Chapter Three: Know Your Enemy

(2676 words)
(Billie Joe's POV)

I awoke at my alarm clock prescribed time of 5 in the AM, ending up with only about an hour of sleep. My face was firmly planted on my speech, drool in a little puddle, blurring the words and sinking into the paper. If you thought about it, that was kind of gross that I drooled on pencil lead and paper for an hour straight. But I didn’t really care as I sluggishly walked through the hallways and into the kitchen, making some coffee before my mom woke up.

Not that she’d care, though. She barely knew who I was, which was partially because I was barely around anymore and partially because she was taking too many psychiatric meds to really notice what was going on.

It was a shame that I never really got to know either of my parents. Dad left when I was 8 or 9 -- and I didn’t see him much before that -- and mom basically disappeared around the same time as dad. I basically raised myself, learning how to survive the hard way. Basically, I was free to do whatever I wanted. That wasn’t always a good thing.

Being able to do whatever the hell I wanted to ended up with me getting hooked on Novacaine for a year or so. But the many addictions I experienced at the age of fifteen are a story for another time.

Except for some of the addictions, which stuck with me even until I was 18 and beyond that. Smoking, for one.

Quietly, I sat in my room, drinking my hot and shitty instant coffee and eating a three months stale Pop Tart. It was truly the good life, mine was.

I brushed strawberry flavored crumbs off of my shirt before undressing, grimacing at the dirt that covered the pale skin on my stomach and chest. Bandages that were once wrapped around my skinned knees were peeling off at the edges, and I roughly tore them off, ignoring the sting of raw skin.

A minute or so later, I’d dug up a somewhat clean pair of jeans and a decent looking, but full of holes, band shirt from who knows when that I’d probably gotten at a garage sale for two bucks. I haphazardly threw them on, not exactly caring how I looked.

I checked the time. 6 AM, so I still had forty five minutes to finish getting ready.

First, I grabbed my comb and my hair gel, walking to the hall bathroom and combing my hair at the same time. Once I had a (slightly dirty, I may add) mirror in front of me, I began to style my hair.

I teased my greasy black hair into long, pointed, gravity defying spikes, groaning as I realized that I’d have to cut my hair again soon. As soon as all of my hair was out of my face, I put on some eyeliner and called my overall appearance decent.

I slung my backpack over my shoulders and half tied my shoes as I walked out of the house, not bothering to tell my mom that I was leaving. Why should I, anyway?

I wanted to make a lasting imprint as that day was likely going to be my personal last day of school. Sure, the next day was grades day and the day after that was the real last day -- but I’d already gotten my grades and I just really didn’t care enough to stay there much longer.

I would make an impression on this godforsaken town that night at the graduation ceremony if it was the last thing I did.

*

It was 8 PM, finally, and I was walking into the old auditorium, ready to officially graduate and get the hell out of this school. I was ready to give my little speech on enemies and knowing your enemies, and had it all thought out in my head. All I had to do now was actually say it.

When I looked around the room, I realized for probably the fiftieth time that night that I was the least impressively dressed kid in the room. Just for the graduation, I wore a long sleeved black shirt with a freaking awesome red tie and regular black pants. I looked so informal that it hurt and I stuck out like a sore thumb even more than I usually did.

With a resigned sigh, I looked for my sear -- I was in the last row, but in seat A for my last name. It was fairly easy to find, and I sat down. The sections of cold metal chairs were fairly empty, except for one occupied chair a few rows down from me…

The guy who sat in the last row of what I estimated was section W wore fairly simple and casual clothing like I did, black standing out from his stark pale skin. His form captivated me, thick, but lean. My gaze traveled upward, from what I could see of sculpted abs to his face.

Holy shit…

Reddish blond hair was slicked back from his face, revealing a sharply curving widow’s peak and ending at the back of his head in a neat point. He had thin and high eyebrows that arched over slightly vacant greenish blue eyes. A slight and sexy half grin danced on his lips, raising his cheeks in a cute but seductive way.

It was official: this guy who I’d never seen before in my life who sat a few chairs down from me was totally hot.

He caught my gaze and looked at me with those piercing eyes. I blushed slightly and turned away, trying to feign that I hadn’t been staring at him. I felt his gaze as he looked at me, and I finally looked back at him. He grinned at me, and although my cheeks heated up again, I grinned back.

So I was falling for someone I hadn’t even met yet, whose name I didn’t know. It wouldn't be the first time that had happened.

We continued to just stare at eachother for a while, blinking every few seconds before the swarm of other graduating twelfth graders came between us and all the other teenagers filled the rows. I smiled to myself and squirmed a bit in my seat just thinking about the goddamn way he looked at me -- the same way no one had looked at me in two or three years.

He was damn attractive, and I think he thought that I was damn attractive, too.

Once everyone had filed into their seats, Ms. Alice Freaking Melare stood at the podium on the stage and said some random and boring speech about how proud she was of all of us -- well, she glared at me at that part. She explained to the present parents that it was such an honor and that we were all ready to go to college, blah blah blah.

Then came the diploma hand outs, my time to give my world changing speech, and when my life changed forever.

Melare called us all up, row by row, until the first seven rows had gone, sappy speeches and poetry and all.

“Eighth row,” she said, and I stood up, leading the eighth row students up the stairs that lead backstage.

“Billie Joe Armstrong,” announced my now former teacher with a slightly exasperated sigh at the end of my name. I walked out with pride, grabbing my diploma and standing at the student microphone.

“To the students, parents and staff of this simply wonderful high school,” I started with a self satisfied grin. “I have one question to ask you all: do you know your enemy?”

There were a few coughs and people rustling in their seats, but otherwise, no answer. I frowned slightly.

“I said -- do you know your enemy?!”

The jumped a little. Still no answer. I grimaced and decided to go on anyway.

“Well, you know what? Your enemy -- the enemy of all of you people -- it’s not different people. It’s not the Class of Thirteen, or the Underbelly, or Gloria or Whatsername. It’s not people who want to change things. You know who your enemy is?”

Crickets. A pin could have dropped and everyone in the room would’ve heard it.

“The government. The government, George W. Bush, they’re your enemy.”

I looked out on all of them, at faces that morphed from blank and uncaring into passionately angry.

“They have been lying to you all for thirteen years now! Bush took over and used 9/11 as an excuse, a scapegoat, to go to war with Iraq! It was all for oil -- I hope you know that, as it is pretty obvious, by now! Oil, and money, and the chance to brag to the original George Bush that his son can make a lot of fuckin’ money!”

They looked at me, shocked and really, truly angry now. What kind of blasphemer was I? Well, I was the kind of blasphemer who was right.

“You all -- learn to know who your real enemy is!”

“Mr. Armstrong, maybe you should --!”

I cut Alice Melare off. “I will not back down. These are the true facts, they are not freaking incorrect, as you would claim they are! You people need to take a stand for what is right, fight for what this country was built for -- putting the common welfare in front of your own selfish interests!”

I grabbed the microphone stand and stepped closer to the edge of the stage, still half yelling into the mic. “If you’re with me, take a stand now! Silence is also your enemy -- if we don’t do anything, then this will keep happening! Countless U.S. soldiers -- some of which are the same age as us, high school graduate just like us -- are being killed every day. For oil. For oil, and money, and power. How do you feel about that?!”

I was working so hard at this that I was panting by now, and the sweltering bright white stage lights were making me sweat under their intensity. “Take a stand against this greedy government and our bats hit insane, money loving president. Who is our enemy?”

“The Class of Thirteen.”

It was a quiet, but distinct murmur.

“What.” It was a statement, not a question. That wasn’t what I’d just said.

“Those radical teenagers think they’ll change something,” someone shouted from the crowd, “they can’t -- and we don’t need change. Our real enemies are the Class of Thirteen.”

I stared blankly into the audience for a minute before figuring out what to say.

“That’s just what they want you to think. You’re letting them think for you, now! That’s the vast majority opinion! Why don’t we go against it?! Because obviously, it’s wrong!”

I raised one arm to the sky and held the microphone close to my mouth. “If you want change, change for the better -- if you’re young enough to still think against the mainstream -- then come on. Join the Class of Thirteen. And you know what?”

No answer, once more.

“I’m Gloria, Gloria the leader. Gloria the fighter, Gloria who wants change! Gloria! G - L - O - R --!”

I was cut off as a warm and slightly heavy body rammed into mine, wrapping arms around my waist and pressing a warm mouth to mine. A million thoughts went through my head as I opened my eyes to see who had assaulted me so romantically.

Holy hell, I thought. It was the guy from before. The guy I was staring at, who had been staring at me. His lips, warm but rough and chapped, were pressed to mine as he feverishly kissed me. His warm tongue slid down my lip and I opened my mouth, begging for more. As his tongue penetrated beyond my lips, a warm and slightly smoky taste filled my mouth. An exotic feeling filled my veins, leaving me light headed and stirring my poor teenage hormones into creating a bit of a sticky reaction. I breathed through my nose, inhaling his clinging and close scent as he took in mine.

We broke apart a few minutes later, our chests heaving with a lack of oxygen and an overdose of adrenaline. He smiled at me, a real smile that was adorable and seductive and made me want to screw him right there on the stage.

“The name’s -- Tré. Tré Cool,” he whispered between panting breaths. I smiled at him. “And you’re -- you’re Billie Joe, huh? Or…or Gloria?” he asked with a smirk.

“You could -- you could say that, yeah.”

“You know, I kissed you to shut you up,” he admitted. At my surprised glare, he added, “I mean, you’re hot. Really, really hot. Shutting you up was just my second objective, but then again -- how else was I supposed to make you shut up?”

“You’re one sexy and sneaky bitch, you know.”

“Hell yes do I know.”

I grinned and wiped some sweat off my forehead. “You know, people are staring.”

“Like I care?”

“Good point.”

“Meet me after the graduation ceremony. I’ll be at the left exit door.”

“See you there, hottie!” I called to him as I stepped off stage.

Later, I learned that his real name was Frank Edwin Wright III, a fact that made me giggle a bit, as he was called up to get his own diploma. I liked both his real name and his fake -- well, preferred…nickname? -- name. I practically clawed up my think metal seat (Don’t ask how I could do that) just waiting for the graduation ceremony to end.

And finally, after long last, we were dismissed. I darted over to the left exit, looking around for him. Tré wasn’t in sight. Then, suddenly, I saw him -- casually leaning against the doorframe on the outside, smoking a cigarette in a way that made my mouth water.

Oh yes, I wanted him to touch me that same way he was touching his cigarette.

“Hey -- Tré!” I shouted. His name was actually quite fun to say. Tré Tré Tré Tré…

“Mmm, Billie Joe. What’s up?” he asked, stamping out his butt on the dead ground.

“Nothing, as per usual. I mean, I’ve just been sitting for the past hour watching people graduate.”

Oh my god, Billie Joe, you’re rambling. Stop rambling right now. Stop it stop it stop it stop it!

“Heh, I know. Same. It’s so boring, don’t cha know?”

“Uh huh. Hell yes.”

You’re blathering, dude. Stop it. Stop looking like a moron!

I grinned a bit shyly and he just smirked. He had ways of reducing me to being torn between screwing him right there and then, and melting into a pathetic little puddle of Billie Joe goo.

“C’mere for a second.”

I walked closer to him, my hands sweating and nervously twitching. I shook some of my loose hair out of my face, blinking rapidly and trying to figure out what the hell was going on. I tried to ignore the tight throbbing in my pants and tried to focus solely on Tré Cool, the newest object of my hormone driven affections.

As soon as I was within two feet of him, he hugged me quickly, and put something in my back pocket.

“Call me and I’ll call it a date, okay?”

“Uh…okay.”

“See ya later, dude,” he said with a wink and another smirk, before walking off onto a sidewalk and away from the school, presumably toward his house. I took whatever he’d put in my pocket out. A soft, folded piece of paper. Hungrily, I unfolded it.

“Billie Joe -- you’re hot, and you’re sincere, and I agree with you. Go on a date with me? Tré.”

Next to his signature was his phone number.

I jumped in the air and squealed quietly before running home to call Tré and take up his offer on a date.