My Heart Is On My Sleeve

“Hey, Dad?” I yelled down the steps as I zipped up my jeans. I buckled my belt and walked over to the mirror. I heard Mr. & Mrs. Wentz downstairs and was wondering if Pete was with them.

My parents were good friends with Mr. & Mrs. Wentz, who had a son, Pete, eight years older than me. Even though we had a huge age difference, they practically forced him to hang out with me. Well, they didn’t force anymore; we got closer as we got older.

I think we realized how much we had in common with each other— despite our age difference—when I snuck out to go to a concert. Unknown to me at the time, it was Pete’s band I was going to see. They weren’t Fall Out Boy then, they didn’t even have a name. I went to the concert, and was walking home, by myself (something my father didn’t know was happening, and if he did, never would allow) when I ran into Pete. He was struggling down the sidewalk with a bass in one hand, an amp in the other. He made it obvious he was struggling; grunting and cursing as he trudged along.

He stopped for the hundredth time to take a break, letting his amp rest on the pavement as he leaned against one of the graffiti-covered buildings, never loosening his grip on his beloved bass. That’s when I decided to give him a hand, not being able to watch him struggle, whine, and complain to himself any longer.

I carried his amp half a block to the old beat-up van after he finally gave in to the idea of me helping him and of course, after he yelled at me for sneaking out (even though two seconds after he yelled at me, he high-fived me for being ‘rebellious’ and ‘bad ass’.) The van was rusted all around the bottom, the one headlight was smashed, there was a huge dent in the side, and the rear-door windows were covered in old, weathered band stickers. We started talking about the show, how the band started, and my opinion on their music. I thought they were amazing.

That night, our relationship changed. We became really close after we realized how much we had in common.

I continued to go to shows; the only difference being I didn’t need to sneak out because my father gave me permission to go with the guys. I usually watched from the side of the stage, rather than from the floor (Pete said I was too small to be in a crowd and might get crushed despite my love for the pit). I was soon commonly known around the Chicago music scene from hanging out with the boys and helping them at shows.

“Yes, he’s here, Lacey,” My dad yelled back up the steps and I laughed at my predictability.

I ran a brush through my hair real quick before jogging down the stairs where Pete was waiting at the bottom.

You might think it was a little odd; a seventeen year old (soon to be eighteen, just so you know) with a twenty-four year old, but Pete was like my brother. We were really close and had a lot of fun together. If he wasn’t as close as a brother, my father wouldn’t let me go anywhere with him.

“Yo.” Pete high fived me as I reached the bottom.

“What’s up? Suppose to be a big show tonight?” I asked as we walked into the living room to tell our parents goodbye.

“Yeah, suppose to be pretty decent,” Pete said as he followed after me.

“Bye Mom,” I kissed my mom’s cheek and waved goodbye to Mr. & Mrs. Wentz as Pete told his parents bye. “Where’s dad?” I wondered aloud. He was always there, sitting and laughing about something with Pete’s dad; waiting to say goodbye to me and tell me to be safe.

“He just left. He got called in. They’re thinking of finally busting those guys downtown,” My mother said as she poured a glass of wine.

She acted like it wasn’t that big of a deal. My dad’s a police officer and when she says, ‘busting those guys downtown’, she means busting these hardcore, badass drug dealers that have been active for a while. Does she understand the dangers of my father’s job?

“He’ll be fine,” Pete assured after he saw the look on my face. I probably turned white. My father’s occupation was something that always worried me and I never really wanted to talk about. I am very close to my dad, much closer than I am with my mother, and I hated to think of all the hazardous situations he was put in everyday.

“Let’s go,” Pete ushered me to the door and we walked out to the van where Joe, Patrick, and Andy were waiting. He probably could tell I was ready to punch my mother in the face and wanted to get me out of there before I actually did.

The door opened and I climbed in the back. “Hey guys,” I said as I took a seat by Joe and Andy. They all replied enthusiastically; they were probably excited about the show. Patrick was driving and Pete was most likely riding passenger because he 'called shotgun'. He probably called it yesterday. Pete hated sitting in the back for some reason. He’s weird. He’s Pete.

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The show was pretty decent. The place was full and some kids sang along to the songs. Andy and I just finished packing everything into the van--by ourselves--since Joe, Pete, and Patrick found a way to avoid it, and we were sitting in the back drinking energy drinks.

We were laughing about Patrick scaring Pete the other morning and Pete falling out of his bed, when Pete ran around the corner. His face was flushed of color and he looked panicked.

“What’s up, Pete?” I asked as I set my Red Bull down. He just swallowed and shook his head. He was out of breath almost. Was he shaking?

“Pete, what’s wrong?” I hopped out of the van and stood in front of him. His eyes flickered from Andy to me and they were filled with fear. Why was he scared?

“Pete!” I demanded, getting frustrated. If someone was hurt, like Joe or Patrick, he needed to tell us.

“Lacey…” Pete choked out, looking down. I waited for him to finish. “It’s… it’s your dad.”