Behind This Smile

Gerard didn’t want me going home until later. At first, I insisted, telling him that I could handle my own problems by myself. Which he replied, “Well, obviously not since you came over here crying.” I ignored that and told him that I was fine. Then he decided to get his mom and she told me that I’ll be staying over for dinner whether I like it or not.

Mikey was unusually quiet at dinner. Gerard told me that Mikey was still mad at him. They still wouldn’t tell me why they were fighting. That annoyed me but I didn’t say anything.

After dinner, Gerard showed more of his drawings and we got to talking. I figured out that Gerard is actually a deep person. He told me that pretty much every girlfriend he’s had were whores (Which had me wondering why he liked Nicola, but I was nice enough not to say anything). He also told me that he really likes music, and he’s been told he can sing and he was Peter Pan in a fourth grade play.

What shocked me was when he told me that when he was fifteen he was held at gun point. I didn’t say anything after that and neither did Gerard. I was biting my lip and trying to think of something to say.

“I want to be a comic book artist,” he said. I glanced around his room and nodded. “I don’t know if I can.” I hit him on the arm. “Ouch.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. You’re amazing. Stupid.”

He semi-glared at me. “And that gives you a reason to hit me?”

“Yes.” I glanced at the clock. It was almost eight-thirty. “I should get going.” Gerard nodded and I followed him to the front door. “Thanks, Gerard,” I told him before leaving.

He smiled at me. “Anytime.” I smiled back and started walking. “Do you want me to walk home with you?” Gerard asked.

I turned around. “No. I think I can manage walking to my house by myself.” I grinned and turned back around and made my way to my house.

--

“Are you and that kid going out now?” was the first thing that was asked when I walked through my front door.

I stared at Nicola. “What kid?”

“Garry, Jared, whatever his name is…”

“Gerard?” She nodded. “No. He’s just my friend.”

“Do you like him?”

I sighed. “What’s with all the questions? And, no, I don’t like him. He’s just my friend. Why does it matter?”

She shook her head, smiling. “Just asking.”

“Well… Stop asking.” I walked in the kitchen.

“Dad’s been calling. He wants to talk to you. He seemed kind of pissed,” she said, following me into the kitchen.

“Good. He should be. If he calls again, tell him I don’t want to talk to him.”

She rolled her eyes. “Get over it. He doesn’t want his girlfriend to meet us. Or maybe it’s just you. Did you ever think that? Maybe he doesn’t want his girlfriend meeting someone like you.”

I glared at her, only having her to smirk back at me. “What’s wrong with me?” I asked. As of right now, she should be lucky she’s alive.

She laughed. Her laugh was so condescending, so sarcastic, so… Nicola. It only pissed me off more. “Sydri, look at you. You want people to feel sorry for you. That’s why you dress like this.” She pointed to my Guns N Roses shirt and black skinny jeans. “The only reason that Mikey kid sat with you that one day was because he felt sorry for you. He didn’t do it because he wanted to befriend you, he pitied you, Sydri. They all do.”

I felt my eyes get all watery, but I blinked back tears. Nicola just wanted to see me cry. I wasn’t going to let her win. “I’m sorry that I can’t be such a cliché bitch like you are.”

Her smirk got just a tiny bit smaller. “Cliché?”

“Yes, cliché. You’re such a cliché popular. You dyed your hair blond so you could be popular! Why couldn’t you have been ‘popular’ with black hair? It‘s only a stereotype that ‘popular people have blond hair.”

“Only emos have black hair,” Nicola answered, glaring.

“Another stereotype. Oh, and emo is a music genre.”

Nicola rolled her eyes again. “Whatever. Just face it. Your ‘friends’ aren’t really your friends. Deal with it.” She gave me a sarcastic smile and left, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

I rested my head on the refrigerator door and I heard my dad’s cell phone ring. He never has it anymore. I walked to the kitchen counter and picked it up. “Hello?”

“Sydri?” my dad’s came. “Sydri–”

“I’m going to bed, Dad.” I hung up the phone and threw it at the wall. Breaking his phone, too. Now he can’t call.