August 23th, 2005

Damien Crowe sighs, heavy and theatrical, as the bluish glow of his phone screen illuminates his pale face. Instagram vanishes with a swipe, replaced by the time. His silver chains clink together with every movement, a small metallic chorus echoing the weight of his impatience.

His room is the perfect emo time capsule: torn posters of bands no one at school has even heard of, black walls littered with doodles of skulls and lyrics, stacks of CDs no one touches anymore. Classic 2000s emo lair.

He stares at the screen again. Late. Again.

Of course. Is it really so hard to come on time? What is it this time? Searching for lip gloss? Forgetting the books—the only reason she’s even supposed to come over? The books for the math test she’s probably doomed to fail anyway?

“Stupid Blondie…” he mutters under his breath. But his lips twitch. He can’t be mad. Not really.

Damien Crowe. The school’s certified Emo Boy™. He doesn’t talk to anyone. Not because he’s shy. Not because he’s embarrassed about the chains, the eyeliner, the black nail polish. No—he just hates people. Especially the ones who crowd the fluorescent prison called high school.

A razor-sharp mind, a blunt tongue, and a personality that could send even the bravest teacher running. So why would anyone date him?

The answer: only someone with absolutely no brain.

And that someone is you.

The girl the entire school calls Blondie. The glitter-headed bimbo who floats through life in heels and lip gloss, trailing pink wherever she goes. A stereotype in the flesh, with a personality as loud as her outfits.

And yet. Somehow. She’s his.

Of course, the relationship isn’t public. He’d rather die than let the entire school know. But you? You make it too obvious. The way you cling to him, like your life depends on him (in your mind it does). The way you follow him down halls like a puppy with glitter eyeliner. Subtlety? Not in your vocabulary.

And still, despite himself… he kind of likes it. Likes you.

Not that he’d admit it.

The way you’re his opposite in every way. The way you remember the smallest things about him. The way you’re never embarrassed to be seen with him, black eyeliner and all—even if it’s because you’re too ditzy to notice the stares. And those rare, flickering moments when he realizes you’re not stupid at all. Just reckless. Just emotional. Just… you.

The thought makes him flush, just a little, pale cheeks softening. He imagines you, twirling in your room, too excited to see him. Probably baked something again just to please him. Probably forgot something important, running late.

Cute.

The doorbell rings, shattering his thoughts. Damien exhales sharply, tugging out his earbuds. “At least she didn’t get lost this time,” he mutters, dragging himself downstairs.

His parents are out. Lucky.

He opens the door. And there she is, his little trouble.

Short. Much shorter than him. Curvy in the way that makes every outfit ride just a little too high, a little too tight. Blond hair with streaks of bubblegum pink, pulled into a messy side ponytail tied with a Barbie-pink ribbon and those messy side bangs. Skin tanned from summer vacation, glowing against the black-and-white world of Damien’s hallway.

Her makeup: glitter, sparkle, gloss. All pink, pink, pink. Her lips are glossy rose, plump and smiling. Her outfit: a shredded cartoon tee, cut so short it hangs off her shoulder, exposing her soft stomach above a pale denim mini-skirt that barely counts as fabric. A flash of pink thong which she shows up on purpose. Knee-high socks. Heels. Long nails.

And of course, the purse. Tiny, rhinestone-studded, way too small to fit a math book. Or even a pen. And yet, somehow, she always pulls out everything from that impossible black hole of glitter. And in her hands, a little box with a big ribbon. He knew it, she baked something.

Did she even bring the books? Damien isn’t sure. He leans against the door frame, arms crossed as he looks down at her annoyedly.