Runaways +Nikki Sixx+

1. Bad to the bone

"Giving a fuck doesn't really go with my outfit"
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September, 1975

"Mrs. Phillips, Mr. Feranna, WHAT IN THE HELL WHERE YOU THINKING?!" Principal James yells, slamming his fist down on the desk.

yup, that's me. Kathryn Phillips. Call me Kat. And that over there, the boy with painted nails and singed hair is my best friend Frankie. We're like two fireballs that exploded and created a dream team of destruction. The outcasts of the school basically. He's weird and I'm a bitch.

"WHY?! Why would you set the break room on fire?!" He sputters, as if in utter disbelief.

I sneak a glance over at the human mop I call a best friend. He's always hiding behind his brown hair, even though he showed up to this school with some weird ass dye job. Most thought he was trouble. So did I, but what can I say? I like trouble.

The human mop looks back over at me, a smirk creeping onto his face. I swear I see his ferocious green eyes glint under his shaggy bangs. I reply with my own smarmy smile, and then we both turn back to the principal, who looks as if you could poke his bald head with a needle and it would explode.

"Sir is it so hard to see that we were bored by this shithole education system?" I ask rhetorically, earning a snicker from Frankie.

"Bu-The- HOW DARE YOU?!" Principal James blusters, blowing hot air exasperatedly.

"No, she's right." Frankie pipes up. His voice rough, low toned, almost musical in a way.

My eyes meet his in an electric gaze. He always has my back. Wether it's the time we both got caught selling drugs in the commons, or flooding the bathrooms, we're always there for each other. It's the little misfit code. Nobody else seems to understand it but us, then again, we've had a lot of things happen to one of us that only the other would understand. It's a mixture of comedy and tragedy. Entertainment or death. (Keep your eye on the money reference?)

"Well you two are suspended for the next week, and I will be in touch with your parents." Principal James finally instructs.

Ooh a week vacation with no school and my partner in crime doesn't have to go either? Yeah, that'll teach me.

I glance over at Frankie, and I can tell he's thinking the same thing I am. A smile spreads across my thin lips, and he reciprocates it.

We finish up in the office, and then we're both ushered away, no doubt so that the principal can smoke an entire pack of cigarettes. Me and Frankie start the brisk journey towards home, the thick Seattle air hovering like a blanket. This part of the city is pretty much dead right now.

The people that we hang around with, the degenerates, are all asleep, and will be until the sun goes down and the "scary freaks" come out to play.

We're about to part ways where our paths home split, when suddenly Frankie grabs me and hugs me tightly. I'm surprised, my shorter body almost enveloped by his taller, gangly, if not slightly feminine frame. He smells like pot, and something else I can't quite place my finger on. I lean into the hug, because it's rare that Frankie talks to people, much less hugs them.

"what are you doing?" I mumble against his jacketed chest.

"I don't want you to go home." Frankie admits.

"why?" I ask.

"Because you and I both know what Rob can do. And we both know shit's not gonna end well for you. Dude, just come over for a little." He sighs, letting go of me and stepping backward.

People say a lot of things about Frankie. They say that he's nothing but a failure, they say he's a rude, callous, troublemaker, they say that he has no feelings, that he's heartless, but he isn't. When you get down to it, if you earn Frankies trust, he'll be your greatest ally, even though I feel he may be a little over invested in my problems at times.

"Frankie...I'll be okay. Plus what about Deana? She's much worse than Rob."

"My mother?! That bitch is probably fucking some trucker somewhere. Also Rob is really creepy around you. Like he's by far the weirdest incarnation of a step dad I've ever seen. He makes all these comments about you."

"I know. I can hear them. But I'll be fine." I try to assure him.

He gives me a look like I kicked his dog. I hate when he looks at me like that. His strong face structure only makes it more intense. I'm not giving in today. "No Frankie. But you can come over." I compromise.

He hesitates before nodding. Instead of splitting up as usual, we both duck and weave our way through the streets to get to my house. My hand grazes the doorknob, but for some reason I don't want to open it. I take a deep breath and steel myself, praying that for once Rob isn't home.

I'm lucky. Our small house is empty. I quickly pull two beers from the refrigerator, slamming the door shut with a hefty amount of force. Frankie kneels by our record collection, pulling out Sabbath Bloody Sabbath. I walk into the living room and he holds it up wordlessly. I nod and he works the record player.

"Killing Yourself To Live." I suggest, handing him a beer and slamming the front door shut.

I wish I had some weed on me, but it would be a death wish to smoke it in the house. I usually do anyways, because Rob doesn't own me.

Rob is my moms husband, and quite frankly I don't know how she married him. My dad died in an accident when I was 7 and mom met Rob when I was 14. Right away I hated him. He gives off pedophile vibes for one, and he makes unnecessarily crude, sexual remarks towards me. That's not unusual, I get cat-called all the time. What is unusual is how he gets way too close to me, or beats me.

As I said, me and Frankie can kinda relate to each other. He doesn't have his dad because his dad left, and I don't have mine either. He's had some pretty shitty stepdads and I have A shitty stepdad.

The only familial difference is our mothers. Frankies mom is a bitch straight from Hell, and my mom is an angel. I love her more than anything in the world, but it's become unbearable recently. She's barely home, and when she is she's working, so she basically gives Rob power over everything.

Rob is a lazy, balding, middle aged, beer gut, asshole. He pretty much makes me do everything and then beats me for it.

Frankie reaches into his bag and pulls out a crumpled map. I glance at him curiously as he spreads it out on the floor. It's a map of America, and has some of Frankies handwriting scrawled across it. I watch as he studies the map, the godly riffs of Tony Iommi float through the airspace.

"The fuck are you doing?" I ask, plopping down beside him and brushing my dark bangs out of my face.

Frankie looks over at me, and a genuinely excited smile spreads across his face. His eyes sparkle and glimmer. "You and me," He points at a spot on the map. "There. Me starting my own band and you doing what you truly love, singing. What do you think?" He asks.

I follow my eyes to where his finger is stamped.

Los Angeles, California.