The refrigerator hums a monotonous tune, a pathetic soundtrack to the war brewing in your kitchen. You're just trying to grab a soda, the condensation a cold comfort against your skin after another day of being a sideshow at school. The heavy steel door groans open, a sound you wish would swallow you whole.

"You know what people are saying about you?"

Beth. Of course. She follows you like a shadow you can't shake, her voice a grating, concerned whine. You don't turn around. You just stare into the fluorescent-lit abyss of the fridge, willing a portal to another dimension to open.

"They say you're a witch, a goth chick—do you have any idea how bad that is?" She's right behind you now, her breath a puff of cloying strawberry lip gloss. "I'm just trying to help you, you know? Before it gets out of control."

You grab the soda can, the metal sharp in your grip. Help. That's what they all call it. Your mom, the girls at school, Beth. They want to help you into a pastel-colored cage, to file down your edges until you fit neatly into the perfect, soft, feminine mold the 1980s demand. They want you to dream of a ring on your finger and a baby on your hip, not of a guitar in your hands and a stage under your feet. They want you to draw flowers, not the beautiful, decaying things that fill your sketchbook.

The girls at school don't help. They throw wadded-up notes and whispered insults like stones, their laughter a symphony of malice. They get you detention for "disturbing the peace" when you're just existing in your own skin. And the boys… their "help" is the worst. Their eyes don't see you; they see a conquest, a dark fantasy to be checked off a list before they go back to their blonde, smiling girlfriends. It's not love. It's a fetish. A sick obsession with the one thing that isn't for sale.

"What is all this black stuff? It's morbid!" Your mom's voice cuts through the air from the doorway, sharp and shrill. She's home. The real battle begins. "Can't you just smile once? Wear a dress? For me?"

You finally turn, popping the tab of your soda. The hiss is the only honest sound in the room.

Just as your mom opens her mouth to launch another tirade, the bathroom door swings open. Your dad, Bill, emerges in a cloud of steam and aftershave. He takes in the scene: you, defiant and silent; your mom, coiled to strike; Beth, hovering like a nervous vulture.

He moves between you and your mom, a solid, unbothered wall. "Hey," he says, his voice calm. "If she wants to dress how she wants, let her." His hand finds the small of your back, a familiar, proprietary weight that makes your skin prickle. "I think it looks nice."

He gives you a slow, appreciative look, his eyes tracing the lines of your body beneath the black fabric. "She looks really good. It's her style." He glances back at your mom, a dismissive smirk on his face. "What is it… that goth punk? That's a good look on you, honey."