Chapter Five: Before the Lobotomy

(2550 words)
(Billie Joe's POV)

It’s been exactly a month since we first met, I realized as I sat at the back of the old bus on my way down to Tré’s house. And we act more like we’ve been together for a year than for a month.

In the back of the old, rickety bus, the decaying leather seats smelled like feet and jizz. Old grey duct tape peeled off the worn holes, gross and damp looking brownish stuffing falling out of them.

Public transportation seriously sucked in that old town. I mean -- the windows were jammed shut in the hot summer and refused to close when it was pouring. Or snowing. Or hailing. Or hurricane-ing, if that were to happen in Northern California.

So, anyway, I was sitting in this hot, sweaty, smelly, awful bus in the middle of June, heading over to Tré’s house. Only two weeks before this date did he officially join the Class of Thirteen, and I had yet to give him a code name/nickname. I also hadn’t announced the fact that he was my boyfriend -- that would be once we were all organized and Tré was settled in to the Class and its antics.

I didn’t think it’d take him long to get used to them. He fit right in at the start, and everyone seemed to love him. He was funny, sweet, insane (in the good way insane, not in the he should be in a mental hospital insane), hilarious, and just fun to hang with.

Of course, that made me fall even deeper down this hole of being in love with him.

And that last thought seriously sucked, in phrasing and just some of the, erm, imagery. And it was a little purple prose-y.

But I can’t help it. I’m just human, after all -- despite what Tré probably thinks and how the Class of Thirteen probably sees me.

I sighed in relief as the bus slowed to a shaky halt, letting all of the stale air I dared not to breathe out on that fucking bus ride. Grabbing my stuff, I stood and walked down the greasy aisle, past half asleep druggie hobos, skimpily dressed sluts, and spitefully glaring recent graduates.

Ah, the pinnacle of modern American society, all crammed into this shitty little bus. So this is what they sing praises of, eh?

I jumped out of the bus just as it started moving again, the drive not caring about my health or safety -- well, I guess it was equal, since I didn’t particularly care about his. With my backpack slung over my shoulders, I walked down the sidewalk, passing derelict old buildings and dark, disgusting alleyways. I didn’t particularly want to know what happened in their murky depths.

Two blocks down from the bus stop, I was at the apartment complex where Tré lived. It always astounded me that Tré -- who had two functional, working parents -- lived in an apartment while I lived in an actual house. I think it may have been because he lived in a nicer part of the suburban hell town, while I lived on the borderline desert wasteland outskirts (gotta love Global Warming).

You know how I said that this town was small? Well, technically, it was -- but it sprawled. People were muy de claustrophobic here, and there were seven feet of solid dark and scary and rapeface alley material between every house, making this little town look much bigger than it actually was. Well, certainly bigger than it actually should have been in the first goddamn place.

Shaking some of my loose and newly sheared hair out of my face, I walked into the building. As I climbed up the steps to floor thirteen -- the elevator was, has always been, and probably still is broken -- I fingered the chilly silver key in my pocket. It felt like I hadn’t seen Tré in forever -- he’s been down with a flu of some sort for a week, and he just fully recovered.

As silently as I could, because there were grumpy, evil old apartment neighbors who yelled at the slightest bit of noise, I slid the key into the lock and opened the door. Letting out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, I stepped in, only to be greeted by Tré being -- well, Tré.

“BILLIE!!!” he half screamed, running across the puke green colored, faux plush carpet. He practically tackled me as he hugged me, sending us both to the floor with a thunk. Giggling madly, he kissed me once on the nose, softly and sweetly.

“Nice to see you, too, Tré,” I said with a grin. “How are you?”

“I’m good, since the damn flu is gone. And since you’re here.”

“Awh, you’re so sweet. Would you kindly get the fuck off me, though?”

Tré just grinned and stood up, extending an arm to help me. I grasped his warm hand and stood in front of him now, at least six inches shorter than he was. Half using his shoulders for leverage, and half standing on my tip toes, I kissed him on the cheek. As he took a deep breath in, he pulled me in tighter to him.

“Love you, Billie.”

“Love you, too, Tré.”

I smiled into his chest and breathed in that specifically Tré scent -- lingering cigarette smoke, the generic “clean” smelling 2-n-1 shampoo/conditioner hair stuff, strong & sexy deodorant, and the faint yet clingy perfume of pot.

“You are so damn sexy,” I muttered.

“I know.”

I could hear the self satisfied smirk in his voice, and I couldn’t help but giggle a bit at how self assured he was, whereas I, on the other hand, felt incompetent and loathed myself -- unless I was Gloria, of course. When I was Gloria. I was perfect. When I was Gloria, I knew exactly who I was. When I was Gloria, nothing could stop me. When I was Gloria, I was a fucking force of nature.

“Of course you know, Tré,” I said after a minute, somewhat peeling myself off of him. “It’s obvious.”

“Isn’t it?” he sighed, leaning against the wall.

We always had these mock arguments about his attractiveness, but it was all just us poking fun at each other. He wasn’t enough of a narcissist to be that obsessed with his appearance -- but I did think he was as sexy as he pretended to think in our faux arguing. And that was one hell of a confusing sentence.

I extended my hand. “I’m starving. Let’s get a snack.” Tré smiled at my random comment and grabbed my hand, following me into the kitchen. I grabbed some only slightly stale-ish chips and not so moldy salsa. He leaned against the fridge as I pushed myself onto the counter and made my way through the snack.

“So, Billie Joe. Tell me the story of your life.”

I looked up at him quizzically. “You can’t expect me to tell all of that.”

“Should I start with mine, then?”

“If you want. But I’m not telling mine. Never. It’s too… too complicated, really.”

He sighed, then seemed to ignore my statement. I just glared at him. I hated to be ignored, especially on things that were personal like, you know, my life.

“You know, my dad here’s not my real dad.”

“Um. What?”

“Mom… well -- I’m illegitimate. Mom had a slutty streak a while after she and dad got married. She thought he was cheating. He wasn’t, but she was, I guess.”

I raised my eyebrows. Maybe Tré’s always been more of an outcast than I thought.

“Geez. That must be tough.”

“Like hell it’s tough. That’s why they’re so…” He struggled to find the right word.

“Distant?” I filled in for him. Tré just nodded.

“Yeah. I mean, I got over it pretty fast. But no one else has. Especially not my parents -- they pretend it never happens. They pretend that the only proof it happened didn’t exist, and I’m the only proof.”

“Tré…”

I jumped down and hugged him tightly. “Don’t worry. No matter what, I’ll still love you.”

“I’m glad. Since you’re the only one.”

“You’ll never lose me, kay? We‘re in it all together now, Tré.”

“I know. You’ll never lose me, either.” Tré just nodded as I released him from my embrace. “Well, you know how my parents are and all. It just got worse when I came out… when I was 15 or so. I went from being the imaginary monster in the closet to being the sticky gum on their shoes. I’m just barely living here. They want to kick me out since I’m nineteen, but they’re waiting till I get a job.”

He sighed. I hugged him again, this time rubbing circles on his back.

“Mmm. That feels nice.”

“So. Tell me about your coming out,” I said, trying to keep him away from asking me about my life.

“Well… I came out loudly and with style. I mean, when I came out, it was just as attention drawing as me running through the streets naked, screaming ‘HEY WORLD, I’M GAY!’”

“Ooh. Well, I’d certainly like to see that,” I replied, winking mischievously at the end.

“I knew you were the right guy for me. I need someone who thinks dirty.”

“Well, then, you’ve definitely got the right guy.”

Tré smiled, a bit painfully. “That’s when my… my issues started.”

“Issues?” I did not like how he’d said the word ‘issues.’ Not at all. It was so similar to how I said ‘issues’ when I talked about my past drug issues.

Damn Novacaine.

“Issues,” he echoed. His voices sounded dry. “Drug issues, to be specific.”

Damn it, I hate being right sometimes. “Oh shit. What is it?”

“O-opal,” Tré whispered, looking down.

“Holy shit.”

Opal was the newest, most inexpensive, least tested drug on the market. A black, soapy liquid that came in 50 ounce bottles. Highly addictive, it was either injected (like heroin) or dropped into your eyes (but the stuff clean and pure enough to go in your eyes had higher prices). It quickly affected your serotonin and dopamine levels, giving you a soaring high that was reportedly as glittery as the gemstone it was named after.

“What -- how do you take it?”

“I smoke it.”

“Um, how the fuck would one go about smoking Opal.”

“It’s pretty simple actually.”

Tré looked back at me, and I squeezed his hand in mine. I smiled at him. “Don’t worry.”

“So, what about you?” he asked suddenly. “Why are you Gloria? What brought you here…?” He trailed off, not sure what he was asking.

“I’m -- Tré, I don’t want to talk about this. You know that.”

“Well -- well, why the hell not?” he asked me. There was a hint of force in his voice, the edge of anger.

Oh, yeah, did I mention that Opal can cause your hormones to turn against you -- and not just wreak havoc on your body, but make you act like a PMSing teenage girl?

“Because. It’s a very long story. A long story that I really don’t want to tell. Things I don’t like talking about that I’ve been forced to explain one too many times.”

“And then why not… why not explain it to me?”

“Tré. I love you. Please… don’t make me do this.”

Tré raised a thin, reddish blond eyebrow. “Why do you have to be so secretive, Billie? Why can’t you tell me what I’ve told you?”

“I really just don’t want to think about it.”

“Why don’t you like talking about it?”

“Well, I’m sorry, but my life up until now is a mass of bad memories and things that I’d rather not remember – let alone tell someone!”

Tré continued to glare at me. “Listen, Gloria, but do you know how hard it was to tell you all about me?!”

“I can understand!” I shouted. “And so you understand why I don’t want to talk about me!”

“You’re insane.”

“Me – insane?! I’m not the one who fucking smokes Opal, dammit!” I screamed.

“Just – listen. Shut up right now.”

With those angry words, Tré turned away from me and stormed out into the small hallway. I ran after him.

“Tré – just,” I said. I wasn’t yelling now. “Remember to learn to forget whiskey shots and cheap cigarettes.”

“Fuck you.”

Tré walked into the bathroom and slammed the door in my face. What he didn’t realize was that what I said was just as much about me as it was about him. Not to mention, it was a line from a poem I’d written about Tré and me, called Before the Lobotomy. The line was just as much about me as it was about him -- although, I didn’t really expect Tré to get it, as he didn’t know (at that point) about my past drug issues.

I still hadn’t given him a code or fake or nickname for the Class of Thirteen. It was kind of crazy that he’d been with me for a month and a part of the Class for a few weeks, but that he was still just Tré Cool – even though that was his own nickname, he still needed one from the Class of Thirteen.

I continued down the hallway, not even wanting to look in and see him smoking Opal – well, however the hell he did that. I threw open the beige with peeling white paint door ro his room and ran inside.

On his unmade bed, there was a fabric bound book that looked like…

Like a diary.

Ignoring everything people have said about not reading peoples’ diaries, I picked it up and opened it.

January 1st, 2013.
I guess I really should start using the damn thing. I’ve had it since my 14th birthday – so, like, since 2008 or something. It’s high time to start writing things.

I’m Tré, I’m 19, and I’m a fucked up drug addict… Opal. I smoke it.

I don’t believe in anything or anyone except for me. Everything here is screwed up. The world is going to Hell and none of us can do shit about it. Except there is the Class of Thirteen. They’re led by this girl named Gloria or something. They’re a protest riot group -- like Whatsername and the Underbelly, but more peaceful. They don’t fight fire with fire -- they fight fire with a riot.

It’s insane. It’s beautiful.

I wish I could join them, but they’d never let someone like me join their ranks.

Someone called Tré Cool who smokes Opal and who is fucked up beyond belief.

Oh well. I guess I’m stuck here till it’s all over. Not like it’ll be over anytime soon.

His messily handwritten words pulled at my heartstrings and made me think. Maybe Tré wasn’t as self assure as I had thought he was.

Then it hit me -- his code name, that is. Christian. The sheer irony of calling him Christian of all thinks when he believed in nothing was perfect.

And so, armed with a name to call my boyfriend in secret, I looked through the diary to find out more about Christian. About my love.