Fiction: Goth Girls

I re-adjust the bulky hot pink headphones that bleed music into my ears and pull my coat tighter and sit to wait for the bus, trying to avoid the looks passing people shoot me from the corners of their eyes.  From beside me I see a modest-looking mother scoop a toddler that got a little to close too me away and up on to her knee. I pretend not to notice as I scroll through recent messages on my iPhone.

One of them is from a boy called Rooftop; Andrew is his real name but no one else calls him that. Neither do I most of the time but sometimes I do just to make him mad. His message reads that he wants to get together later. Any other day I would but today is my day; Wednesday is the one day a week that I put aside to do what I want to do.

The bus pulls up to the curb and I go towards it careful of other people around me. My tulle skirt brushes the doors and I briefly flash my pass to the driver before walking back. A group of preppy girls near the front of the bus in short minis and stiletto shoes glare oddly at me and I give them a black-lipped smirk as I pass by.

I’m used to other people reacting to me in this fashion. Children fascinated and staring, parents protective and distanced, and pretty preppies thinking they are better than anyone who doesn’t look the same as them.  I am just the gothic-punk girl on the outside of any social circle.

Honestly I don’t feel quite normal, never did, but it got worse when I found out I’d been adopted. I never knew my birth parents and I’ve come to the conclusion that I’d never want to meet them anyway. The woman who adopted me did not have any other children, but just recently decided that she wanted to marry. The new man in her life had one daughter named Carla, that was about my age and we'd hit it off right away.

I get another text, this one is from Carla, my soon-to-be siter; when will you be here?  I write back soon and my attention turns back to the skirted girls from earlier. They sit bunched together, giggling and shooting the odd glance in my direction. I turn my back and realize that I am the only person standing except for a couple of others. No wonder everyone is secretly staring.

The bus comes to a stop and I step off, leaving my watchers behind. I spot Carla a few feet away and go towards her looking more modest than myself in my sweetheart corset top that laces up the back.

Carla’s hair is a glossy purple-black, cut long in the front and short and spiky in the back. Her mutilated t–shirt is falling off one shoulder.  For awhile we walk in silence, just enjoying the way our footsteps match perfectly.

“Kevin wants me to go out with him this weekend.” Carla starts without really looking.

I glance at her quickly, “you going to go?”

“Probably not.”

Another text comes and I answer without really looking at it. Carla bumps my shoulder and says “Aula” to draw my attention back to our destination, a gray building with no signage. Most of the locals know this is an ASPCA building, but any tourist that comes by wouldn’t have a clue.

Carla opens the front door and I walk in ahead of her and head straight for the "workers only" door. Carla is only a couple of steps behind me. The hallway is bright and warm with a high ceiling.

We go further back and find the lockers where workers and permanent volunteers are allowed to keep their stuff.  Carla and I open our lockers and change into white lab coats to keep our normal clothes clean. I change my skirt for shorts that fit over my stripped leggings. I lose my widows veil and pull my hair back into a sloppy pony-tail. Both Carla and I don white nurse’s shoes.

“Are we ready?”  Carla looks up at me as she finishes tying her shoe; I just pulled mine on. I pause at the door with my hand on the knob.

“Yeah, I’ll meet you out there,” Carla nods at me and I leave the off-set room and head towards the long line of shiny silver cages that line the walls at the opposite end of the hallway.

A full smile graces my lips and I bend down to a cage with four small kittens inside. I slip my fingers through the bars and the calico kitten stumbles forward to lick happily at my fingers.  A small smile caresses my lips and I scratch lightly behind the kitten’s ears.