anchor. Really it should have been a clue for his mom too, that the man she was interested in had poor decision making skills. Who names someone Anchor?
Andy makes it out the back door unnoticed, and get the tops of his shoes wet with dew as he sneaks through the back yard. Once he’s at the front he sits in the dark on the step, the cold of moonlit concrete burning into his ass. There’s a bit of a wind too, enough to make his shirt flap. It doesn’t matter though, he’ll warm up in the car. There’s no coat check in Wake, and hoodies are too hot for a mosh pit.
It takes Pete an unprecedented ten minutes to get to his house. Andy runs down the sidewalk and pulls the seat belt around him with one hand, cranking the heat dial with the other. Once both tasks are done and Pete’s safely driving again Andy deems it safe to ask “you got stuck in traffic?”
“I’m on time.” Yeah, it’s technically true. But the thing is Pete doesn’t do on time when he’s picking up Andy. He’s always early, always waiting by the time Andy gets out of the house. They both have high discomfort levels about their families, and Pete likes to be around when Andy has to flee. It’s weird.
Really, Pete’s been acting weird all day. Of course, Pete acting weird isn’t that weird. Andy’s the only one of their group of friends that knew Pete before camp. He’s pretty much come to terms with the fact that Pete will always be a little screwed up.
High school tends to be an every man for themselves enterprise, but Andy likes to imagine he can help Pete best of them all. Not because he knows pre-camp Pete; for the most part that person has nothing to do with post-camp Pete. No, the reason he can help is because he has trauma no one else does. Ashlee and Joe’s parents are happy, Patrick’s are divorced but civilised. Andy’s the one that went for a week long vacation with his dad only to be dragged home by the cops, learning too late that his dad didn’t have visitation rights. Keeping his last name is his only source of connection. Every time he signs a test he thinks of his dad. He and Pete are the dysfunctional ones, and sometimes you need to hear other people screaming about how fucked up the world is to make that okay.
So Pete’s acting weird, and tomorrow morning Andy’s going to have to thank his step-father for ‘going out of his way’ to make vegan pancakes, but tonight none of it matters. Tonight there are four bands battling for who deserves a headliner role Friday night. It’s obviously going to be a popularity contest. Whoever is able to fit the most friends in the club will win, not the deserving band. Andy doesn’t know any of the bands though, so it won’t upset him if the wrong one wins.
They go straight for the front at the middle of the stage after they get their hands stamped to show they can’t buy drinks. The first band is pretty decent, more thrash than lyrical. Andy doesn’t time the set, but when the lead singer throws the microphone to the ground he figures it’s been about forty minutes. In that time they’ve been shoved to the middle of the pit. Andy’s dripping with sweat, throat dry and sore from wordlessly screaming along. They can either get water together and probably lose their spot, or one of them can go and they might lose each other. Andy turns to ask Pete what he’d rather, and he’s gone. Being jostled is a hazard that comes with being in the pit, but he’s not in any direction, neither side, nor in front or behind.
He worries for a second, then shakes it off. Pete probably went to take a piss, or shove toilet paper up a bleeding nose. They’ve both used Charmin tampons before, so they can keep moshing instead of being stuck in the bathroom for an act. It’s not until Pete still isn’t back several songs unto the second act that Andy’s worry comes back. The pit is pretty small tonight, he should be able to spot him. It’s not like Pete is a noob, scared to wade through the bodies to get to where he wants to be. If someone headbutted Pete he could be passed out in the bathroom with a concussion.
Andy shoves his way out, intent on rescuing Pete from brain hemorrhage. Fucking figures Pete wouldn’t tell him, just slip out sideways and try to deal with it himself. Damn that fucking camp, teaching him to consider injury personal weakness. The bathroom is empty too. Andy wants to be relieved to not see Pete splayed over a toilet, but it’s just more worrisome. They’re quickly running out of options, getting dangerously close to kidnapping territory.
He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t have his phone. It’s too likely to get broken in his low hanging pocket, and he doesn’t want to answer a call from his step-father asking how the band is either. He’s not sure who he could call anyway, the cops wouldn’t give a shit. Andy’s not related to Pete, and Pete has a record of reckless behaviour. But at the very least he needs more options. Which means pay phone just outside the door, so he can get Patrick to call everyone else. Screw authorities, they can have their own search party.
Pete’s standing outside, with a bunch of guys. He doesn’t catch Andy’s concern, just nods a hey.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“I got tired of getting whacked, so I found some guys to hang out with. Want a smoke?”
There is so much wrong in that sentence Andy doesn’t even know where to start. Pete knows that he’s straight edge and doesn’t put toxins into his body. And Pete’s never turned down the chance to be in a mosh pit. For fucksakes, he tried to start a pit at homecoming, to Blink 182. There’s something seriously fucked with Pete tonight, and Andy’s not going to even try and fix it. Pete’s clearly too far gone tonight for anyone to be able to help him. Andy shakes his head and re-enters the club, flashing his stamped hand at the bouncer.
Part Three