Frankie Fever

"Just hold my hand, okay? Follow me!"

"Okay. . . following. . . following. . ."

I blundered on through darkness, the towel was now over my head and Frank was leading me through the apartment. I wasn't complaining. Wanna' know why? FRANK IERO WAS HOLDING MY HAND! I mean, hello?! Why wouldn't I be okay?!

"Okay, just stop here, that's right."

I paused, still engulfed by the towel. Frank was standing behind me, his hands on my shoulders. Again, I had a fluttery feeling in my stomach at the feeling of his warm skin on my own skin. I could feel his warm breath on my neck as he leant closer. Okay, Gerard. . . calm down. . . Calm. Down!

"You ready?" Frank questioned.

I nodded, somewhat nervously. What if it looked awful? People at school would laugh at me until the dye faded. Oh no, why did I agree to this again? Crushes suck sometimes.

Frank started to count down from three.

Three. . .

Two. . .

One. . .

"Ta daa!" Frank sang, pulling the towel off of my head.

I stared at my reflection. A stranger stared back at me from the glass mirror. But whoa, whoever he was, he was hot!

"Wow!" I choked "It looks. . . uh. . ."

"You don't like it?" Frank questioned, pouting at me through the mirror.

"Yeah I do! It looks awesome!" I blabbered quickly, praying he knew I was being serious.

He beamed at me over my shoulder, clearly proud of himself. I smiled back, happy with my new hair and also loving the fact that FRANK IERO WAS STANDING BEHIND ME WITH NO SHIRT ON! My heart was pounding everytime I dared steal a peek at his body.

There we were, just admiring my new hair in the mirror for ages. Then we put our shirts back on and watched some DVDs until I decided I'd best get home before my house-proud, neurotic mother had a heart attack from worry.

* * *

Mom froze when she saw me come in through the front door.

"What. Have. You. Done. To. Yourself?" She demanded in a low, venomous tone.

"Uh. . . Frank uh. . . well, he-he dyed my hair for me," I stuttered.

Mom's jaw hit the floor. I kid you not, I swear it was on the floor! I don't think Mom ever really knew what to make of Frank. Dad liked him straight away. He said Frank was clearly a confident, bubbly lad who would have a good effect on me. My Dad's Scottish, you see. So, despite his American accent, he uses words like 'lad' and 'bevvy'. And he cooks us 'smokies' for breakfast.

Mom's back went rigid as she stared at my new hair. And her eyes narrowed. The problem? She was a hairdresser and could easily 'fix it' if she were to successfully get me upstairs and into the bathroom. Or maybe she'd just tie me to a chair and shave my hair off! Or-or. . . the list was endless.

Then there was the light thump of quick little feet on the stairs. My little brother, Mikey. He did, of course, have his Star Trek outfit and Mr. Spock ears on. Mikey's a little bit of a freak like that. He'd start talking to you in complete gobble-de-gook and claim he was speaking clingan. And you always had to greet him with that hand thing they do in Star Trek or he'd have a hissy fit.

He stared at my hair through his thick milk bottle glasses. He took it in, sucked in his breath and smiled.

"I like it," He said before skipping off into the living room.

Sometimes I swear he's not twelve. He acts like a six year old sometimes. I mean, skipping. Come on, he still skipped!

Mom continued to glare at my new hair, her hands clenched into fists by her side.

"Just wait until your father sees what you've done!" She growled.

"Mom, hello?" I questioned to check we were talking about the same man "Dad's not gonna' care. Hell, he'll probably dye his hair when he sees mine!"

"I guess you're right," Mom confessed with a defeated sigh.

I decided to continue with my clever persuasive techniques. Mom's one of those people, you see. You could probably tell her she lives in Lodi and she'd jump in the car; not that I'm calling my mother stupid, just easily manipulated. The truth can be harsh but that's the cold truth about my mother.

"And, I don't understand why you don't like my hair!" I continued "I mean, look at what good a job Frank's done. And you always encourage me to try something new. Even if it had gone wrong, I wouldn't have blamed you and it would have been me looking like the idiot, not you! Plus, I feel so much more confident now I look the way I'd like to!"

I could see her weakening. I guess I have a way with her. Well, it's not exactly difficult. You just need to feed her some kind of crap about your self-esteem improving. Anything like that and she agrees straight away. Why do you think she lets Mikey wander around with Mr. Spock ears?

She looked at my hair again, sucking her breath in slowly as she observed. Her lips twitched a little; she was counting to ten. Then she breathed out slowly, a sweet smile spreading over her face.

"I guess it doesn't look that bad," She said thoughtfully "And Frank has done quite a good job," She continued, reaching out and combing my hair with her fingers.

I ran a hand through my hair proudly, pleased with myself for winning Mom round so easily. Now I had to go and show Dad. Not that I wanted to, it's just a family tradition to show off new clothes or hair or whatever. Otherwise Mom and Dad sulk. They like to know what's going on in our lives.

He was in the living room, lounging on the sofa; feet up, remote in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. I'm supposed to be the teenager round here yet he acts like he's still fifteen.

"Hey, bud," He greeted, raising a hand.

"Like my new hair, Don?" I questioned.

Oh yeah, we have to call him Don; short for Donald, his real name. He decided being called Dad made things too responsible and made him sound old so he ordered me and Mikey to call him Don. I just call him 'my dad' when referring to him in a conversation and call him Dad in my mind. In my twisted little mind, where he's like any other Dad and likes spending time with me and Mikey and takes us out to play soccer and embarrasses us by dancing in public.

Mom, on the other hand, prefers to be called Mom. She likes to think she's a responsible, official mother. Fair enough and well done to her. A parent should like being a parent, right? And being called Mom or Dad. I guess we're just a big group of dysfuntional misfits in reality.

Dad looked up at me, his eyes going straight to my hair and taking in the new colour. He raised his eyebrows for a second and then smiled widely but falsely.

"That looks great, pal," He grinned "Really great. Who did that?"

"Frankie."

"Well, I might have to get young Frank to dye my hair," Dad beamed.

See? Not really interested in me or my new appearance. Just interested in himself and looking for ways to make himself look good in other people. He even likes to steal my clothes even though he has to lie on his back with his legs in the air to get my jeans done up. We're no way the same size and he knows it. He just forces himself into clothes too small for him to try and make himself feel better and younger.

I turned on my heel and briskly made my way upstairs and into my room. Also called my refuge from the madness of my dysfunctional family. Misfits posters, home-made Iron Maiden bedsheets, AC/DC alarm clock. . . you get the idea?

I threw myself onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling. Then I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cell phone, scrolling through my contact list until I found Frankie. Then I pressed the green call button and put the phone to my ear.

"Hello, very sexy Mr. Way," Came that confident voice "I was just about to call you."

"Hi, gorgeous Mr. Iero," I replied with a laugh.

He let a sweet laugh out himself.

"So, what's up?" He questioned.

"I thought I'd tell you everyone likes my new hair!"

"Awesome!" He exclaimed proudly.

"I knew you'd be happy," I laughed "So, why did you want to call me?"

"Get yourself macho-ed up!" He ordered "We're going down to Seventh Heaven!"

There was a silence after this announcement, my twisted and dirty mind kicking into effect. Finally, I let out a snort of laughter. Frank sounded quite offended at first, until I explained why I was laughing. Then he, himself, started laughing with me.

When our moment of immaturity was over, Frank explained what he meant by Seventh Heaven. It was a club in the city he always managed to get into and planned to get me into too. Frank and I had hung out in the city, drinking and stuff but we'd never gone out to a nightclub or anything before. I was kinda' anxious about it, to be honest. Especially as Frank was so excited about it. What happened if I couldn't get away with being older than I was? What if I ruined Frank's evening and he decided he didn't like me anymore?

"Frank, I have a problem!"

"Um. . . fill me in?"

"How do I look older without looking like a try-hard?" I questioned desperately.

"Don't. Move," He commanded "I'll be over in a minute."

Wow. Now we were trapped in a chick flick. Fun fun fun. I sat cross-legged on my bed, hands in my lap while waiting for Frank to come over.