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In high school Amber had terrible taste in boys. She always swooned for the most moronic, parasitic, asshole possible. Theresa kept her distance; she hated the way Amber allowed herself to be treated like a trophy girlfriend for boys in bands who claimed to be feminists to get their dicks sucked. Drew tried to be supportive but found Amber's continued lack of romantic desire for him to be frustrating. This was not, he realized years later, her fault. Only disgusting, creepy, boys blamed girls for not dating them.
One evening, after being treated like an accessory all night by the latest “Feminist” Boy In Band in her life, Amber retreated outside where she found Drew coming back from the 7-11 down the road. She ran up to him, grabbed his arm, and dragged him over to “Feminist” Boy In Band's mother's minivan, which they used for gigs. Amber opened the back doors, pulled Drew inside with her, and shut the doors behind her. She started to cry when he asked her what was wrong. They laid down in the back of the van, Amber with her head sideways on Drew's stomach. She did not say a word; years later after their reconciliation before her death Amber would recall how that evening she was tired. Tired of being treated like another instrument. A third guitar. A mouth to cum in. Just another possession. Drew never asked what had provoked her.
They got out of the van right as “Feminist” Boy In Band's band was bringing their gear outside. Amber shoved them both out of the van and grabbed the sandwich wrapper out of Drew's hand. She explained to “Feminist” Boy In Band that it was too hot in the VFW hall so Drew had taken her to 7-11 to eat. Drew was unsure what to do other than nod and agree. He gave Drew a dirty look but nodded and approved Amber's decision. He then turned to kiss Amber, an arrogant smirk plastered all over his straight edge face. Drew glared at the back of his head.