Free Deathskull Bombshell by Bethny Ebert Page B

his parents’ neglect was why
he’d grown so close with Parker, needing a replacement family. Most
guys didn’t form such close friendships. The Beloit family was
pretty good to him. They never asked any questions, just accepted
him into their circle. Best friend, brother maybe, heart-match.
    It didn’t mean he was gay.
    “Cupcake Wolverine, like your life is so
hard. Desert Jesus, deserting me. You’re a big pastry!” they
sang.
    Maybe he was lonely. But he didn’t really
feel like dating girls. They just weren’t that interesting. Even
the girls who were into music and had good manners and cared about
school, they weren’t anyone he could sleep with.
    But he wasn’t sleeping with Parker,
either.
    Maybe he would never sleep with anybody.
    It wasn’t guilt. He never felt guilty about
being gay. He wasn’t gay. Loving another guy didn’t mean anything.
That was just love.
    Sex was different. Sort of like pepperoni and
sausage on a pizza – not bad in theory, but largely unnecessary.
Pizza was fine with just cheese.
    His friend Vanessa, who knew everything, said
that made him asexual. He didn’t tell her about Parker. Vanessa was
cool. She probably would have understood. But he didn’t feel like
telling anyone. Some people guessed, but he never answered one way
or the other. It wasn’t their business.
    Deathskull Bombshell finished up, and the
audience yelled at them for an encore.
    “We’re taking donations,” Elizabeth shouted
to the audience. “To show some appreciation for us and for
Ȼørpseflowerź and Zombie Bratwurst and Aborted Dreams of a Better
Catharsis. Jars are located on the counter upstairs by the toaster,
and the other one is on the coffee table in the living room. How
about it?”
    “You suck!” yelled the audience. “Fuck you!
Play more music!”
    “I LOVE YOU!” some drunk guy shouted.
    “Let’s just play some shit,” Trevor muttered,
and they started on their original song “Annoying Vapid Wormhole
Whore,” then “Make Me Puke (Your Love)”. They moved on to a cover
of Jefferson Airplane “Somebody To Love”. The Ȼørpseflowerź joined
in, providing growling metal vocals and scary synthesizers. When
they shouted along with the chorus they sounded just like Black
Sabbath. Bjorn-Trevor looked ready to pass out next to them; with
their face makeup and Marilyn Manson eye contacts they were scarier
than he was, and much taller.
    Nick didn’t care one way or the other if
Trevor fainted on stage. Trevor Ericksen was not a conscientious
sort of guy. Playing guitar had gone to his head. Brooke followed
him around like she needed him, like she wouldn’t know her ass from
her elbow if he wasn’t around to point it out.
    It was depressing.
    Trevor still made his mother fold his clothes
during band practice. The idea of Brooke being someone’s laundry
bitch was sad. She was a feminist. She could do better for
herself.
    Some things had to be learned, Parker said
once. He had to let her make mistakes or she’d never learn
anything.
    “Of all the mistakes,” Nick said that day,
“why that one.”
    Parker shrugged. “You can’t choose it. It
just happens.”
    Like herpes, Nick thought. “I guess.”
    The band was really done now. Elizabeth threw
her sticks into the audience. A hyperactive fan caught both of
them, jumping over several concert attendees in her rush. She
squealed and jumped up and down, clutching her prize.
    Elizabeth hunched down, leaning into her drum
set. Her face was very pale. She had anxiety issues that liked to
creep up every once in a while. Brooke grabbed her hand, and they
snuck offstage while the remaining members of Deathskull Bombshell
and the Ȼørpseflowerź attempted to tame the raging beast of an
audience. They started playing another song, but nobody knew what
they were supposed to be playing so they just did a bunch of
solos.
    Nick followed them to the kitchen. Brooke
pulled out a folding chair from behind the fridge for Elizabeth to
sit on, and