We Feel Like Dead Ends

Jack stood in front of the doors to Industrial Music. The snow on the ground was dusty and faint, like sprinklings of fairy dust. He pushed the flakes around with his feet, hands dug deep into his pockets. Had he really, sincerely been invited? To hang out with Pete Wentz and his friends? He closed his eyes and imagined walking into the store only to be laughed at for his incompetent guitar skills. He knew he was no expert, merely good. Good enough to play a couple songs, a couple riffs. He wasn’t special
Jack took a deep breath, thinking of what many therapists had told him. “Alex would want you to be better. Feel better…” He shoved his shoulder against the door to open it and walked into the store that smelled of guitar strings and cork grease. An employee wearing a black polo shirt and a nametag looked up from the pile of sheet music they were arranging to smile at him welcomingly.
“Hi, is there anything you’re looking for?” She asked in a sunny voice that grated against his ears uncomfortably.
“Uh, do you know if Joe’s in…?” He replied, not looking at her.
“Joe Trohman? Yeah, he’s in the second practice room to the left. I can give you direc-“ Jack walked off. He knew this store like the back of his hand. Shuffling through the piano section, he turned left and found the doors to the private practice rooms. He knew that the purpose of these rooms was for the music lessons the store held, but they were mostly used by small local bands as practice space. Raising his eyes to the door to the second room, he knocked uncertainly. The door was opened immediately, and there was Patrick Stump, grinning up at him (as with Pete, Patrick’s short. In fact, all of Pete’s friends are short. It’s probably because then they don’t feel so small when they’re next to each other… at least in my opinion.)

“Hey, Jack!” He smiled, and opened the door wider to let Jack inside. It was spacious enough for four people and some instruments. Pete was sitting on a small amp with a notebook perched on his knee. Joe leaned in the corner of the room, watching Pete write. He looked up when Jack entered the room.
“Look who showed up.” He said, eyebrows furrowing. “We didn’t expect you to come.”
“Nah, I thought you’d come.” Pete said, pulling a chair up beside the amp. “Sit down, Jack.”
Jack sat on the collapsible chair gingerly, looking down at his lap and folding his fingers together. He was already feeling anxious. These three guys were best friends, and he was just… an awkward add on that only Pete wanted there.
“So anyways, we wanted you here because we’re sort of stuck on a song.” Patrick said, grabbing an acoustic guitar from a stand. “Like, we have a verse and an idea, but Pete’s lost for lyrics and I can’t really piece together a melody from where we are at this point.” He smiled sheepishly. “So yesterday, Pete thought you could help, maybe?” Jack lifted his eyes and stared at Pete, who shrugged.
“Yeah I mean I know you play guitar, and you’re the only other kid at our school who even likes the same music as us so why not?”
“Okay.. so what do you have?” Jack said quietly. Pete nodded at Patrick, who sat down on the ground with his guitar and started strumming.
“Last year’s wishes
Are this year’s apologies.
Every last time I come home
I take my last chance,
To burn a bridge or two
I can only keep myself sick in the head,
‘Cause I know how the words get to you.”

Jack leaned back against the wall and listened closely. He internally sighed; of course his assumptions had been correct, his assumptions that he wasn’t good enough for them. The song so far, consisting of a verse and a bit to go before the chorus, had a good hook and tune and goddamnit, Pete was an amazing lyricist. Patrick stopped playing and looked up expectantly.
“So yeah, that’s uh all we got.” He mumbled, slightly embarrassed at the silence.
“I like it.” Jack said, twiddling his thumbs absently, not making eye contact with any of the boys. “But I don’t really think I can help you. I mean… I think you guys are too good for me-“
Joe rolled his eyes.
“Man, we wouldn’t of invited you if Pete hadn’t thought you were good. Honestly, just jam with us and we could come up with something.” He said.
“I-“ Jack’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Then again. He furrowed his eyebrows, wondering who would be texting him. Rian and Zack never bothered anymore, and it’s not really like he had any other friends. Blushing under the watch of Patrick, Pete and Joe, he pulled the cell out and stared at the screen. A text from his mom; one too long for the preview to show the entirety of, and one from and unknown number. He swiped the screen to view the one from his mom and almost gasped.
“Uh, guys, can you give me a second-“ He shoved open the door to the practice room, slipped out and slammed it behind him, leaning on the door and fighting back tears.

From: Mom
Jack, it’s obvious you’re having some difficulty with a lot of things right now. And the way you’ve been treating your father and I recently is unacceptable. I hate to do this, but you should take a break. From us. You haven’t bothered coming home yet and you can stay out for a week. I’m sorry… it’s for the best.

Where the fuck was he supposed to go? Was he going to be allowed back to his house to grab some of his things before he left for a week? Since when was this ‘for the best’?
“Fuck.” He muttered, a tear escaping from the corner of his eye. Taking a deep breath, he went on to open the second text.