Ashley Price, Downtrodden Spooky Boy

"You guys just aren't seeing the whole picture, alright? Our show is gonna be a phantasmagoria."

You can only attempt to swallow your sigh as Max stares at you expectantly, apparently trying to glare his grand vision directly into your brain. The sideways glance you shoot Colin is no help, seeing as he's obviously trying to Google 'phantasmagoria' under the table. "It means he's back together with Leslie from the Drama Club and she made a bunch of ghost gobos for him to project onto a blanket or something."

Colin hastily shoves his phone back into his front pocket. "Right. I knew that. Because of what that word means."

Max slaps his hand down on the table, the shaggy hair flopping down into his face and the prompt 'shsh!' from the librarian somewhat hamstringing his attempts at severity. He hisses at you in a stage whisper. "That's not-! I'm not- look! I've got a vision, Ash, and if I'm going to open some minds I need you guys on board okay?"

You don't even try to swallow this sigh, leaning back in your chair and running a hand down the side of your face. "Remind me what that vision was again?"

Max leans forward excitedly. "Okay. Dude. The opener is this total epic, it's this totally badass tone poem about evil ghosts coming back to punish mankind for their sins."

Tone Poem. "This is the song you wrote. The one that's ten minutes long."

"Thirteen minutes."

"Right. And after we get through the thirteen minute song, the rest of the show is still Huey Lewis and the News covers?"

Max gestures wildly, voice raised in excitement until another 'shsh!' sends him back into a loud hiss. "That's the masterstroke! That's what's so genius about all of it! See, we're the ghosts from the opener! And we've come to punish humanity with overproduced eighties new-wave!"

"Uh-huh." You glance over towards Colin, who's trying to Google 'tone poem' under the table. "How's your drumming coming along?"

He hastily shoves his phone back into his front pocket again. "Well, I can keep the beat! Usually! Like, maybe half the time?"

Sounds about right. "And Linnaeus would classify my bass playing as 'shitty', so hopefully your guitar playing can carry the weight for all three of us."

Max waves his hand dismissively. "Dude, don't even worry about the music part it; that's my department. You're here for the style, man. The Sex Pistols didn't even bother to plug in Sid Vicious's bass most of the time!"

"So what, my role in the band is to just stand on stage holding a bass and looking goth-y while your girlfriend shines a ghost cut-out onto me?"

Max shoots both fingers at you, grinning in relief. "Yes! We're finally on the same page! You've got it too, right Colin?"

"Carl Linnaeus was the father of modern taxonomy!"

Max blinks at Colin, the would-be drummer's beaming expression slowly fading away. "Um, from earlier. What Ash said. I didn't just Google it. I mean yes, I've totally got it."

You sink further into your seat, tuning out Max as he unloads more and more of his artistic brilliance onto the increasingly blank-faced Colin. Well, there it is on the table, then. The only real surprise is that you aren't that upset. Mostly just...who knows. Empty? Depressed? Bored? Which sure, is goth as fuck, but that's a silver-ish lining at best. So you've got two friends and it's entirely possible that, to them, you're nothing more than a carrying system for black nail polish and Misfits tees. To be entirely fair, you're not all that sure you hold them in much more regard than they do you. Colin is a nice guy, but not really the most engaging person you've ever met. And if Max ever shut up long enough for you really think about him for a while, you're not particularly certain that you'd like him all that much.

So yeah. Your only two friends don't really think much of you, and the feeling is sorta mutual. Another addition to The Shitty World of Ashley Price.

It's nowhere near the top of the pile, though. That place of honor is still held in a stranglehold by your piece of shit father skipping town when you were six. He didn't bother to say goodbye, but he did remember to ransack your mother's bank account! Though second place and steadily rising is definitely last year when your poor, sweet mother was fired again and the two of you had to slink tails-tucked across the country to live in your rich aunt and uncle's pool house. Which not only means that you got to start your senior year as the only poor kid dumped into what seems to be the wealthiest school within five states, but you also get to start and end every day within arm's reach of your jock asshole cousin.

You'd told yourself that it was only for one year, but it increasingly seems like your only hope is that Max's tone poem proves prophetic and ghosts do rise from the grave to destroy everyone with The Power of Love. Or maybe "Hip to be Square", maybe you sort of like that other one. Hm, actually you like both of those. You frown, leaning further and further back in your chair. Do you like Huey Lewis and the Goddamn News? If so then fucking hell, that's going straight to the top of the pile.

That particular train of thought is cut short when you push back so far in your chair that you knock against the shelf behind you, dislodging a particularly heavy book at just the right angle for it to drop square onto your head. You clap both hands to your ringing noggin, too disoriented for a moment to register Max, Colin and apparently everybody else in the library bursting into laughter. Even the goddamn librarian is laughing. Your head is still spinning as you stare in a daze down at the offending book, which seems to have bounced off of your skull and landed perfectly on the table in front of you.

You're even getting clowned by books now. Definitely another addition for the pile.