THEN
I started catching rides to school with Seth and Mitchell soon after Seth and I made our relationship status official. I told Seth I was fine with riding my bike, but he insisted. It helped that my house was on their way to school. Seth wanted me to hang out with them at lunch too, but I didn’t want to ditch Sabrina. And, as seniors, they could go off campus. I didn’t want the stress of always looking over my shoulder for the resource officer or do as Seth suggested, which was hide in the trunk. Most days I started out with Sabrina and the band kids, then hooked up with Seth and his friends during the last ten minutes of lunch. Sometimes I got a side of fries or a bag of chips for my effort.
“Hiroku, what the hell are you carrying in this backpack?” Seth said to me one morning as we were getting out of Mitchell’s car. He was trying it on, and he looked extremely awkward, like he’d never worn a backpack before in his life.
“Books?” I said a little snottily. For the couple of months I’d known him, I’d never seen Seth carry a textbook even once.
“Isn’t that what lockers are for?” He’d taken my backpack off his shoulders and was trying to lift it by one of the straps like a free weight. He appeared to be struggling.
“My locker’s on the third floor with all the other freshmen,” I grumbled. How quickly the seniors forgot. “I don’t even have a class on the third floor.”
Seth narrowed his eyes slyly like he was hatching a plan. “Why don’t you just use mine?”
“Your locker?” For some reason that felt way too intrusive, like I was moving in or something. “I don’t want to put you out.”
“I want you to. That way I can see you throughout the day. Besides, I don’t even use it.”
I was afraid Seth would get sick of me if I hung around him too much but having a centrally located locker would make my life a whole lot easier and save my back from chronic strain. “Let’s see this locker of yours,” I said haughtily.
Seth smiled and handed me my backpack—he wasn’t the type to carry my books for me. I followed him to the main hallway of the first floor, prime real estate and practically the epicenter of my classes with the exception of photography, which was in the Visual Arts building. Seth told me his combo, and I got it on my second try. The inside was practically empty—just a couple of music books, an old mp3 player and headphones, and a drawing of Skull Necklace’s logo on notebook paper stuck to the inside of the metal door.
“Where’s all your stuff?”
Seth shrugged. “I have guitar, recording, and graphic design. The other classes I just borrow a book when I need one.” He stuffed the mp3 player in his pocket and hooked the cans around his neck. “Here, it’s all yours.”
It felt a little like Christmas morning. I unzipped my backpack and started to carefully arrange everything according to the order of my classes. Seth watched me with an amused expression. “What?” I asked with a smile.
“I’ve always wondered what it’s like to be a dork.”
I glared at him and he pinched my ass. Surprisingly I didn’t mind the PDA. People had started picking up on the two of us being a thing. He posted a lot on Instagram, and I’d begun to make regular appearances in his feed. Practically the whole school followed him, even his haters, which Seth called lovers in denial. His friends accepted me without question, and even in the wider concentric circles of our high school, people seemed pretty chill about it. We were an arts magnet high school, so in some ways, everyone was trying to one-up each other by being more outrageous. The most shocking thing about Seth and I was probably that I was a freshman, and as Seth put it, a dork.
I finished packing away my stuff and found that I hardly needed my backpack at all. I rolled it up and tucked it in the back. “I feel so naked.”
“Free yourself from the shackles of the machine, my young Padawan.”
There were other changes to come, I soon discovered. Seth and Mitchell inducted me into their school of rock on our rides to and from school. Some days they’d take a longer route in order to finish a song or a bitchin’ guitar solo. I was always running to make it to my first-period class on time.
They took me through the history of rock ‘n’ roll with an academic-like attention, beginning with the classic jazz and blues artists—Muddy Waters, Lead Belly, Robert Johnson, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, then on through the big bands—which Seth wanted to skip, but Mitchell insisted on, then into Motown, Doo-wop, Swing, the Rockabilly era—Elvis, Johnny Cash, Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis and some that I’d never even heard of before. The ladies too—Loretta Lynn, Patsy Cline, Aretha Franklin, Billie Holiday, Joni Mitchell… rare versions recorded in backrooms, limited-edition B-sides; the more obscure, the better.
The only thing I’d ever seen Mitchell take a stand on, in fact, was his musical preferences. For instance, Mitchell thought Elvis was campy and not very talented as a musician or a performer. Mitchell hated the way he crooned and his voice, which he thought was put-on and fake all the way down to his over-the-top Mississippi accent. Mitchell especially hated how everyone thought his songs were so original when they were actually stolen from the blues masters, to which Seth always countered, “just like Led Zeppelin,” which started a whole other argument from Mitchell about how Led Zeppelin changed the face of rock and roll as we know it.
Seth, however, loved Elvis and especially loved watching old recordings of his performances. He said he used to impersonate Elvis when he was little. It was one of his mom’s party tricks, to trot Seth out and have him perform in front of her friends. Seth loved the limelight, and I sensed from that and other conversations that it was one of the few ways he got his mother’s attention, by singing and dancing or doing other outrageous things.
It definitely explained Seth’s affinity for all things rhinestone and the fact that he, himself, owned a Bedazzler and was known to glamorize all manner of clothing and accessories with plastic jewels and metallic studs.
Often Mitchell and Seth spent half the time arguing about what artist we were going to listen to next, and after every album—they called them albums, not playlists—they’d go over what was happening culturally or in the artists’ personal lives to influence their music, along with random bits of trivia. If Seth applied the same attention he gave to his music to his studies, I had no doubt he’d have straight A’s.
But I didn’t talk to Seth about his lack of academic focus.
One day I asked Seth why he was devoting so much attention to my musical education, and he said, “Our band’s number one groupie has to know what’s good in order to properly venerate us for our magnificence.”
“And you’re the authority on what’s good?” I teased.
Seth gave me a look that told me the answer was obvious.
The other thing Seth started doing was giving or loaning me his clothes, including a couple of pairs of his old jeans he insisted I wear instead of my ironed Dockers. “They show off your ass better,” he said. If I mentioned a band or a song that I liked, it just so happened that Seth had one of their concert T-shirts—he was something of a collector of band shirts. We were about three weeks into our official relationship when it suddenly occurred to me.
“You’re trying to make me cool,” I said to him. We were in his bedroom, and Seth was going through his drawers pulling out some old T-shirts and tossing them on the bed. He’d said he had too many and wanted to get rid of some.
Seth looked at me sideways without turning all the way. This epiphany hit me so hard and all at once that I felt foolish for not picking up on it sooner. “You really do think I’m a dork.” Seth had definitely teased me about it, but I didn’t actually think he believed it. It kind of hurt my feelings.
Seth sighed and shook his head. “You’re not a dork, Hiroku. You’re one of the coolest kids I know. It’s just…” He looked at me with so much sympathy. “You look like your mom dresses you.”
I glanced down at my button-up shirt and blue jeans. My mom didn’t dress me, but she did buy my clothes.
“I mean, what are those?” He squinted at my pants. “Wranglers?”
I got really quiet at that. And embarrassed. I began to think about other things Seth had done, like tell me to untuck my shirt or suggest I do something different with my hair, lose the belt and let my pants hang a little lower.
“Don’t be mad.” Seth came over and laid both hands on my shoulders.
“I’m not mad.” I sat down on the edge of his bed and tucked my hands between my knees. I couldn’t meet his eyes. I felt so stupid and childish. Seth squatted down in front of me so he could see my face.
“Look, I think you’re hot no matter what you wear. I’m just trying to bring you into this century.”
I started spiraling a little then, thinking about his friends and how they all dressed really wild and cool—emo haircuts with crazy colors, edgy piercings and tattoos, clothes from thrift shops and vintage finds. Like real artists. Did they think I was a dork too?
“Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?” I asked shakily. It was like the curtain had been thrown back, and I was no longer tripping through my own happy oblivion.
“No, of course not.” He shook his head emphatically. “If anything, you’re like an Asian Buddy Holly, and there is nothing cooler than that.”
I sighed heavily, still feeling incredibly foolish, especially that I hadn’t picked up on it sooner.
“Hiroku, don’t,” Seth said sternly but gently while laying a hand on my knee. I understood the sentiment nested in his tone—he was sorry for not telling me sooner, but he didn’t want me to overthink this or blow it out of proportion.
And if Seth was willing to make this kind of investment in my personal style, it was kind of a reflection of his feelings for me.
“All right,” I told him. “I trust your instincts. Do with me what you will. Make me your Barbie.”
Seth smiled wickedly. “That is the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
My parents were somewhat oblivious to my transformation, but my sister was keeping a watchful eye. She’d never comment directly on my new image, but instead, she’d say things like “I didn’t know you liked Soundgarden” or when Seth gave me one of his bracelets, “I thought you didn’t wear leather.”
It was all pretty under-the-radar until Seth took me to get my first piercing. It wasn’t just Seth who went with me but Mitchell, Jeannie, and Sasha too. Caleb had to work or else he probably would have come as well. Even though I generally avoided needles, I was still psyched for this piercing because it felt like their club initiation, and they all wanted to be there for it.
The piercer’s name was Happy, and he had, like, a thousand piercings all over his body, along with tunnel earrings wider than my thumbs. Seth had made some sort of an arrangement where Happy wouldn’t ask for my ID. His piercing office was behind a beaded curtain in his home and resembled an operating room with all of his instruments laid out on blue medical paper. The needles reminded me of knitting needles, only much, much sharper.
As I sat there looking everything over, trying to keep my stomach settled and not shit my pants, Sasha started describing her dual nipple piercing experience that had happened in that same room. Seth saw me going green and told her to can it. He rubbed my back as I determined the gauge and the earring that was to go at the top of my ear, a location I’d selected so my hair could hide it and my parents would hopefully never see it.
Happy was like a meditative monk the whole time, explaining everything in a chill, matter-of-fact way and watching me deliberate with a serene expression on his face. Finally, when I was satisfied with my decision, Happy had me lie back on the padded table and turn my head away from him. Seth squatted down so that he was eye level with me. Partly it was for reassurance, but I think he also wanted to see my expression when the needle pierced my skin. Happy was such a professional that I felt only a hot pinch, a tugging sensation, and a slight burning afterward as he locked the silver loop into place.
Then Seth got a matching hoop in his ear in the same place, which was not something we’d planned, but I believed it was meant to convey his commitment to me and that we were something special.
Jeannie told me I’d been very brave, Sasha said this was only the beginning of my piercing career with glittering eyes, and Seth told me I could never, ever take it out. Mitchell nodded without much enthusiasm and told me to keep it clean because piercing infections were a bitch. Then the four of us went and got ice cream. They had to drop me back off at my house before dinnertime, even though we were all hyped up and ready to celebrate. I hated that I couldn’t go out with them on the weeknights. I knew they were probably up to no good, but it also meant they were all hanging out and having fun without me.
Of course, I got careless about my piercing, and my sister saw it one night after I’d just showered. She followed me back to my bedroom and shut the door behind her.
“What is that?” She whisper-shouted and flicked my still-tender ear.
“Ow, Mai. What the hell was that for?” The piercing was still healing.
“Do Mom and Dad know about it?”
I gave her a look that said of course not followed with please don’t tell.
“What’s next, Hiroku? A tattoo?”
“Relax, Mai. It’s just a piercing. I could take it out tomorrow.”
“You should do that before Mom and Dad see it.”
They’d have to cut off my ear before I’d take it out. As far as I was concerned, Seth had claimed me, and that earring was my proof.
“Everyone at school has one,” I told her.
“I don’t.”
That was true. Mai and her friends were a pretty strait-laced, buttoned-up crew. Future Business Leaders of America and all that.
I grinned at her. “I know a guy.”
She smacked the back of my head. “Don’t make jokes with me, Hiroku Hayashi. You are in big trouble. Piercings were not part of our agreement.”
I argued my case—growing up Japanese, wanting my independence, no one is a saint (except for her) and finally, the outcast card of just wanting to fit in, which wasn’t a lie. She knew making friends had never been easy for me and that I’d often been at the receiving end of low-key racism. It was worse for me than it ever had been for her—I never knew why. Maybe it was because I was a sensitive, shy boy. Or maybe it was because of my smart mouth and general contempt for bullies. Finally, Mai retracted her threat to tell my parents, and I thought that would be the end of it.
But it wasn’t.
We were eating dinner around the table the next night when Mai made her move.
“Hiroku, can your friends give me a ride to school tomorrow morning?”
I set down my fork and glared at her from across the table. Mai had her own car, and there was nothing wrong with it. The reason I didn’t ride with her to school was because she was always occupied with clubs and extra classes after school, and I didn’t want to wait around for her to finish.
“I thought you were riding your bike,” Mom said.
“Who are these friends?” Dad asked. “Freshmen can’t drive to school.”
Mai stared at me, awaiting my response.
“Just some friends from band,” I told them. They weren’t in the school band, but they had been in a band and probably would be again at some point in the future.
“Seniors, aren’t they?” Mai asked with an innocent tilt of her head.
“Seniors?” Dad said. “What are seniors doing giving a freshman a ride to school?”
“They live in the neighborhood. It’s like a carpool, you know? Minimizing our carbon footprint. I give them money for gas; they give me a ride. It’s a symbiotic relationship.”
It was too late. Dad was suspicious.
“I’d like to meet these friends of yours,” he said.
“Dad. Come on. Don’t be embarrassing.”
That was the wrong thing to say.
“If you want to ride to school with these strangers—”
“They’re not strangers,” I interrupted.
“They’re strangers to me,” he said sternly. “And if you plan to keep getting rides from them, I want to meet them. Who knows if they even have their drivers’ licenses? Did you ask to see them?”
I groaned and shook my head. I glanced up to see if Mai was happy with herself, but she didn’t look smug. She looked concerned.
“I’ll go in a little late tomorrow morning,” Dad said, sealing his commitment. “I can meet your friends then.”
After dinner, I was helping my mom clean up when she laid a hand on my arm and said sweetly, “You know we trust you, Hiroku. It’s them we don’t trust.” She motioned to the window and darkening twilight outside, the lair of the boogieman who kidnapped innocent teen boys from their mothers’ clutches and turned them into pierced and dangerous men. My mother wouldn’t like Seth. Somehow, I just knew it.
Seth and Mitchell didn’t have a lot of warning, but when they showed up the next morning to take me to school—early, I might add—they looked so wholesome, I almost didn’t recognize them. They each had button-down shirts tucked into their Dockers, which were pulled up to their waists and worn with belts. All of their tattoos were hidden, including Seth’s infinity sign, which he’d covered with a big ugly watch I’d never seen before. Mitchell’s hair was slicked back, and Seth had taken out all of his piercings, except for his most recent, which was covered by his hair. He was even wearing thick, black glasses, which I presumed was for the Buddy Holly effect because Seth couldn’t resist being cheeky. The two of them looked like extras in Leave It to Beaver.
Not only was their look blowing me away, but their manners… Seth was all “yes, sir” and “no, sir” when Dad asked if they had their licenses and insurance and whether they’d ever gotten into an accident. Dad looked slightly bewildered by it all, but he didn’t associate much with teens other than Mai and me to know that Mitchell and Seth were putting him on. Finally, after a few more questions about their grades and families, I was able to leave with them. Mitchell pulled out of the driveway slower than a little old lady and gave a friendly little nod and wave at the end of the driveway. Seth was whistling. Only when they turned the corner did the two of them dissolve into a howling fit of laughter.
“That was insane,” I told them, stunned that it worked and flattered that Seth took the time and attention to properly hoodwink my father. Seth was unbuttoning his plaid shirt as fast as he could. Underneath was a band shirt. He tossed that and his belt into the back seat and then went the glasses. I tried them on. Costume lenses, just as I’d suspected.
“I like those on you,” Seth said, leering at me from the front seat.
“Did we pass?” Mitchell asked while queuing up our next musical endeavor, which was… the Beatles.
“With aces,” I told them. “Thanks a lot, you guys. I really appreciate it.”
I got a little choked up for a moment at their gesture. They really wanted me in their gang. I didn’t know why that realization hit me harder than the others—perhaps because Mitchell had pitched in as well. Seth climbed over the seat to join me in the back where he kissed me with a sudden fervor. It made a loud, smacking noise that even the music couldn’t cover.
“One of you has to come back up here,” Mitchell said. “I don’t want any fluids in the Malibu.”
Seth laughed with his head thrown back and pulled me into his lap. We made out the rest of the way to school while Mitchell kept making abrupt stops and hard turns and telling us we’d better keep it in our pants on or else.
And even though I’d promised my father just moments before, neither of us were wearing our seatbelts.