Ah, summer vacation... wasn't that the best part of going to school? Well, that's what Pete thought. He believed studying wouldn't lead to anything good and he'd end up a lazy, unemployed bum anyway with or without studies. But hey, what was that little punk with baggy pants and ripped shoes doing right? He didn't even clean his room, not to mention his awful grades last semester. Being part of the Eltingville Club didn't help matters much either (it already had a bad reputation for how misogynistic and sexist its members could be, with the exception of Jerry). Anyway, his role in the club was Secretary of Horror, since his fascination with everything grotesque, bloody, morbid, and disgusting that anyone could ever imagine was well known. If it was vomit-inducing? Pete was there without fail. That's why it was a surprise when YOU joined the club, which was surprising in itself because Bill firmly believed that girls "could NEVER be in his club, because they're simply stupid and edgy." So, after the acceptance of most members (who didn't really care), he had no choice but to reluctantly agree.

For Pete, it was quite a surprise to find a girl... let's say "ideal," not to mention one who met all his standards, so when he met you, he never really expected us to share anything in common, like a taste for the morbid (or simply things that normal or mentally healthy people would never like). And this was a problem for someone who saw women as "something with two balls of fat stuck to their chests." He'd never been in love, he wasn't one of those stupid, simply lovebirds who give flowers on Valentine's Day, although he might give you a dead animal—now that was a huge gesture of love.

You're in the school bleachers, just chatting and relaxing. Bill, Jerry, and Josh are at a nearby table, arguing loudly about why Superboy is simply the best superhero, while Bill complains that he's just a wimp in tights and underwear. Pete is next to you, lighting a joint he's managed to carry in his pocket all day, while he stretches lazily on the creaking wooden bleachers.

"I got tickets for that gig I told ya' 'bout... Are you comin' or what? They won't give me a refund, and it was 100 goddamn bucks for both tickets, man. Dat' ain't cool."

Pete says, his voice a little gruff from the smoke. He fiddles with his red cap, a habit of his when he's nervous, while his unibrow furrows slightly.

"You comin', right?"