Wincing, I turned my head towards where the voices were coming from and saw two guys standing literally in front us at the opposite side of the record bin. They had their backs to me as they were watching the monitor on which Seth and Jordan continued to sing Last Frame.

Seconds later both guys turned their attention back on the vinyls and I could make out their features. One guy had a colorful smattering of tattoos on his arms and neck so I guessed that they were a few years older than Seth and me—UCR students, most likely. The other guy, the one who had just spoken, had no visible tattoos and wore copious amounts of guyliner.

"I know. I'm so sick of this garbage," the guy with tattoos chimed in. "My mom's new boyfriend's kid has been listening to them non-stop since the two of them moved in at home. She's eleven."

The two of them scoffed as if the last sentence explained everything and I found myself missing my good friends from Saint Agnes. Suddenly, those prepubescent bitches-in-training didn't seem so bad.

"Dude's a grown-ass person who still lives with his mom. Why is he so superior?" I muttered.

I wasn't going to mention the basement-dwelling vibe I got from these guys the moment I had laid eyes on them, but they started it.

The guy with tattoos gave the monitor another contemptuous look before he spoke again. "Why do girls that age always go for guys who look like they all blow each other in their dressing room after playing a set?"

"'Cause they don't know how a real man's supposed to look, yet."

"For God's sake," I muttered, mentally facepalming. Of course they'd go there. Why be original when they could just recycle the same tired old comments that had hounded musical acts like Off-Kilter since the dawn of time?

But even as I scoffed and rolled my eyes heavenward, there was a part of me that couldn't help but feel guilty for making Seth wear my hoodie. His getting recognized while wearing it wasn't going to help quell those kinds of rumors, either.

"Maybe we should go," I whispered to Seth who nodded and moved to do as I suggested, much to my relief.

I didn't know what I was so worried about: Only major losers like those two would consider gayness an insult. Seth was nothing like those guys—none of the Off-Kilter boys were. They wouldn't lose their heads over a baseless
accusation, especially if it wasn't even true.

At least, I didn't think it was. Until those off-handed remarks made by a pair of boneheads, the possibility never even crossed my mind. I cast Seth a surreptitious glance. How would one even know about those things for sure, anyway?

More importantly, did I even want to know, when it could put a permanent hitch on some future plans I apparently hadn't completely given up on just yet?

Ugh. The direction in which my thoughts wandered made me shake my head once more. "Don't let them get to you," I said through clenched teeth.

"I'm not," Seth whispered back, unaware that I was talking to myself and not to him. "Haters gon' hate."

The goofy statement took me by surprise, making me laugh. We made our way to Warped's wide open doors and were lucky enough to remain unnoticed by the two guys as we walked past them. Relieved that Seth was able to control his temper and keep his sense of humor in this situation, which was no small miracle, I started to relax.

"I'm telling you, man, you couldn't pay me to be this lame. I'll kill myself first."

We were so close. Only a few more seconds and we would have been home free. But before I knew what I was doing, I had spun on my heel and made my way back. "Hey! Assholes! Come here and say that again."

I marched right up to them. To do what, exactly? There was no solid plan; I just wanted to shut them up somehow. Seth didn't need that kind of negativity swimming around in his head.

I might ask them what a real man was supposed to look like. Maybe it just meant that I didn't know any better than that eleven-year-old they mentioned, but I always thought that quality couldn't be judged based on appearance.

But if what was on the outside were a factor, I'd say someone who wore more eye-makeup than Erin and Alex combined, or had delicate, flowery tattoos, didn't qualify either.

Not that there was anything wrong with guys having a feminine side. Like I said, only assholes like them would consider that an insult. But sometimes, the only way to get some people to listen was to go down to their level and speak their language.

Speaking of the guy with tattoos, I got a closer look at some of his ink when I walked by earlier. The minimalist image on his neck was the cover art of a certain whiny emo band's most successful album from ten years ago. Said band hadn't had a decent hit since but still continued to churn out one disappointing single after another, every couple months or so.

What if I told him how sick I was of that band's garbage; why don't those guys just break up forever and never make music again—just become used car salesmen or something? See how tattoo guy liked it when someone said terrible things about something he loved (enough to mutilate his flesh to commemorate) and wished them ill?

They stared at me, seemingly frozen, until I got too close to them and they flinched visibly and took a few steps back to put some distance between us.

Before I can say any of those things however, a pair of arms circled around my waist, lifted me off the ground, and started to drag me towards the exit.

This was way more physical contact than I was comfortable with, especially without prior notice. I squirmed and struggled to get away and once I realized who it was that had me in a vise-grip, muttering things like "let it go" and "not worth it," that was when I started really kicking and screaming.

"Unhand me, Seth Frasier!"

My acting bouncer stiffened and I saw the opportunity to scramble free.

"Dammit, Adrian."

The place went quiet and I felt more pairs of eyes on me than there had been a moment ago. A crowd started to gather and I realized that it was the full name I just dropped at the top of my lungs that had drawn everyone's attention.

Seth was about to get mobbed again if I didn't think fast.

Clearing my throat, I addressed the whole store. "What I meant was: Seth Frasier and those other boys are local heroes." I paused to pat myself in the back. Good save. "So even if I've never met them or interacted with them in any way . . . "

Seth made an exasperated noise, which told me I might have been pushing it with that disclaimer so I decided to drive my point home:

"Talk shit about them again and I will personally run you pathetic emo-trash out of town."

Satisfied, I turned around with all the grace I could muster and headed toward Seth. He looked just as dazed as all the regular bystanders.

"Don't just stand there," I told him. "Run."

We bolted out of Warped, raced past the food court, occasionally weaving from side to side to avoid colliding with others, and did not stop until we reached a deserted part of the outdoor balcony on the other side of the mall.

With my heart threatening to burst out of my chest, I collapsed to the ground and rested my back against the safety rails, gasping for breath.

"Hey, you okay?" Seth asked, also breathing hard, but was somehow still on his feet. How ironic.

"Don't you ever grab me like that again!"

He gave me a look of disbelief. "Fine. Next time, I'll let security take you away."

"Me? What about you?" I was about to scold him for all the trouble he had caused but then I felt myself blanche. "Oh God."

He had been totally fine. I was the one who lost it.

Moreover, my actions might have gotten Seth serious trouble with whoever was in charge of his music career. Because I was positive that threatening people left and right back and engaging in what could only be described as the in real life equivalent of fandom wank pretty much counted as making a scene. The very thing that Seth had been trying to avoid.

I buried my face in my hands and moaned. "I'm so sorry, Seth. I don't know what came over me. I can't believe I did that."

"I can, " he said, scoffing. He crouched down and helped me to my feet. "Here."

He gave the puffy heart a quick tug, unzipped my hoodie and held it open for me to slip into. It was puzzling, but I followed his wordless instruction anyway. I didn't want to make him mad. Or madder. He then did everything I did to him earlier: zipped me up to my chin, covered my head with the hood, even tried to tweak my nose, but I was able to swat his hand away just in time.

I had to draw the line somewhere.

"What the hell?"

"You need this disguise more than me now," he said sternly. "You're this close to getting thrown into mall jail. And I've been there, Adrian. You won't last two minutes. " He cocked his head to one side, as if a thought just occurred to him. "Actually. . . I'm not sure I believe that anymore. Not after seeing you put the fear of God in those dudes back there."

"I—what?" My eyes must have bugged out. To my surprise, he laughed, and the sound was so infectious that I had to join in. "Good," I said, shrugging.

He laughed harder. "Y'know. . . you're a lot tougher than you look."

"Damn straight."