Junkyard 1 Week 3

At the Fall Out Boy concert on Sunday, a girl in jeans tighter than mine started crying when the lights dimmed. She tugged at her ripped tank-top, adjusted her mascara and tattoo-choker no one's seen since the 90s, and began FaceTimeing her friend. I watched the phone, the little screen showing Fall Out Boy, the larger, some girl cross-legged on her bed, hand over mouth. The woman between this girl and myself, jumps up and down as the band begins "Sugar We're Going Down." She clasps the arm of the girl, who joins her, having lost the FaceTime connection at this point. She bends to adjust the red and black flannel around her waist and I notice the gel-pen tattoos that covered her arms.