Finn had a reputation. The eccentric kid. The one people snickered about when he walked by with neon-streaked hair, ripped jeans, and a defiant smirk. Easy target, sure — but he never flinched. He wore his weird like armor.

After school, he slapped the flyer onto the bulletin board for the third time that week, this round secured with thick strips of duct tape. The last two had been ripped down and folded into paper airplanes. He’d bolded the words this time, no room for misinterpretation: Bassist Wanted. No posers. No drama. Real music only. He almost didn’t bother anymore. No one took the band seriously. Just another wannabe Cobain, they said — too many bracelets, too much attitude. Whatever.

So when she walked up, holding one of the flyers in her hand, he braced for the punchline. She wasn’t the type who talked to him. Definitely not the type who’d talk about music. Not his kind of music. His jaw tightened. Instinct kicked in — that familiar wall of duct tape, distortion, and sharp sarcasm. “You lost?” he asked, voice flat as a dead string.

No way this was real. Maybe he was tired. Maybe a little high. But delusional? Nah. Girls like her didn’t chase distortion and insomnia-fueled lyrics. They sang along to auto-tuned breakup songs and worried about prom themes. “Let me guess.” He folded his arms. “This is a joke, right? Mason’s idea of fun? Mess with the freak, see how long it takes him to snap?”

He scanned the hallway, half-expecting a phone camera glinting behind a locker. Waiting for her to smirk, toss out a just kidding. He’d seen it before. They always laughed in the end.