Ash

Friday night is what I’m all about. It’s what I live for. If I had my way, I’d sleep through the rest of the week and wake up around four or five on a Friday, then stay awake till Monday morning.

Right now I’m getting ready to go out to the rec. Just like every Friday night. My iPod is docked, music turned up to full, listening to this new American band called the Porn Dwarves. They’re amazing. Hardly anyone in this country has heard of them yet. But they soon will.

I grab the deodorant off my desk and give myself a spray all over, even the delicate bits. You never know your luck, do you? Then I strut over to the wardrobe, nodding my head in time to the music. I open the door and have a look for something decent to wear, pull all my jeans down from a shelf and let them fall on the floor. I pick out the black ones that are ripped right across the knees and give them a little inspection. They’re a bit dirty. Grass stains from last Friday night, to be precise. But I pull them on anyway. No one’s gonna notice at the rec cos it’ll be too dark. And everyone will be as wasted as me.

I take a belt off a pair of jeans that are lying on my drum stool and put it on. Look in the mirror. Looking good. I scrub up nicely, even if I say so myself.

I play along to the Porn Dwarves drum solo – give it a bit of air drums – before I look back in my wardrobe and pull out a T-shirt. The black one with a skull on it and silver writing underneath: Live fast, die young, leave a good-looking corpse. Too right. That’s my philosophy right there. Who wants to die sitting in an old people’s home at ninety years old, stinking of piss? Not me. I’d rather be hanging out with Kurt Cobain and Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison and Heath Ledger on a cloud with a bottle of whisky, a spliff and my drum kit.

I grab a black zip-up hoodie from the back of my desk chair and a cap that’s lying on the floor. Keys, money, fags, mobile. I check my mobile. Fuck it, the battery’s nearly run down. I send Joe a text anyway to tell him I’m nearly ready. Undock my iPod, grab my trainers, pull them on and I’m out.

Downstairs, I put my head round the lounge door. Mum’s sitting on the sofa, glass of wine in her hand, watching TV. She looks up.

‘You off out?’

I nod. I look round the room. ‘Dad not home?’

Mum shakes her head. She takes a gulp of wine. ‘At work,’ she says. She sounds pissed off.

I nod. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Right. See you later. Don’t wait up.’