The weird guy watched Patrick all through class again. Art wasn't Patrick's favorite class, but he liked to flatter himself that he was decent enough to get by. Blue and red made purple, blue and yellow made green, he had it down. The weird guy threw him off his game, though. He wished, not for the first time, but the most fervently, that Ms Asher would let him wear his hat during class. She was cool about a lot of things, but firm about the school's stupid no hats during class rule.
When the weird guy caught Patrick's eye, he blushed furiously and ducked his head. So did Patrick, who couldn't help but keep glancing up at the weird guy every few minutes. He should have been focused on the assignment, because perspective was a bitch, but the weird guy was... weird. Weirdly compelling. His eyes were really bright behind his stringy black hair, which actually looked kind of like the black wig his mom wore when she dressed up as Mrs White for Halloween every year, and he was definitely not doing the assignment. His paper was covered in what looked like zombies. Possibly vampires. It was the third class in a row that he had drawn weird things, stared weirdly at Patrick, and hadn't said anything.
Patrick jammed his hat on his head as soon as the bell rang. Next period was lunch, so he rushed out. Normally he wasn't too interested in hurrying to get to the cafeteria -- although it was better than the eating area outside, where lacrosse players lurked to throw food and bottles full of urine -- but his curiosity won over his self-protective instincts. On his way, he dug through his bag. He didn't have much to trade, but maybe whoever was guarding the alcove would take pity on him. He wove through the groups of kids standing around the cafeteria doors, the long, winding line to get nachos, and the then he dodged around the garbage cans and back to where dirty trays got stacked.
Patrick bumped hat brim first into Pete Wentz.
"Hey," Patrick said warily. "I'm here to see Travie."
"Yeah?" Pete leaned against the wall. Patrick went out of his way to never touch the walls back here; they were tile, and perfectly clean, but they were always damp from the heat of the dishwashers, and clammy. "You know --"
Patrick held out the plastic baggie full of Oreos. "It's all I have, besides, like, two dollars."
Pete looked thoughtfully down at the cookies, and then studied Patrick's face. For too long. Patrick shifted uncomfortably, and resisted the urge to tug down the brim of his hat or touch where his tie clipped on.
"Go on back," Pete finally said. "But some day, I'm going to want you to do a favor for me -- but until that day --"
"Really, dude?" Patrick blurted out without thinking. "Can't you --" He broke off. Pete Wentz wasn't exactly the most dangerous guy, but he wasn't anyone Patrick wanted to fuck with either, even though his butchery of a famous quote made Patrick cringe.
"I know who you are, El Stump-o-matic." Pete flicked the brim of Patrick's hat. "If you can show up to marching band practice in sandals and black socks, I can quote the Godfather at you. Go on back; Travie's alone."
Patrick pulled away from Pete, refusing to let himself linger on the strangely compelling outlines of Pete's tattoos under his white uniform shirt, and headed back. Behind the dishwashers was a little alcove where only the very coolest people ever got to hang out. Last year it was Travie and a group of seniors who were in band, and this year it's Travie again, but with Pete and a bunch of drama kids Patrick didn't know very well.
"Yo, Tripping the Stump Fantastic!" Travie raised a fist and Patrick stared at it for a moment too long before realizing he was supposed to bump it with his own. "Come to sing us a song?"
"I need some information." Patrick held out the bag of Oreos and Travie took it, which made Patrick feel more relieved than it ought to. He learned last year, when a couple of his friends from band were jumped after school, that trying to get information without offering something in exchange was asking for a disaster.
"Anything for Pete's little friend." Travie opened the bag, took out an Oreo, and bit into it carefully, not getting any crumbs down his uniform shirt or tie.
"I don't even --" Patrick cut himself off before he could finish that sentence. If Travie thought he knew Pete beyond Pete knowing his name and making fun of his shoes, so much the better.
"There's a kid in my art class. He's weird and he's always staring at me. Who is he and what does he want?"
"How am I supposed to know?" Travie held out the bag of Oreos. "Want a cookie?"
Frustrated, Patrick bit back a comment about how they were his cookies in the first place and took one, and crammed it all in his mouth at once, giving himself time to think about what to say next. He went with what came naturally. "I thought you knew everything," he said, hoping it didn't sound as irritated as he felt.
"Nah." Travie waved a hand. "I just like to let everyone think that so they leave me alone." He rummaged in the bag for another cookie, twisting this one apart. Patrick shifted uncomfortably when Travie's pink tongue swept over the white cream. Travie was a senior, and way out of Patrick's league, but still hot.
"Ugh." Patrick kicked the tile wall. "I really hoped you'd know. He's always drawing vampires and zombies, and he never gets in trouble for having his shirt unbuttoned." Patrick casted about for more details about the weird guy and realized that he had actually noticed too much -- the creamy skin, the guy's tiny bow mouth, bitten down but clean fingernails. The not entirely unpleasant scent of cigarette smoke and coffee that clung to his clothes, overlaid with Sharpie marker and graphite. Those details were too incriminating to tell Travie -- not even an assumed friendship with Pete Wentz could save him from getting his ass kicked in the locker room if the lacrosse team ever even got a whiff of Patrick's theoretical gayness.
But whatever Patrick had already said had clearly tripped Travie's memory.
"You know," Travie was saying slowly, "I think I might actually know who you're talking about. Mikey Way's older brother... the one who started the croquet team three years ago... supposedly he's back, although I haven't personally seen him yet."
"Wasn't he in rehab or something?" asked Patrick. That was before his time. Patrick had also heard that the guy had... had cancer or something. All his hair fell out. Or turned white overnight. Oh -- cancer would explain the wig, wouldn't it? Mikey was the kid in Patrick's year who used his asthma to get out of everything, including having to talk in math class. Patrick wished he had such a convenient excuse -- maybe then he could get out of having to swim in gym class.
He reached out and took another cookie, just to have something to do with his hands.
"Weren't you here for that? Huh. It really sucked for Mikey. You should ask Pete about it; he's in the know on this one." Travie finished licking the cream off the Oreo and grinned at Patrick. "Pete's right. You're kinda cute."
Patrick decided fleeing was the better part of valor, and after blushing a fiery red and mumbling a "Thanks" at Travie, he did just that.
Pete had been banned from music class, but he was always there anyway, hanging out just outside the doors or climbing the trees to look in the windows. He always seemed to focus his paper airplanes on Patrick whenever the seniors who liked to play the drums showed up and Patrick was relegated to playing the cowbell. Today was one of those days, but Patrick didn't mind it so much. When the first paper airplane hit him, he grabbed it and wrote on it, "WHAT IS THE DEAL WITH MIKEY WAY'S BROTHER?"
When Mr Suarez looked away to yell at the poor soph playing the didgeridoo, Patrick sent the airplane flying out the window in Pete's direction. It almost hit Bob, the senior who got to play the timpanis, but Patrick just mouthed an apology and turned back around just in time for Mr Suarez to swoop down on him and ask if he'd prefer the triangle.
Patrick felt like that was possibly a trick question, but didn't say so.
Last period. Journalism with Mr Ripley, who was always really loud, but at the same time was really good about not looking over anyone's shoulder when they were using one of the computers. Patrick had never taken advantage of that to goof off and look at porn or do the assignments for other classes, but this year's editor-in-chief of the school paper did all the time, and so did all his friends. Patrick was pretty sure that none of their porn was more interesting than his music column, so he just ignored the way they tittered at each other.
Pete showed up halfway through the period with a pass from chem lab and Ashlee Simpson on his arm. Patrick watched him sit her down with Mr Ripley and present each of them with a candy bar. Then he came over to Patrick. He sat down on the desk and swung his legs patiently while Patrick typed in his review of the show he went to over the weekend. The Fabulous Killjoys were a band that blew onto the local music scene just a few weeks ago. They made a huge splash with their brightly-colored clothing and unashamed lyrics about fighting against evil and losing, but sticking together and standing up for what was right. They always kept their faces covered -- the first time Patrick had seen them, they'd all worn big sunglasses and everyone except the singer wore handkerchiefs tied over their mouths like cowboys. The last time, most of them had been wearing motorcycle helmets decorated with their stage names.
The charismatic lead singer, known only as "Party Poison," typed Patrick, dominated the stage. The domino mask covering the top half of his face didn't stop him from rocking out, and his candy apple-red hair glowed under the brightest lights the Coffee Factory could muster. He
Patrick stopped and cracked his knuckles. "Were you going to answer my question or were you going to just sit there?" he asked Pete.
"I was just gonna sit here, P. Sassy, but if it bugs you, I could stand." Pete brought his legs up like he was going to jump up on the desk, so Patrick put out a quick hand to stop him.
"No, it's okay. I just can't write with you watching me." Patrick hit CTRL+S and turned toward Pete.
"So you want to know about Gerard, huh?" Pete tapped his lip with one finger. It had something tattooed on the inside of it. Pete had way too many tattoos for a senior in high school who was not even eighteen yet. Then again, there was something about their school that made people act out. Even Patrick felt it sometimes, especially when he stood in the back of the music room and had to listen to his classmates mangle Vivaldi.
"He's in my art class." To his horror, Patrick started to blush. "He never says anything to anyone so..."
"So you thought you'd take him under your wing, aw, that's so sweet," cooed Pete. Patrick clenched his fists. "But, Pattycakes, I think --"
"Ugh, don't call me that!" Patrick socked Pete in the thigh as hard as he could, digging his knuckles into the muscle.
"Ow!" Pete yelped, then sat back and laughed. "Okay, how's Rickster instead?"
Patrick ignored him. "Listen, just tell me -- is it Gerard in my art class? What's his deal?"
Pete stared at Patrick for a while, until Patrick started to shift uncomfortably. Only then did he speak. "He's just a weirdo. Don't worry yourself about it." Then Pete jumped down and left without even grabbing Ashlee from where she and Mr Ripley were arguing about whether Mr Saporta or Ms Asher were hotter.
Patrick turned back to his review, but couldn't concentrate. Pete had given him exactly the answer he wanted, but it felt wrong. Suspicious. Patrick sucked his lower lip into his mouth, readjusted his hat on his head, and leaned forward. If something had happened with Gerard Way, it would've been in the paper, right? If not in the paper, then maybe in an article someone had written that had never been approved for publication by the principal. Patrick opened up the My Documents folder and typed GERARD WAY into the search box.
He arranged the results by date modified, but they were all listed under "A long time ago (310)" -- really, 310? He clicked through the oldest ones -- announcements about the croquet club Gerard had started his freshman year; ads for the D&D club, of which Gerard was president, dated two years ago; a few of articles written by Gerard about Audrey Hepburn. He was mentioned in some stuff about music class, something about band... Patrick scrolled through, not reading any of the articles, until he got to the newer files. Not the newest one from that past September, but the second newest, from... Patrick rubbed his forehead. It would have been the beginning of Gerard's junior year, so it was right when Patrick had transferred into the school.
The article was in the NOT APPROVED folder. Patrick double-clicked to open it. That was back when they were using WordPerfect for everything, too. The byline was someone named Jamia, who Patrick couldn't place, and it was all about the unfairness of Gerard being expelled for fighting when the fight had clearly been started by the lacrosse team. She went on for a while about the ridiculousness of thinking that the lacrosse team against the croquet team could have been any kind of a fair fight, especially when two of the members of the croquet team, who had been beaten pretty badly, were freshman. Patrick cringed at the descriptions of what had been done to the croquet team, although from the list of injuries the lacrosse team guys had, they'd put up a pretty good fight.
So Gerard had been expelled at the beginning of junior year, but now -- Patrick clicked open the newest article, which was languishing in the PENDING folder, where articles that weren't too awful to publish but which no one wanted to have to deal with went to die. It was a sloppily written protest that the school had let "such a menace" back in for his senior year, especially when "no one knew when that crazy would crack next!" It was signed by one of the douchebag lacrosse players who liked to trip freshmen in the bathroom, whose name had been at the top of the list of people involved in the fight, who nevertheless had helped lead the school to a lacrosse championship win for the last three years, which explained how something that showed no journalistic integrity (or understanding of grammar) ended up in the PENDING folder instead of being moved right to NOT APPROVED.
Patrick had no recollection of any of that happening -- but he'd been pretty out of it. Culture shock. Transferring sophomore year from a liberal public high school that had cut its music program to a conservative private high school that had a great music program had been weird to say the least, and he'd been tripped and "accidentally" punched and had his sneakers peed on more than once the first month, before he'd learned to fly even more under the radar than usual.
When the bell rang, instead of rushing to get home, Patrick stayed in the paper's office, listening to Ashlee and Mr Ripley (who'd moved on to Mr Beckett vs. Ms Ivarsson), rocking back in the chair and thinking about Gerard's bright eyes and what it meant to stick out and be different in high school.
The next day, Patrick debated not even going to school. Just thinking about what had happened to Gerard and all his friends made him feel sick. But his mother... she worked really hard and paid a lot of money for him to go and ding that stupid cowbell, not so he could lie in bed and stare at the Prince posters on his ceiling. He dragged himself out of bed and made some toast and took the bus to school, sitting in the back with all the people in scrubs and sneakers heading to the hospital down the street from the school, avoiding his classmates at the front.
Bio dragged on forever, and math was a shitshow because Mr Saporta gave a pop quiz. His pop quizzes were the worst -- oral questions that all went, "The distance, my little schoolchildren, of the spaceship from the man on a vision quest is AB. If the spaceship is at a thirty degree angle -- A -- and wants to swoop down to the man, who is one hundred kilometers away -- kilometers is a thing they use in other countries, darlings -- then how high above the man is the cobra's spaceship? Solve for height, h, BC."
Patrick was pretty sure he could figure out the problem using a triangle, but that was as far as he got with each question.
Art was a welcome relief, even though Ms Asher tapped her own head when Patrick came in to remind him to remove his hat. He crammed it into his pocket and slouched into his usual chair at the table in the middle of the room, and pulled out his sketchpad. On the center of the table was a different sculpture than the one he'd been working on the day before, and the desk lamp was shining on it from a different angle. This sculpture looked sort of like a demon cat with six ears. He sighed and pulled out his 3B pencil and plastic sharpener and went to work before the late bell even rang. He started with the top of the cat, the points of the ears, which were all in light and had no shading.
Someone slipped into the seat next to him, and when he turned to look, he did a double-take. It was Mikey Way, inhaler in hand. His black hair looked just like his brother's, that weird texture of a wig, hanging into his face. Mikey's tie was a real tie, neatly tied in the square knot Patrick had so much trouble getting his fingers to wrap around.
"Pete says you're asking about my brother," he said abruptly.
"Hello," replied Patrick. "I'm Patrick. Nice to meet you."
"We know each other already. I sat behind you in French last year." Mikey put his inhaler on its side and spun it like a top.
"Asking me if you can copy my homework isn't the same as meeting me. Anyway, your brother has been staring at me in class ever since he transferred into this one last week. It's natural for me to be interested." Patrick wondered what the etiquette was here, and came to the conclusion that since Mikey was coming to him, Patrick could keep sketching the cat ears.
"You know about what happened last year, right?" Every time the inhaler's spin started to slow down, Mikey flicked it to keep it going. "Leave my brother alone."
"Your brother was looking at me." Patrick glanced up, just for a second, to see Mikey smiling a little. "Whatever."
"He thinks you're cute, and that you'd make a good superhero." Before Patrick could completely refute that -- a superhero he is not, not just because he's short and pudgy and can't keep his hair under control. He'd rather drum, or even play the cowbell, than face down violence. "Don't mess him up or I'll kill you."
Mikey snatched his inhaler and walked away, saying, "Hey, Gee, there you are," as Gerard walked in and the late bell rang. What was scary was that his death threat was said in the same half-cheerful, half-bored tone as the rest of his words. That made it seem, Patrick thought, very very real. Mikey had been named in the article by the lacrosse player as the instigator who got Gerard allowed back in school by threatening to sue. ("We should not be held hostage by terrorist teenagers!" declared the lacrosse player's article.)
After Ms Asher took attendance, she started her customary wander around the room. Patrick snuck a look at Gerard. His hair looked more like a terrible, cheap wig than usual and he was carefully dividing his paper into sections, like a comic book.
"Your brother thinks I'm going to mess you up," Patrick said in a low voice, without looking up from his paper. "I don't even know how I could do that."
Silence, pencil scratch, the shush-shush of an eraser, and then: "He's just overprotective." Gerard's voice was scratchy and rough.
"I'm nothing to be afraid of, unless you really hate the cowbell." Patrick definitely hated the fucking six-eared cat. Instead of erasing, he just flipped to the next page and tried again -- this time from the bottom, the dark, shadowy paws. When he looked closer, though, he realized that they weren't paws, but tiny hands. "Fuck," he sighed.
He and Gerard didn't say anything to each other again, not until the very end of class when Patrick started to pack up.
"Hey." Gerard slid the sheet he'd been drawing on across the table to Patrick. "We play D&D next period in Ms Asher's office if you want to come."
"I..." Patrick looked up at him. "I don't really know how to play D&D. If you wanted to jam or something, I'm always looking for an excuse to pound on the drums, but..."
"Oh, yeah. No, of course you don't play D&D." Gerard blushed so hard it looked kind of painful. "We're just big nerds. Whatever."
"No -- I mean." Patrick bit his lip. He could take this in one of two directions -- learn to play D&D or make an enemy for life in Mikey Way. If he went with Gerard... Well, the worst that could happen was that he would get his ass kicked by lacrosse players. "I've just never played. I could learn, right?"
Gerard brightened up immediately. "Yes, of course!" He started talking about fighters and wizards and chaos and dice and characters and starting a new campaign and who'd be the master. Patrick just let it roll over him while he packed up his sketchpad, and picked up the sheet of paper. "Oh," Gerard said loudly. "Don't look at that now."
They didn't do much playing of anything during lunch, because people kept coming by to say hi -- first Pete, who winked at Patrick; then Travie, who brought them two mushroom pizzas but wouldn't say where they'd come from; then a really stoned freshman who kept calling Gerard's friend Ray "Torosaurus"; then Bob the timpani player, who sat down and immediately Mikey's best friend Frank, who Patrick knew only because last year Frank had been shoved into Patrick's locker during the first week of school, scrambled up to perch on his shoulders. He talked to Gerard for a long time about developing a character for the new campaign who was a cleric while Frank put his hair into tiny braids. Gerard sat by the window and chain smoked, tapping his ashes into a giant, misshapen ceramic ashtray that had Ms Asher's face painted on the inside.
Patrick tried to ask what they were doing over the weekend -- he was determined to get every single person that he knew to eventually go to a Fabulous Killjoys show -- but they all got really quiet.
"We're not really into live music," Mikey said after a long pause. His sentence was punctuated by Frank's nervous giggle. "But --"
"Frank Anthony Iero, if you stick your tongue in my ear one more time!" boomed Bob, standing up with Frank still sitting on his shoulders -- and then the bell rang.
Patrick had to wait until last period to slide the sheet of paper Gerard had given him out of his backpack. It was a page with six panels. The first showed Patrick sleeping at his desk in art class. The second had him walking alone through the school's hallways. In the third, he played the drums, not the cowbell, his hat falling off and his mouth open. The fourth was a continuation of the third -- he played harder and harder, and his skin bulged and rippled and his hair got longer. In the fifth, he looked totally different, his hair flopping over his face, gripping drumsticks, lightning bolts coming off the drums where the sticks hit. And in the sixth panel, he was fighting what looked like an evil clown; he was wearing a leather jacket and knee-high boots and aviator sunglasses, but it was clearly him with a trucker hat on, the clown cowering away from his drumsticks.
He looked badass.
Fridays were the best days, because they were his days off bio and math. He slept late and jerked off in the shower thinking about the way Gerard's mouth twitched when he thought something was funny -- whatever, what Gerard didn't know about Patrick's jerk-off habits wouldn't hurt him -- and made French toast that he spread with peanut butter and jam. He went back into the house after he'd left, having realized on the stoop that he'd probably eat with Gerard and his friends again, and his mom had just bought a whole brand new package of Mallowmars that they might like.
Cookies tucked in his backpack, Patrick trudged to the bus stop. The sun was high already, and Patrick found himself thinking about his superhero alter-ego and his aviator sunglasses that looked just like the ones that the members of the Fabulous Killjoys wore on stage. They would come in really handy Friday mornings when he had to walk into the sun and stand there, waiting for the bus for ten minutes or whatever.
He wasn't late to art, but it was a close thing. He dashed into the room as the late bell rang, and crashed into his chair across from Gerard.
"Hey," he said breathlessly. "I loved the drawing."
"Patrick, I'll let it go this time, but not again," said Ms Asher. She patted him on the shoulder. "Don't forget to hand in your sketchbook so I can look at it over the weekend. Gerard, you, too."
"Thanks, Ms Asher," said Gerard. He looked down at his sketchpad.
"Do you have any more of me as a superhero? Or of you?" Patrick asked. He opened his sketchbook and slowly sharpened his 3B. He was going to need to break out another one soon, although not a new eraser. Those lasted forever.
"Some," said Gerard. He shook his hair into his face, and it moved. Patrick tried to pretend he didn't notice, but the wig was lopsided, falling off a little. "I could --"
"Hey," whispered Patrick. "Your hair."
"What about my hair?" said Gerard, and tossed his head a little. The wig slid more, showing see-through brown fabric. Under the fabric was bright, candy apple-red hair, muted a little by the fabric, but totally unmistakable.
"Holy shit," said Patrick, and his mouth dropped open involuntarily.
"What? I --" And then Gerard felt his hair. His wig. "Oh, shit." He tugged frantically on the wig, but he only made it more askew.
"Bathroom," said Patrick. "This happens to my mom every Halloween. I'll meet you there. Go."
Gerard darted out of the room while Patrick went over to Ms Asher for supplies to fix Gerard's wig. Holy shit. Gerard was Party Poison!
Patrick just kept chanting "Holy shit" to himself while he walked to the bathroom. That explained Mikey's wig, too, Patrick bet -- Kobra Kid's hair was a bleached yellowy-white, and he was the same lanky, long shape as Mikey.
Gerard's red hair was even more shocking against the glaring white tile and mirrored wall of the bathroom. He'd taken off the brown fabric -- it looked like a nylon stocking cap -- and was running his hand through his red hair.
"You're Party Poison!" said Patrick, a little too loudly.
"Shh!" Gerard pushed open one of the tiny windows and lit a cigarette, blew smoke out the window. "No one can know!"
"Why not? It's awesome -- the Fabulous Killjoys are amazing!" Patrick leaned against the sink and studied Gerard. He couldn't figure it out -- why keep something that great a secret?
"Yeah, but it's like being a superhero. People wouldn't take Superman as seriously if they knew that during the day he was dorky Clark Kent," explained Gerard. He wasn't smoking the cigarette as much as he was chewing on the filter.
"Some people would. Some people would take him even more seriously." Gerard's roots were growing in and Patrick wondered if he was going to dye his hair before Saturday night's show.
"The lacrosse team doesn't need an excuse to beat me up. I'm already a freak and gay and --"
Patrick's mind blanked out. He'd never heard anyone actually say they were gay before -- except himself, to his own face in the bathroom mirror sometimes.
" -- and Mikey still has to go to school here!" Gerard was saying, waving his cigarette around.
"I..." Patrick shrugged. "I guess you're right? I mean, it's your life. You have to decide. And --"
"I understand if you don't want to be my friend anymore. I'll keep Mikey away from you." Gerard stubbed his cigarette out on the wall and then tossed it out the window. "I mean... you know, it's understandable."
"Noooo..." Patrick blinked. "I think I missed part of the conversation. I don't want to stop being friends with you. I only just started."
"You're not mad that I kept this from you?" Gerard ran a hand through the bright red hair. Patrick really wanted to see it in sunlight. "That I didn't tell you?"
"We've only known each other for three days. I think I can forgive you your secrets," replied Patrick, and grinned at Gerard.
"Are you still coming to the show tomorrow night? Because..." Gerard trailed off. "I could get you in for free. Unless -- I don't think anyone would think you're a groupie --"
Patrick took a deep breath. "Gerard, I know you've got a lot of issues, and I totally don't blame you, because some of the shit that happened to you and Mikey and Frank and Ray was really fucked up. But if we're going to be friends, you have to trust me. Just a little." He took another deep breath. "And who cares if someone thinks I'm your groupie anyway? You're badass."
Gerard shook his head. "That's not me. That's Party Poison. It's like D&D on stage."
"No, Gerard. You are badass." Patrick's stomach flopped all over the place -- he was a short, chubby junior who was practically balding, who couldn't tie a tie, whose only real claim to fame was that he led the drumline -- but Gerard was just the kind of dork who, Patrick thought, saw someone like Patrick and immediately thought he was a superhero. "Party Poison's okay, and I really like your hair, but it's you I want to be friends with."
"Friends?" Gerard peeked out from behind his curtain of hair.
"Or... you know." That was as far as Patrick could go. "Really good friends."
Gerard's smile was blinding, and Patrick knew that if Gerard had ever smiled like that during the last few days, Patrick would have known immediately that he was the secret genius behind the Fabulous Killjoys.
"Really good friends," agreed Gerard, and held out his hand. Patrick took it and squeezed, and Gerard squeezed back. When they dropped hands, Gerard pushed his hair back into the nylon cap and rearranged his wig. Patrick handed him small strips of Ms Asher's double-sided tape that Gerard tucked under the wig to hold it to the nylon cap. When Gerard was happy with the way it looked -- Patrick still thought he looked kind of like Mrs White -- they squeezed hands again before they left the bathroom.