1022 Words.

IV. Deadbeat Holiday
Tré and I scaled the hill once more, hand in hand, breaking through the midday chill and through the trickle of people. Not many people hung out around those parts of the City -- it was the place where the Underbelly had resided, of course. And it was the place that the Class of Thirteen currently was. We weaved through the line of people dressed in black, and a sinking feeling fell through my gut.

Black. Funeral colors. We’d died, hadn’t we? So does that mean that they were coming back from our funeral?

“Can you believe it?” I heard someone mutter.

“Yeah. I heard that Dave and Mike and them gave ‘em a twenty one gun salute. Is that fucking insane, or what?” another said.

“They deserved it.”

“Hell yes, they deserved it -- but it’s still fucking insane that we had to have a fucking funeral for them. I mean -- I’m damn surprised they’re dead.”

The two who had been talking moved up the line and kept ascending the hill with the rest of them and with us. I made sure that my hood was definitely hiding my face, and made sure that Tré’s hat and sunglasses made him look unrecognizable.

“Can you believe it, Tré? They gave us a twenty one gun salute… you know, like soldiers in the military get. They really…” I whispered, my words drifting off at the end.

“They really think we’re dead -- but then again, that makes sense, doesn’t it?” he asked me back in an equal whisper to mine.

“Yeah. They really truly think we died. That’s… that’s a serious mind fuck.”

I shook my head and increased my pace, half dragging Tré behind me as we continued up the hill, following the group, the parade of black. Wait -- isn’t that an album name or something?

We waited outside the building as everyone filed in, waited around the corner as they closed the door. We gave it a good ten or twenty minutes, waiting until everything sounded like it was settled down in there. We then stealthily walked in and bit our lips so as not to gag and throw up at the smell and alert everyone. Near silently, we went up the stairs and to what had once been mine and Davey’s room, into the room where a few girls lived now.

“Why are you here again?” the first girl (the one with the dark hair and eyes) asked as we walked in. “I told you -- the Class of Thirteen’s over. Christian and Gloria are fucking dead -- they just had the funeral, morons!”

“Shut up,” I said. “How’re you sure that someone else won’t take it up? We just wanna sign the fuck up over here. You know, just in case it all comes back between now and then. We wanna be part of the riots.”

The first girl narrowed her eyes and another -- who I hadn’t seen yesterday -- shook her head. This girl had short, lighter brown hair, and brown eyes that were considerably lighter than her friend’s were. “Come on, Gazzy,” she said, “just take their names and contacts. Can’t do us any harm, right?”

The first -- nicknamed Gazzy, apparently -- rolled her eyes. “Fuck it. Fine. Names, contacts?”

“I’m Wilhelm Fink, remember?” I asked her. She nodded.

“And you?”

“’m Tré the Second.”

“You stole Christian’s real name.”

“We were friends. He told me to take his name if he died,” Tré improvised.

Skeptically, Gazzy nodded. “And where d’you two live?”

“Live?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “We’ve just been hangin’ ‘round, you know? At the old hotel, but we can’t stay there forever. Been lookin’ for a place t’ stay -- you wouldn’t happen to know of one, would you?” I made sure that my patterns of speech were different enough to make it seem like I was a totally different person -- to make it seem like I definitely was not Billie Joe Armstrong, or Saint Jimmy, or Gloria -- to make it seem like I was just Wilhelm Fink and someone who wasn’t me.

“Well, there are some apartments down in these parts that are free -- you two wouldn’t mind sharing, would ya?” asked the second girl, the one with blonde hair and blue eyes.

“Not at all -- would there be any rent t’ pay, by chance?” I asked.

“No rent, you just need to go claim it,” explained Gazzy. “So -- what, it’s room three nine a, right Queso?”

“It is. Just checked it out before we left for the funeral,” confirmed the second girl, who was apparently called Queso (Spanish for cheese, of course, like quesadilla). The third girl also nodded.

“It’s free,” she said.

“Yeah, you should trust Shika more than you should trust me,” said Queso, sticking out her tongue. The other girl -- apparently called Shika for some reason -- just slapped her. “But yah, it’s open.”

“Ohhh kay then. You guys got it. Wilhelm Fink and Tré Cool II, for room thirty nine a and a spot at riots. Go grab your shit and move it.”

“Woah. Sweet. Thanks, ya guys. See ya around, huh?” I said, turning and round and staying on the top step.

“Mmhmm. See ya two around.”

And as Tré and I walked back to the hotel to check out and get our stuff, a cool wave of relief swelled through me. We were set now, in the City of the Damned, and it was all going to be good for a long, long time.

“I’m so excited. Now we won’t be held responsible for fucking shit up. Whoever takes the reins of the Class will,” I said, grinning at Tré and leaning into him.

“Yep.”

I sighed happily. “I love you, Tré.” I leaned up to kiss him on the cheek, but he turned around and his lips met mine. It wasn’t much of a kiss -- but it was short and sweet and beautiful.

“I love you, too, Billie Joe. More than you’ll ever know. I love you so fucking much.”