After the Storm

Gonna take off all my skin
Tear apart all my insides
When they rifle in
Mom and Dad think you'll be saved
They never had the time
They're gonna medicate your lives
You were always born a crime
We salute you in your grave

Gerard Way's insanely amazing lyrics bellow out of my headphones as I sit under the bleachers at my school, a Malboro Red clamped between my lips. My huge hazel eyes scan the area in an almost irritated fashion as I sit, watching the jocks playing soccer a few feet away. The smell of cigarette must be pungent, but nobody comes to check what's going on. This had been going on too long for people to care.

This is the only place where I could find any hope of solitude. Nobody dares to come here. I don't know why - maybe it 's because it's widely known around the school as "my" spot. This is the place where I wrote some of my best stuff. This is also the place where I came to shoot up when I needed a quick fix, before I quit doing drugs.

God, it's been four months since my last fix. I'm over the cravings and the desperate need to get pissed, but sometimes it's so hard to stay sober. I am getting better though - my last drink was a month ago. Writing helps when it gets too hard.

I shut the notebook in my lap dejectedly, pocketing my favorite black felt-tip pen. The notebook is black on the outside, made of shiny plastic material, with newspaper letters spelling my name - Lenore Avery - sprawled over the cover. It has about three hundred pages or so, half of them already filled with my random musings. Sometimes I even try to draw, but they always turn out pathetic.

"Can I sit here?" A musical voice breaks through my musings and I start, dropping the Malboro. My eyes flash up to the person who dares interrupt me, and my breath catches in my throat. I try to speak. Nothing.

Fuck me, she's hot.

"Uh...sure," I manage to spit out, pulling my bag out of her way. She sits with all the grace of a dancer as I yank my headphones out of my ears. She shoots me a wry smile and all I can really do is smile back, regaining some sort of composure. "I'm Lenore, by the way."

"Sage McAllen," she sighs, flicking her shoulder-length brown hair over her shoulder. Her olive skin and her deep blue eyes have me wondering if she's Mediterranean. "Have I seen you before? You don't look familiar."

I shrug. "Probably not. I'm always here."

Sage does this weird half-smile thing, motioning to my shirt. "You're a fan of My Chem?"

"Yeah...those guys saved my life," I murmur, pulling at the crumpled black T-shirt. I'd made it myself for a concert about a month ago, and it had taken me days - the white fabric paint kept sinking in to the fabric and fading. In the end I just used straight bleach to form the letters. "You like them?"

Sage nods, her eyes never leaving me. "They're amazing. What's your favorite song?"

"My Way Home is Through You"

"You're joking."

"I'm a shit liar."

She motions to my headphones. "Were you just listening to it?" I nod and hold out a headphone for her, picking up my iPod and going back to the start of the song. She shoves it in her ear just as Gerard starts to sing. Both of us are quiet as we listen to the song, and I can't help but watch her out of the corner of my eye. Fuck, she's hot. It takes me a few seconds to realize I'm staring at her, but it doesn't make me turn away. I'm pretty much fixated on her long nails as they tap out the complicated rhythm expertly on her thigh, contrasting with my short nails, required for guitar playing. Sage notices me watching her and smiles, making me flush with embarrassment.

"You know I'm gay, right?"

Her sudden words startle me, and it takes a second for this to sink in. "Really?" I reply stupidly, and she nods, not a hint of apprehension in her eyes. I shrug nonchalantly and a little smile curls Sage's lips. "Hmm, that's cool."

"I'm surprised you didn't already know," Sage mutters, picking up my iPod without hesitation and skipping the next song. "My coming out was a pretty big thing here."

I shrug again, running a hand through my black boy-cut. It's only a week or so old, and it's a little bit of a shock after having long hair my entire life. "I'm not really interested in the affairs of the popular people, to be honest. They couldn't bore me more if they tried."

Sage laughs, a lovely musical sound that's equally as beautiful as her voice. "I should have expected nothing less. You here often?"

"Well, I'm kind of legally required to be here-"

"No, I mean under the bleachers."

"Oh...yeah, I spend my frees here. What grade are you in?" I ask, combing my side-fringe with my fingers.

"I'm a junior. You?"

"Same."

"You do know school ended...twenty minutes ago, right?" she asks me, quickly glancing at the watch around her thin wrist I hadn't noticed before.

I jump up, swinging my bag onto my shoulder. "Fuck!" I check my cell. Sage is right. "Dammit, Mom'll have left by now..."

Sage shrugs, picking up her huge black binder. Seriously, that thing is gigantic. I'm surprised she can even carry the damn thing. "I'll give you a lift."

I throw her a curious look, my eyebrow hitching up my forehead by about an inch. "You sure?"

"Absolutely."

Without another word Sage turns on her heel, stalking off towards the fence separating the sports ground from the car park. She doesn't hesitate when she gets to the fence and simply throws her binder over the wire, expertly climbing up after it. She swings over the top, landing in a cat-like crouch. By that time I've thrown my red and black messenger bag over the top and started to struggle up the damn fence.

"Can't I just go around?" I call out in a choked voice as my hands touch the top.

Sage laughs at me. "Absolutely not."

I glare at her as I swing my legs over, finally dropping to the ground. I don't land nearly as gracefully as Sage - it takes all my concentration to not fall flat on my ass. Once I recover I snatch up my bag, replacing it over my shoulder. Sage has already picked up her binder and is sauntering away, whipping a pair of keys out of her pocket. I half-run to catch up with her, then stop short.

Sage drove a motorbike.

It's a beautiful thing - a black Ducati, with white calligraphy which she'd obviously done herself. It's too delicate for a generic auto store to have done it for her. One helmet is around the handlebars, the other stuffed in a basket-thing that had been drilled to the side of the seat. She slides the helmet off the handlebars, pressing it to her head as she picks up the other one. Hers is far more beat up, and I suspect that she'd had quite a few accidents.

"You, Lenore, get to wear the weird helmet." She grins wolfishly at me as she presses the pristine white helmet into my hands, clipping her own around her chin. It bunches her cheeks a little, in a cute way. I wordlessly slam the helmet on my head, clipping the chin strap, and the second I'm done she turns, sitting on the bike. I follow her awkwardly, digging my nails into the seat, but without hesitation she takes my arms and, gently but firmly, wraps them around her tiny waist. I take the opportunity to bury my face in her shoulder, smelling her shirt. Mmm...Sage smells like some exotic flower, one that I've never smelled before.

Before I can get another whiff Sage stuffs the key into the ignition, the Ducati roaring in reply. The air is filled with the stench of exhaust fumes. I grip her abdomen tightly, and although she squirms a little she makes no complaint. All of a sudden we're moving, the bike growling underneath us as it eats the road.

"Where do you live?" she calls over the sound of the engine.

"Twenty-eight Sparkes Road," I shout in reply and she nods, leaning forward a little to accelerate.

I don't remember much of the ride, as my face is stuffed into Sage's back the entire time. I always had a weak stomach and was prone to bad motion sickness. Having the wind in my face and an unsteady vehicle below me doesn't help one iota.

Suddenly the engine cuts and I look up, reluctantly tearing my nose from Sage's shirt. We're outside my house - a three-story brick behemoth, about fifty-something years old, that my parents had snatched up for next to nothing when the neighbors were petitioning to have it knocked down.

Sage is staring at my house when I slide off the bike, nearly collapsing because my legs are shaking so badly. "Whoa...you live here?!" she asks, incredulous, and I nod apprehensively. She grins, chuckling a little to herself as I try to find my center of balance. My knees are still trembling uncontrollably.

"Well, it's weird but I like it," I reply, adjusting my bag on my shoulder. Sage has turned her attention from the house to me, and I can feel her deep blue eyes boring steadily in to me, searching every facet of my being. I shift uncomfortably under her stare and she breaks her gaze, her eyes flicking from the door, and back to me.

"I'll see you tomorrow, right?" she asks, crossing her arms over the handlebars. I check my watch.

"Dude, today's Friday."

"I know. I'll be at 79 tomorrow night, and I better not be alone."

I don't have time to reply - the Ducati's started up again, and Sage smiles and waves before yanking the handlebars around, tearing off down the road. Once the stench of exhaust dissipates I notice the air around me still smells of flowers - of her. A little smirk curls my lips as I grab the hem of the T-shirt, kneading it in my fist while I saunter away from the driveway, up to my front door. A little sigh escapes my lips as I push open the door, slamming it behind me.

It's going to be a long time before tomorrow night.