Chapter Eight: East Jesus Nowhere
Chapter Nine: Peacemaker
Chapter Ten: Last of the American Feminine Guys
Chapter Ten Point Five: Death to the Ones at the End of the Serenade
Chapter Eleven: Murder City
Chapter Twelve: Viva La Billie Joe? (Little Boy)
Chapter Thirteen: Restless Heart Syndrome
Little girl, little girl
Your life is calling
The Charlatans and Saints
Of your abandon
Little one, little one
The sky is falling...
11/9/09
Chapter Seven: Last Night on Earth
(2188 words)
My hands wrapped closely around his shoulders, hooking lightly around the back of his pale, pale neck as my mouth crashed upon his. He made a delicious moaning sound before kissing back, his lips soft and addicting on mine.
My heart pounded in my chest, adrenaline soaring through my veins at unprecedented speeds. His heart beat just as hard against me, beating now in sync with mine. Tré pulled me into him, pressing us flush against each other.
Heat encircled us as he pushed me onto his bed, the force of the impact sending the diary flying to the floor with a soft thunk on the thick carpet. Tré fell on top of me, his warm weight pinning me down. His breath pooled on my face as his kissed trailed up my cheek and he steered me so that we were vertical on his bed.
“So… tell me, Tré,” I panted, “you’ve… have you ever been… been bottom? I nsex, y‘know?”
“N-no,” he spluttered out, less of fear and more of lust. “I’ve not really… had much sex, really.”
“Well,” I whisper asked, “how would you feel about it?”
“Oh… yes… yes, please.”
“Fucking awesome.”
I looked up at Tré, at his heaving chest, his lust filled eyes, and his all too noticeable hard on. He collapsed next to me, allowing me to take off his tee shirt and throw it to the floor. Tré started to strip me, as well, taking every detail of my body just as I took in all of his. Clothing lay at the foot of the bed, falling off the corner of it, and some on the floor in heaps. Soon enough, we pressed together again, warm and slightly sticky skin against skin.
My eyeliner was definitely about to be smeared. And I really did not give a shit.
Our tongues twisted around one another as we shared this passionate embrace. Our hands touched anything in reach. Sweat danced in our eyes and glistened over our skin, quickly being absorbed and staining the sheets.
“You ready?” I whispered, biting the stiff cartilage of the tip of his ear then carefully around the small silver hoop in his lobe.
“Yeah.” Tré’s voice was slightly hoarse.
We were two very horny teenage guys in love, and I knew then that we were ready for this, especially once I asked and he confirmed. We were as ready as we’d ever be, and as ready as we would be for the rest of our lives together.
“D’you have lube.” I had to ask. I mean, we couldn’t continue without it.
“No.”
“Vaseline?” Second best, I guessed.
“Yeah. On the dresser.”
I climbed carefully out of our embrace, grabbing the small squarish ovalish pale tan container of Vaseline from Tré’s dresser. I popped the top open, and dipped my fingers in, scooping a liberal amount over my fingertips. Just as carefully, I lay back down next to Tré and instructed him to roll over.
Carefully, very carefully so as not to hurt my boyfriend, I prepped him, making sure everything would be perfect and as painless as possible.
And in short and sweet and fast glimpses of movements and sweat and love, it was over. Entangled in the other’s arms, we each rode out our orgasms, crying out and moaning, singing hormone driven eulogies of the other.
“I love you, Tré. You’re… you’re fucking perfect.”
I lay my head on the pillow, breathing in the smell of sex. A few quiet tears rose to my eyes and spilled over my cheeks. I’d been touched through this, even more than the drunken or high sex back when I was with Whatsername.
And people say that drunk sex is the best. Bastards and liars, all of ‘em.
I opened my heavy eyes and looked at Tré, whose greenish blueish teal eyes were glassy and distant. I reached over and wrapped an arm around him.
“I love you,” he whispered. My tears flowed more readily now.
“Tré… Tré… I love you so much, Tré. Christian. I love you, Christian.”
“I love you, too, Gloria.”
Tiredly, he kissed me on the cheek and we both fell asleep, satisfied and in love with the person that we fell asleep next to.
*
I pensively sat on my bed, my eyes red and puffy from crying so much. From crying of nostalgia, love, and just the bond that formed between Tré and I as we had sex for the very first time. I think now, that I knew then, that we were committed to each other now.
I hadn’t felt so much all at once since… definitely since Whatsername had broken up with me over letterbomb.
I still had the damn letterbomb, Whatsername’s name permanently scratched out, all my images of him burned to the ground, ashes buried deep beneath the Earth in the City.
And I was glad for that, too. It was hard enough seeing him, but not knowing his name. I hated how I could still picture that pretty face of his, the kohl lined blackish brown eyes, the pale pink lips, the tumbling black ringlets around his pale face.
I missed him -- or, the memory of him. I didn’t want to love him anymore. We weren’t meant for each other, quite obviously.
Our relationship was just a lesson in the world. We were only 15 then, anyway.
And then I sat there, 18, Gloria, and back in love.
I guess it was weird to go from the Jesus of Suburbia to Saint Jimmy to --
My old-ass, Class of Thirteen sponsored cell phone buzzed on my old desk, playing a pattern I recognized as Tré’s text message ringtone thing. I grabbed the phone quickly and flipped it open, looking at the “You Have One New Text Message” note with glee. Hitting “Read,” I looked it over.
Hey Billie. How r u?
I smiled at my phone. Tré was so cute…
Im fine. U? I texted back. Before hitting send, I added something. Love u, Tré.
Good. Love u 2, Gloria, he replied. I snickered a bit -- he was just so damn adorable sometimes. I could just imagine the look on his face as he texted me, the way his tongue would stick gut out the corner of his mouth, how he would quickly type his message to me and reread the message I’d just sent him.
He was the most damn adorable man on earth sometimes.
Damn, Tré, u r awesome.
What makes u say tht?
Becuz u r so damn cute when u txt.
LOL! I bet u r, 2.
U bet I am? Y rnt u sure of it?
Good question…
I laughed quietly and flopped onto my bed, checking the time.
Eleven thirty six post meridian. So I had quite some time, now that school was out and it was summer.
So how do u feel bout the war specifically?
I sighed again, rolling onto my back and looking up at the ceiling, tired energy pulsing through my veins as I anxiously awaited Tré’s reply.
My cell phone buzzed and I looked away from the ceiling, brining the arm that held my phone in it up to my face and readying my fingers. The soft glow of my cell phone’s screen was obscured by a wall of text.
Its bullshit. All it’s being used 4 is money. It annoys me to no end. U? he said.
Im Gloria, bitch, anti war enthusiast and the 1 who wants peace. :P
I laughed at my reply, allowing my hand to drop down next to me, waiting for Tré to recover from his inevitable laughing attack and reply with a --
There it went. The buzzy little pattern of buzzing. A new text message from Tré, of course, and some more conversation to continue on with.
Oh so Im a bitch now am I? I laughed as I read this.
Hella. But u r my bitch, kay? No one else! I laughed again as I sent my reply.
Ah. Sneaky little possessive jealous bf, r u?
U just wait. U will love it.
I like the sound of that, lol.
Oh, I bet u do. I fucking bet u do.
I could not wait to see Tré again. Hopefully, it would be soon enough as I’d started the beginnings of planning a Class of Thirteen riot… soon enough.
I was getting so fucking sick of being only second best to Whatsername. I was going to stop being such a pacifist and find my old obsession with hand grenades soon enough. We were going to light a fire this time if we had to. We would stop screaming for a difference, we’d burn it into the very Earth beneath out feet itself.
And by all hell, we were ready to wreak complete and utter havoc on the establishment. Or, as I liked to call it, Starfuckers Incorporated, fucking the world over one person at a time. The star part was added because it always started with the media and in Hollywood, a beautiful little process called Californication.
My thoughts were interrupted as my phone buzzed once again, signifying a new text message from Tré.
Hahaha. Can’t wait 2 c u again, even tho we were just together a few hrs ago!
Same here. I wanna make love w u again.
U r amazing, BJ.
BJ? What the fuck?
I laughed at our conversation. I think it may have been the same as any other pair of horny teenagers anywhere, but all the others would be, and almost definitely were, nowhere near as insane or political as ours was.
I sighed and our nonsensical conversations went on and on, teases hidden in or between political messages, sexy little love notes and assurances of sex and romance the next time we would see each other. I smiled and laughed at what both of us said, our weird little jokes and nick names. It was so sweet and simple that we could be texting about missing each other, despite having sex less than twenty four hours before our conversation.
Eventually, Tré just stopped replying to my messages. Sleep wore heavy on my eyes like a dark cloak as I looked up at my clock and checked the time.
Five oh five, ante meridian. 5:05 in the freaking morning. Tré and I had managed to talk over damn text messaging for nearly six hours straight.
I closed my eyes and fell asleep. Then, I dreamed of the death of my old mentality, the death and funeral of the Saint Jimmy.
I saw the old me, the me as I was at 16, the me as St. Jimmy putting a gun to his temple, my/his lifeless body falling into the water and staining it all red.
I saw Whatsername tear up the letterbomb, his makeup streaming down his face and leaving black marks on the bare carpet below his bare feet. I could hear him blaming himself for my death.
Then I saw the funeral itself. Whatsername was in the front row, head bowed over and a lacy black veil obscuring his blurred face. Black tears dripped down onto the simple black dress that my ex-boyfriend wore, the dress that blurred and melded with the obsidian tiled floors. My incorporeal feet slipped and slid against them as I walked toward what I assumed to be my casket. Past the minister, who wore and army hat with the cross etched into it. I looked down at the black box, seeing The Saint Jimmy carved into its side. I looked into the clear top, seeing a bloodied, younger version of me.
The world went fuzzy and white at the edges, like carefully torn paper. The entire scene slowly sharpened and brightened, looking like an over exposed picture of a demented funeral. The onyx glass beneath my feet half crumbled and half melted, sucking me deep into its depths.
I awoke in a cold sweat, quickly feeling my forehead for any bullet wounds or blood. Nothing.
Before falling asleep again, I texted Tré. I just wrote him a quick message.
If I lose everything in the fire, I’m sending all my love to you… if I lose everything in the fire… did I ever make it through?
He’d get it at the next meeting before the riot. I was sure of it. Though I was sure that he wouldn’t get the second line. Almost sure, anyway.
Shutting down my cell phone, I crawled under the covers in only my boxers and promptly fell asleep.
This time, I dreamed of sex and drugs, of riots and of Whatsername. Of the Class of Thirteen and of the Underbelly. Of Novacaine and Opal. I dreamed of a world where I was normal, having the minority opinion but not screwed up. I dreamed of the letterbomb, and of fires soaring throughout cities and churches.
It was no less demented than seeing the death of St. Jimmy, but I slept much better now.
When I awoke again at four in the afternoon, I still hadn’t received a text back from Tré.
My hands wrapped closely around his shoulders, hooking lightly around the back of his pale, pale neck as my mouth crashed upon his. He made a delicious moaning sound before kissing back, his lips soft and addicting on mine.
My heart pounded in my chest, adrenaline soaring through my veins at unprecedented speeds. His heart beat just as hard against me, beating now in sync with mine. Tré pulled me into him, pressing us flush against each other.
Heat encircled us as he pushed me onto his bed, the force of the impact sending the diary flying to the floor with a soft thunk on the thick carpet. Tré fell on top of me, his warm weight pinning me down. His breath pooled on my face as his kissed trailed up my cheek and he steered me so that we were vertical on his bed.
“So… tell me, Tré,” I panted, “you’ve… have you ever been… been bottom? I nsex, y‘know?”
“N-no,” he spluttered out, less of fear and more of lust. “I’ve not really… had much sex, really.”
“Well,” I whisper asked, “how would you feel about it?”
“Oh… yes… yes, please.”
“Fucking awesome.”
I looked up at Tré, at his heaving chest, his lust filled eyes, and his all too noticeable hard on. He collapsed next to me, allowing me to take off his tee shirt and throw it to the floor. Tré started to strip me, as well, taking every detail of my body just as I took in all of his. Clothing lay at the foot of the bed, falling off the corner of it, and some on the floor in heaps. Soon enough, we pressed together again, warm and slightly sticky skin against skin.
My eyeliner was definitely about to be smeared. And I really did not give a shit.
Our tongues twisted around one another as we shared this passionate embrace. Our hands touched anything in reach. Sweat danced in our eyes and glistened over our skin, quickly being absorbed and staining the sheets.
“You ready?” I whispered, biting the stiff cartilage of the tip of his ear then carefully around the small silver hoop in his lobe.
“Yeah.” Tré’s voice was slightly hoarse.
We were two very horny teenage guys in love, and I knew then that we were ready for this, especially once I asked and he confirmed. We were as ready as we’d ever be, and as ready as we would be for the rest of our lives together.
“D’you have lube.” I had to ask. I mean, we couldn’t continue without it.
“No.”
“Vaseline?” Second best, I guessed.
“Yeah. On the dresser.”
I climbed carefully out of our embrace, grabbing the small squarish ovalish pale tan container of Vaseline from Tré’s dresser. I popped the top open, and dipped my fingers in, scooping a liberal amount over my fingertips. Just as carefully, I lay back down next to Tré and instructed him to roll over.
Carefully, very carefully so as not to hurt my boyfriend, I prepped him, making sure everything would be perfect and as painless as possible.
And in short and sweet and fast glimpses of movements and sweat and love, it was over. Entangled in the other’s arms, we each rode out our orgasms, crying out and moaning, singing hormone driven eulogies of the other.
“I love you, Tré. You’re… you’re fucking perfect.”
I lay my head on the pillow, breathing in the smell of sex. A few quiet tears rose to my eyes and spilled over my cheeks. I’d been touched through this, even more than the drunken or high sex back when I was with Whatsername.
And people say that drunk sex is the best. Bastards and liars, all of ‘em.
I opened my heavy eyes and looked at Tré, whose greenish blueish teal eyes were glassy and distant. I reached over and wrapped an arm around him.
“I love you,” he whispered. My tears flowed more readily now.
“Tré… Tré… I love you so much, Tré. Christian. I love you, Christian.”
“I love you, too, Gloria.”
Tiredly, he kissed me on the cheek and we both fell asleep, satisfied and in love with the person that we fell asleep next to.
*
I pensively sat on my bed, my eyes red and puffy from crying so much. From crying of nostalgia, love, and just the bond that formed between Tré and I as we had sex for the very first time. I think now, that I knew then, that we were committed to each other now.
I hadn’t felt so much all at once since… definitely since Whatsername had broken up with me over letterbomb.
I still had the damn letterbomb, Whatsername’s name permanently scratched out, all my images of him burned to the ground, ashes buried deep beneath the Earth in the City.
And I was glad for that, too. It was hard enough seeing him, but not knowing his name. I hated how I could still picture that pretty face of his, the kohl lined blackish brown eyes, the pale pink lips, the tumbling black ringlets around his pale face.
I missed him -- or, the memory of him. I didn’t want to love him anymore. We weren’t meant for each other, quite obviously.
Our relationship was just a lesson in the world. We were only 15 then, anyway.
And then I sat there, 18, Gloria, and back in love.
I guess it was weird to go from the Jesus of Suburbia to Saint Jimmy to --
My old-ass, Class of Thirteen sponsored cell phone buzzed on my old desk, playing a pattern I recognized as Tré’s text message ringtone thing. I grabbed the phone quickly and flipped it open, looking at the “You Have One New Text Message” note with glee. Hitting “Read,” I looked it over.
Hey Billie. How r u?
I smiled at my phone. Tré was so cute…
Im fine. U? I texted back. Before hitting send, I added something. Love u, Tré.
Good. Love u 2, Gloria, he replied. I snickered a bit -- he was just so damn adorable sometimes. I could just imagine the look on his face as he texted me, the way his tongue would stick gut out the corner of his mouth, how he would quickly type his message to me and reread the message I’d just sent him.
He was the most damn adorable man on earth sometimes.
Damn, Tré, u r awesome.
What makes u say tht?
Becuz u r so damn cute when u txt.
LOL! I bet u r, 2.
U bet I am? Y rnt u sure of it?
Good question…
I laughed quietly and flopped onto my bed, checking the time.
Eleven thirty six post meridian. So I had quite some time, now that school was out and it was summer.
So how do u feel bout the war specifically?
I sighed again, rolling onto my back and looking up at the ceiling, tired energy pulsing through my veins as I anxiously awaited Tré’s reply.
My cell phone buzzed and I looked away from the ceiling, brining the arm that held my phone in it up to my face and readying my fingers. The soft glow of my cell phone’s screen was obscured by a wall of text.
Its bullshit. All it’s being used 4 is money. It annoys me to no end. U? he said.
Im Gloria, bitch, anti war enthusiast and the 1 who wants peace. :P
I laughed at my reply, allowing my hand to drop down next to me, waiting for Tré to recover from his inevitable laughing attack and reply with a --
There it went. The buzzy little pattern of buzzing. A new text message from Tré, of course, and some more conversation to continue on with.
Oh so Im a bitch now am I? I laughed as I read this.
Hella. But u r my bitch, kay? No one else! I laughed again as I sent my reply.
Ah. Sneaky little possessive jealous bf, r u?
U just wait. U will love it.
I like the sound of that, lol.
Oh, I bet u do. I fucking bet u do.
I could not wait to see Tré again. Hopefully, it would be soon enough as I’d started the beginnings of planning a Class of Thirteen riot… soon enough.
I was getting so fucking sick of being only second best to Whatsername. I was going to stop being such a pacifist and find my old obsession with hand grenades soon enough. We were going to light a fire this time if we had to. We would stop screaming for a difference, we’d burn it into the very Earth beneath out feet itself.
And by all hell, we were ready to wreak complete and utter havoc on the establishment. Or, as I liked to call it, Starfuckers Incorporated, fucking the world over one person at a time. The star part was added because it always started with the media and in Hollywood, a beautiful little process called Californication.
My thoughts were interrupted as my phone buzzed once again, signifying a new text message from Tré.
Hahaha. Can’t wait 2 c u again, even tho we were just together a few hrs ago!
Same here. I wanna make love w u again.
U r amazing, BJ.
BJ? What the fuck?
I laughed at our conversation. I think it may have been the same as any other pair of horny teenagers anywhere, but all the others would be, and almost definitely were, nowhere near as insane or political as ours was.
I sighed and our nonsensical conversations went on and on, teases hidden in or between political messages, sexy little love notes and assurances of sex and romance the next time we would see each other. I smiled and laughed at what both of us said, our weird little jokes and nick names. It was so sweet and simple that we could be texting about missing each other, despite having sex less than twenty four hours before our conversation.
Eventually, Tré just stopped replying to my messages. Sleep wore heavy on my eyes like a dark cloak as I looked up at my clock and checked the time.
Five oh five, ante meridian. 5:05 in the freaking morning. Tré and I had managed to talk over damn text messaging for nearly six hours straight.
I closed my eyes and fell asleep. Then, I dreamed of the death of my old mentality, the death and funeral of the Saint Jimmy.
I saw the old me, the me as I was at 16, the me as St. Jimmy putting a gun to his temple, my/his lifeless body falling into the water and staining it all red.
I saw Whatsername tear up the letterbomb, his makeup streaming down his face and leaving black marks on the bare carpet below his bare feet. I could hear him blaming himself for my death.
Then I saw the funeral itself. Whatsername was in the front row, head bowed over and a lacy black veil obscuring his blurred face. Black tears dripped down onto the simple black dress that my ex-boyfriend wore, the dress that blurred and melded with the obsidian tiled floors. My incorporeal feet slipped and slid against them as I walked toward what I assumed to be my casket. Past the minister, who wore and army hat with the cross etched into it. I looked down at the black box, seeing The Saint Jimmy carved into its side. I looked into the clear top, seeing a bloodied, younger version of me.
The world went fuzzy and white at the edges, like carefully torn paper. The entire scene slowly sharpened and brightened, looking like an over exposed picture of a demented funeral. The onyx glass beneath my feet half crumbled and half melted, sucking me deep into its depths.
I awoke in a cold sweat, quickly feeling my forehead for any bullet wounds or blood. Nothing.
Before falling asleep again, I texted Tré. I just wrote him a quick message.
If I lose everything in the fire, I’m sending all my love to you… if I lose everything in the fire… did I ever make it through?
He’d get it at the next meeting before the riot. I was sure of it. Though I was sure that he wouldn’t get the second line. Almost sure, anyway.
Shutting down my cell phone, I crawled under the covers in only my boxers and promptly fell asleep.
This time, I dreamed of sex and drugs, of riots and of Whatsername. Of the Class of Thirteen and of the Underbelly. Of Novacaine and Opal. I dreamed of a world where I was normal, having the minority opinion but not screwed up. I dreamed of the letterbomb, and of fires soaring throughout cities and churches.
It was no less demented than seeing the death of St. Jimmy, but I slept much better now.
When I awoke again at four in the afternoon, I still hadn’t received a text back from Tré.
11/6/09
Chapter Six: Tre's Inferno
April 25th, 2013.
Today, all five colleges that I applied to sent out their replies. All five of them were rejections. My GPA is so bad that I got rejected from five fucking colleges. I’m officially college less. No job for me, eh?
Fucking great. I have to stay in the grip of this Hell for longer? I’d rather die!
When I opened them to go over what was wrong with my résumés, I found that they were all shredded neatly, strips of white paper at the bottom of my envelope.
I ripped the rest up.
You’d never be able to tell that they were ever whole!
I didn’t even apply to any colleges -- not with the Class of Thirteen to take care of, my spotty history, my criminal record, and my low GPA -- but I pitied Tré immensely.
As I continued to flip through his notebook, going April through May, my feelings of pity for my boyfriend intensified. Along with this pity, his words inspired me. Already, on a sheet of neatly lined paper torn out of the diary, I had started to write a poem that I tentatively called Christian’s Inferno:
“I got under the grip between this modern Hell. I got the rejection letter in the mail, it was already ripped to shreds…”
May 15th, 2013.
Something good finally happened to me, thank whatever higher power that may or may not exist.
I met Gloria.
I’d say that she’s nice, but Gloria’s actually a guy. His name is Billie Joe Armstrong (god. His name is so cute) and I met him at my graduation.
I kissed him -- I fuckin’ Frenched him -- to shut him up.
That was the best night of my hellish 19 years of existence.
We’re going out on a date on Saturday.
So he felt what I’d felt? I was so happy that he’d been just as happy as me, feeling just as perfect and wonderful.
Fucking glorious.
May 18th, 2013.
My date with Billie, or Gloria, went so well.
We ended up kissing and pissing everyone off, then we ended up screaming at everyone, arguing, et cetera. Then we kissed again.
I’m definitely falling for him.
I think I may love him already.
Is this just the hormones or Opal speaking, or is it really me? I wish I knew.
I wished I knew, too.
June 1st, 2013.
Billie’s been practically living here. He says that it’s a lot nicer than his house.
Today, I tried out some pill that my Opal dealer -- Mr Ian Woon, he’s called -- gave me. It was awful and bitter and shit like that. Then, the glass holding the water that I was drinking broke and shattered glass cut my mouth open.
I wish that I had a better handle on my life.
I want to be less gullible. Damn this Opal shit. I’m so fucking sick of it. I’m sick of feeling the heat travel underneath my skin whenever I take it. I’m sick of wanting to cut cut cut to get it all out.
But Opal makes it all go away… and I feel so much better… but so much worse at the same time.
Fuck my life.
“…Seasons in ruin and this bitter pill is chased by blood. There’s fire in my veins and it’s pouring out like a flood. This is Christian’s inferno…” Even more poetic words filled my head.
June 5th, 2013
Today I had to talk to my mom. And I pissed her off majorly.
I’m sorry mom, that I’m not perfect. I’m sorry I don’t have a job. I’m sorry I failed school. I’m sorry I’m not going to college. I’m sorry, mother, that I am your accident. You whore.
Except… I’m not really sorry now. I guess. Sadly enough, I guess, I couldn’t give a shit about either of my so called parents.
I feel good about that.
I’m glad I’m destroying this household from the inside out.
I’m glad.
I am fucking glad.
“…This diabolic state is gracing my existence. Like a catastrophic baby. Maybe you’re my chemical reaction. I am the atom bomb. I am your chosen one. Toxin your reservoir and then return man to ape. This is Christian’s inferno.”
All of it was based off of his diary entries -- except for the atom bomb/chosen one line. That was straight out of the Memoirs of the Jesus of Suburbia.
Still more things I didn’t like talking about.
According to his diary, Tré was raised in a Christian household. He knew about the religion, and started to stop going to church when he was 18 and actually could choose not to go. He didn’t agree with his parents.
Funny that I nicknamed him Christian now, huh?
I leafed through the inky pages of Tré’s most private and personal thoughts, peeking into his life, into his drug addled soul and heart and mind. He was insane, but then again, so was I. We seemed to be the perfect match. If I told him my story, maybe he’d become clean. He’d have motivation.
Then again, when you’re hooked on something to take your pain away, you don’t have motivation. It’s a numb and seemingly clear (although actually very foggy) mirror that you start to see through your eyes with.
June 15th, 2013.
Today is me and Billie’s first month anniversary. He’s gonna come over later. I don’t wanna go all withdrawal on him… I’m going to smoke some of my supply of Opal.
Damn, am I running low again? I’ll have to see Mr Ian Woon soon enough to get some more.
As I continued to look into his soul through paper, a few tears fell down my cheeks, almost definitely starting to smear my eyeliner. Tré’s life -- his inferno, really -- was so similar to mine that it was almost scary. He really had no father, and his mother was so emotionally distant. He practically raised himself, just as I had, and he’d ended up in a very similar situation to the one I’d been in -- well, except for the fact that he didn’t run away and fall in so called ‘love’ with the leader of the Revolution. Well, maybe him falling in love with me counted for that.
Suddenly, I was surprised by a warm presence behind me. Slim, familiar arms wrapped around my waist, and someone lay there forehead on the back of my own head. It only took me a second to realize that Tré stood behind me now.
“Hey, Billie Joe,” he whispered warmly in my ear, his hot breath snaking around my cheek and down my neck, raising the little hairs on my exposed skin.
“Hey, Christian.”
That was the first time I called him by his nickname.
I liked it, too.
“Christian? Where the hell did ya get that?”
“You know… I don’t know. I mean, it’s your Class of Thirteen code name. It goes well with Gloria, too.”
“Hmm,” Tré pondered for a minute. He was so damn cute sometimes, even though he was somewhat of a maniac. “I like it, too. Christian and Gloria. Gloria and Christian.”
He sighed, breathing onto my hair and ruffling the slightly curly black mop and blowing some into my face.
“What’s wrong?”
I could read him like a book, even when he was behind me. I knew something was up. I could tell he wasn’t mad at me anymore, too.
“I’m sorry that I blew up at you.”
“It’s okay,” I said.
“No, it’s not,” Tré insisted. “I really shouldn’t have done that. I mean -- well, it wasn’t me, really. Really. Do you believe me?”
“Of course I believe you, Tré.”
I could feel him smiling. “I’m glad you do. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Tré’s warm hands traveled lower, lightly over my stomach and down to my legs, soft as butterflies.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you, either. I love you, Tré.”
And with that phrase, I smiled, gently placing his diary back on his bed, and turned to kiss Tré.
Today, all five colleges that I applied to sent out their replies. All five of them were rejections. My GPA is so bad that I got rejected from five fucking colleges. I’m officially college less. No job for me, eh?
Fucking great. I have to stay in the grip of this Hell for longer? I’d rather die!
When I opened them to go over what was wrong with my résumés, I found that they were all shredded neatly, strips of white paper at the bottom of my envelope.
I ripped the rest up.
You’d never be able to tell that they were ever whole!
I didn’t even apply to any colleges -- not with the Class of Thirteen to take care of, my spotty history, my criminal record, and my low GPA -- but I pitied Tré immensely.
As I continued to flip through his notebook, going April through May, my feelings of pity for my boyfriend intensified. Along with this pity, his words inspired me. Already, on a sheet of neatly lined paper torn out of the diary, I had started to write a poem that I tentatively called Christian’s Inferno:
“I got under the grip between this modern Hell. I got the rejection letter in the mail, it was already ripped to shreds…”
May 15th, 2013.
Something good finally happened to me, thank whatever higher power that may or may not exist.
I met Gloria.
I’d say that she’s nice, but Gloria’s actually a guy. His name is Billie Joe Armstrong (god. His name is so cute) and I met him at my graduation.
I kissed him -- I fuckin’ Frenched him -- to shut him up.
That was the best night of my hellish 19 years of existence.
We’re going out on a date on Saturday.
So he felt what I’d felt? I was so happy that he’d been just as happy as me, feeling just as perfect and wonderful.
Fucking glorious.
May 18th, 2013.
My date with Billie, or Gloria, went so well.
We ended up kissing and pissing everyone off, then we ended up screaming at everyone, arguing, et cetera. Then we kissed again.
I’m definitely falling for him.
I think I may love him already.
Is this just the hormones or Opal speaking, or is it really me? I wish I knew.
I wished I knew, too.
June 1st, 2013.
Billie’s been practically living here. He says that it’s a lot nicer than his house.
Today, I tried out some pill that my Opal dealer -- Mr Ian Woon, he’s called -- gave me. It was awful and bitter and shit like that. Then, the glass holding the water that I was drinking broke and shattered glass cut my mouth open.
I wish that I had a better handle on my life.
I want to be less gullible. Damn this Opal shit. I’m so fucking sick of it. I’m sick of feeling the heat travel underneath my skin whenever I take it. I’m sick of wanting to cut cut cut to get it all out.
But Opal makes it all go away… and I feel so much better… but so much worse at the same time.
Fuck my life.
“…Seasons in ruin and this bitter pill is chased by blood. There’s fire in my veins and it’s pouring out like a flood. This is Christian’s inferno…” Even more poetic words filled my head.
June 5th, 2013
Today I had to talk to my mom. And I pissed her off majorly.
I’m sorry mom, that I’m not perfect. I’m sorry I don’t have a job. I’m sorry I failed school. I’m sorry I’m not going to college. I’m sorry, mother, that I am your accident. You whore.
Except… I’m not really sorry now. I guess. Sadly enough, I guess, I couldn’t give a shit about either of my so called parents.
I feel good about that.
I’m glad I’m destroying this household from the inside out.
I’m glad.
I am fucking glad.
“…This diabolic state is gracing my existence. Like a catastrophic baby. Maybe you’re my chemical reaction. I am the atom bomb. I am your chosen one. Toxin your reservoir and then return man to ape. This is Christian’s inferno.”
All of it was based off of his diary entries -- except for the atom bomb/chosen one line. That was straight out of the Memoirs of the Jesus of Suburbia.
Still more things I didn’t like talking about.
According to his diary, Tré was raised in a Christian household. He knew about the religion, and started to stop going to church when he was 18 and actually could choose not to go. He didn’t agree with his parents.
Funny that I nicknamed him Christian now, huh?
I leafed through the inky pages of Tré’s most private and personal thoughts, peeking into his life, into his drug addled soul and heart and mind. He was insane, but then again, so was I. We seemed to be the perfect match. If I told him my story, maybe he’d become clean. He’d have motivation.
Then again, when you’re hooked on something to take your pain away, you don’t have motivation. It’s a numb and seemingly clear (although actually very foggy) mirror that you start to see through your eyes with.
June 15th, 2013.
Today is me and Billie’s first month anniversary. He’s gonna come over later. I don’t wanna go all withdrawal on him… I’m going to smoke some of my supply of Opal.
Damn, am I running low again? I’ll have to see Mr Ian Woon soon enough to get some more.
As I continued to look into his soul through paper, a few tears fell down my cheeks, almost definitely starting to smear my eyeliner. Tré’s life -- his inferno, really -- was so similar to mine that it was almost scary. He really had no father, and his mother was so emotionally distant. He practically raised himself, just as I had, and he’d ended up in a very similar situation to the one I’d been in -- well, except for the fact that he didn’t run away and fall in so called ‘love’ with the leader of the Revolution. Well, maybe him falling in love with me counted for that.
Suddenly, I was surprised by a warm presence behind me. Slim, familiar arms wrapped around my waist, and someone lay there forehead on the back of my own head. It only took me a second to realize that Tré stood behind me now.
“Hey, Billie Joe,” he whispered warmly in my ear, his hot breath snaking around my cheek and down my neck, raising the little hairs on my exposed skin.
“Hey, Christian.”
That was the first time I called him by his nickname.
I liked it, too.
“Christian? Where the hell did ya get that?”
“You know… I don’t know. I mean, it’s your Class of Thirteen code name. It goes well with Gloria, too.”
“Hmm,” Tré pondered for a minute. He was so damn cute sometimes, even though he was somewhat of a maniac. “I like it, too. Christian and Gloria. Gloria and Christian.”
He sighed, breathing onto my hair and ruffling the slightly curly black mop and blowing some into my face.
“What’s wrong?”
I could read him like a book, even when he was behind me. I knew something was up. I could tell he wasn’t mad at me anymore, too.
“I’m sorry that I blew up at you.”
“It’s okay,” I said.
“No, it’s not,” Tré insisted. “I really shouldn’t have done that. I mean -- well, it wasn’t me, really. Really. Do you believe me?”
“Of course I believe you, Tré.”
I could feel him smiling. “I’m glad you do. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Tré’s warm hands traveled lower, lightly over my stomach and down to my legs, soft as butterflies.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you, either. I love you, Tré.”
And with that phrase, I smiled, gently placing his diary back on his bed, and turned to kiss Tré.
11/5/09
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.
(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.
11/4/09
Some Humor
Author-character correspondence!
Dear Billie Joe,
How the hell do you find the combined smell of cigarette smoke, cheap shampoo, deodorant, and pot attractive?
Confusedly,
Your Glorious Author.
PS. Yes, knowing you as well as I know you, I'll come back and post your reply to this. You really hate that fourth wall.
*
Dear Author,
Because he's Tre and therefore he is totally 100% sexy. And I'm weird -- you're the one who made me a little insane and got me hooked on Novacaine in the first place, remember?
~Billie
*
Dear Billie,
You were the one who I dunno let me make you stick that needle in your arm fifty times through the prequel.
AND the person you're based off of was the one who wrote a song about Novacaine, anyway.
~Author
*
Dear Author,
Fuck off.
~Billie
Dear Billie Joe,
How the hell do you find the combined smell of cigarette smoke, cheap shampoo, deodorant, and pot attractive?
Confusedly,
Your Glorious Author.
PS. Yes, knowing you as well as I know you, I'll come back and post your reply to this. You really hate that fourth wall.
*
Dear Author,
Because he's Tre and therefore he is totally 100% sexy. And I'm weird -- you're the one who made me a little insane and got me hooked on Novacaine in the first place, remember?
~Billie
*
Dear Billie,
You were the one who I dunno let me make you stick that needle in your arm fifty times through the prequel.
AND the person you're based off of was the one who wrote a song about Novacaine, anyway.
~Author
*
Dear Author,
Fuck off.
~Billie
11/2/09
Chapter Four: ¡Viva La Billie Joe!
(2507 words)
(Tré’s POV)
As I pulled the cold metal lever down, white and frosty looking soft serve ice cram poured into my chocolate lined waffle cone. The chill of the delicious vanilla flavored stuff seeped into my tightly gripping fingers. I let go of the handle and watched with fascination as the ice cream curled into an elf hat curly tip.
The seat I’d reserved at the popular old café was also cold as ice, having been unused for a few hours at the very least, and the whole day at the very most. But that, of course, was quite unlikely.
It was three thirty in the afternoon now. He was supposed to show up in fifteen minutes.
Twitching with anticipation, I cautiously picked at my vanilla soft serve, eating it fast enough so that it wouldn’t melt but slow enough so that it would last me a while. The sweet vanilla bean flavor was ignored as I anxiously waited for my first date in a while.
Three. Forty. Five.
I jumped as the little, old timey bell rung, signifying that the colorful glass door had been opened. I turned around slowly and yet impatiently to see who had just entered the ice cream centric café.
Billie Joe Armstrong stood at the door, awkwardly looking around and running the fingers of his left hand through his hair. A simple – although slightly wilted – red rose dangled from his right hand. His usually spiked hair was down and neatly combed back – actually, all of it except for some loose strands that dangled in front of his eyes. He was dressed in a clean dark red shirt and neat blue jeans, which were covered in odd designs and hand drawn band logos.
I smiled a bit. Time to win over my first boyfriend in who knows how long.
“Hey – Billie Joe! Gloria?” I called. He looked up at me, and I noticed then that his clear green eyes were lined in simple black eyeliner.
A grin spread over his pretty pink lips as he walked over to the table that I’d reserved for us. “Mr. Tré Cool,” he said, smirking. Billie sat down and somewhat nervously tapped his fingers on the table. “Fancy meeting you here, isn’t it?”
“Oh, I’d say it is.”
I smirked back at him, self consciously smoothing my hair back once more. Under his steady cat’s eyes green gaze, I felt nervous and small. My palms began to sweat and I rubbed them on my coarse jeans under the table.
His smirk turned to a smile and I found myself smiling back at my date. I bit my lip, not knowing what to say, and he shook some hair out of his eyes.
“Um, sorry. I’m kinda -- sorta borin’, ya -- y’know?” I commented, just above whisper tone.
“Heh. Don’t worry. I -- I am, too. Sometimes. Heh.”
I’d noticed by then that he tended to ramble when he was nervous, a trait I found extremely cute. Billie Joe swallowed quickly.
“Gah. My mouth’s so dry…”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “You want me to get you some water or something?”
“Fuck, did I say that aloud? I have this weird habit of, um, thinking’ out loud -- I live basically alone, you know?” he half said and half asked quickly.
“’Course I know. I live pretty much alone, too.”
“R-really?”
“Yeah. D’you still want me to get you some water?” I asked.
“Um… oh. Yeah. Sure. I mean… yes, please.” He laughed a little, nervously. I just smiled at him and all his odd cuteness as I stood up and walked to the bar. As quickly as I could, I got a glass of water and went back to our table.
It was awkwardly silent and the minutes ticked on monotonously once more. Billie Joe sipped his water silently across the table from me, and my fingers absently drummed a tuneless beat on the faux wood plastic in front of me.
“So, um, you’re good with, like, you know -- rhythm stuff. D’you play an instrument?” he asked nervously. Clearing his throat, he added, “Um, I sing, y‘know, just a bit. And play a little guitar, but I’m no good at either, ‘specially not guitar.”
“I, ah, I drum a bit in my spare time. Not that I have much spare time, well, um, I guess I do now, heh. Now that school’s out ‘nd all. I’m kinda sorta decent, in a way. But not really -- ya know what I’m sayin’?”
“You’re probably better than me at, like, anything.”
“You’re saying that to the kid who graduated with a C-.”
“You’re saying that to the only other kid who graduated with a C-.”
“Eh. I missed all of ninth grade and a bit of tenth. Long, long story. So I basically worked my ass off and graduated with a GPA of two.”
“Damn. That sucks.” I laughed a bit, “I got a low grade ‘cause I was damn lazy.”
Billie Joe also laughed, a quiet laugh that reminded me of happy music that would make you want to dance. It certainly made me want to dance -- want to dance with the freaking hot guy sitting only two feet (or less) away from me. I grinned sheepishly, laughed quietly, and watched as he tilted his head to the side.
“It’s nothing,” I said. “It’s just that you’re really, really cute and really hot and… fuck. You’re awesome.”
Billie blushed slightly and looked away. “Um. I could, um, say the same about you.” Hurriedly, he looked up at me. “I meant that as in I really could. I wasn’t bluffing. Holy shit am I awkward.”
“You’re thinking out loud again,” I playfully chided. Billie Joe laughed a bit once more, before shuffling in his seat slightly and pushing some of his black hair out of his face. Just then, I noticed his black nail polish, a bit chipped but still mostly intact.
I sighed, having run out of things to talk about. I decided to pull something out of my ass, actually -- it was something I had been planning to talk about since his little speech slash rant slash yell fest slash argument at the graduation ceremony, two whole days ago at that point in time.
“So you’re -- you’re Gloria, right? Leader of the Class of Thirteen, and all that jazz?” I ventured.
He nodded. “Uh huh. I’m not as special as Gloria is, though. In a way, we’re separate people -- if you get what I mean.”
I nodded as he cleared his throat. Before he could add anything else to his statement, I cut in. “So, I mean, the whole Class of Thirteen thing -- it’s pretty damn amazing. I can’t believe you could pull it all together like that. You’re actually pretty damn amazing.”
“I -- what. Oh my God, I am?” he half exclaimed, biting his lip a bit at the end of his sentence. I just nodded once more, and grinned.
“You’re like… what we’ve been waiting for all along. Y’know? You’re just what we’ve needed since Whatsername ran away and the Underbelly called it quits.”
Billie Joe winced a bit at my mention of Whatsername and the Underbelly. “Well, ya know, they were -- they’re my inspiration. Especially -- ‘specially Whatsername. He was… he was pretty damn cool.”
“Wait -- you knew Whatsername? And Whatsername was a guy?”
He nodded and quickly took a large sip of his water, buying him time to think of an answer.
“Y-yeah. I met him a few times. Y’know, just said hi and stuff. He was really girly, too, ya know. Even more than me -- he had really long black hair and more makeup than I do,” he improvised.
I smiled. This wasn’t the whole truth, and I knew it, but I didn’t press. I wanted to date him, not probe into his life like a school counselor or someone trying to force feed you psych meds. Hah, I have this funny story about sporks and psych meds…
A story for another time, of course.
“That’s really cool. I mean -- Whatsername’s the biggest name in the revolution, probably.” I winked at him. “And Gloria’s probably the second!”
Billie Joe half blushed, half nervously grinned, and half laughed quietly. Wait -- three halves? What the…
“Anyway! As I was saying -- you’re amazing. You know, you’re just what we’ve needed lately. You picked up right where Whatsername --” He flinched again. “-- left off. You’re like the hero for a three years lost cause, man. You’re big. You are making a fuckin’ difference.”
He smirked and temporarily regained his confidence. “Oh, you’d bet I’m big. Just wait till you see me in a bedroom, when we’re alone… together…”
I rolled my eyes. “Wow.”
Billie Joe just laughed as I regathered my thoughts.
“So -- um, anyway -- you’re making the Class of Thirteen -- um, you’ll make ‘em go far. They’re gonna change something With your leadership and -- um, guidance, they might impeach Bush. Y’know? I bet they could.”
“No way in Hell we could do that,” Billie Joe muttered darkly, looking down. I smiled again.
“You can do it. Just look how far you’ve gotten the Class so far! Look how far Gloria’s taken the Revolution!”
“Yeah. That’s Gloria. G - L - O - R - I - A.” He even spelled out the name and all. “Not Billie Joe, the nobody from the middle of nowhere, from the town that don’t exist…”
Once more, I raised my eyebrow. “You. Are. Fucking. Gloria. Well, I don’t mean you’re fucking her, fucking her -- that would be creepy -- what I meant is that you, yourself -- you are Gloria.”
“I guess. I just don’t feel that important.”
“You are. Trust me. Billie --” I reached out across the table and put one of my hands on his warm arm, my pasty white skin standing out starkly from his darker slight tan. “-- you are very, very important. You are, you’ve met Whatsername, you’re Gloria, you’re the leader, the founder of the Class of Thirteen. If that doesn’t make you important, then -- I don’t know what would.”
“No. I’m just not -- listen. I’m not --”
I cut him off with an impatient sigh. “Shut up. Seriously. Do you want me to have to French you again in front of an audience to shut you up?”
“Well, that would be rather nice,” he admitted, grinning slyly.
“How’s this -- if you let me be your official one hundred percent real boyfriend -- and if I can join the Class of Thirteen -- and if you do admit that you, or Gloria, or whatever, just as long as you admit you’re making a difference. If you do all that, then I’ll kiss you,” I compromised, grinning.
“Um. Gah. Okay. Fine.”
“Say it.”
“You, Tré Cool, or Frank Edwin Wright III, you are my official one hundred percent my boyfriend. And you are now a part of the Class of Thirteen -- I’ll drag you along to the next meeting on Tuesday. And…” He dragged the word out for much longer than necessary. “And… I, Billie Joe Armstrong, or Gloria, the leader of the Class of Thirteen -- I am important and I have and I will make a difference.”
He smirked and stood, leaning against the table, his hips cocked seductively. “Now… kiss me, you fool.”
“Fine. I will.”
I stood up and full speed embrace attacked him, pulling him into me and pressing my mouth to his. He leaned up on his tip toes, wrapping his slender arms around my shoulders. I tightened my grip around his waist and leaned further into him, simultaneously deepening the kiss.
Most would call this going too fast. I called it teenage hormones, rebelliousness, and the Class of Two Thousand and Fucking Thirteen.
He quietly moaned into my mouth, our tongues writhing together in simple and pure and wonderful and delicious unison, exploring each other’s mouths and tasting each other, forever imprinting that flavor in our memory.
Maybe it was going too fast. But still, it was our white hot fury and romance that drove us forward.
Billie’s fingers entangled themselves in the short, gelled together locks of my reddish hair as my hands snaked up his back. We were both breathing at a nearly dangerous rate now, hot breaths escaping into the other’s mouth, onto the other’s face. We didn’t mind. We were one in that moment, and we were perfect.
After an eternity of beauty and passion, we broke apart. Out hands slid down and grasped each other, our fingers intertwined. I half leaned against a table, trying to catch my breath as Billie Joe did the same. Some sweat glittered on his forehead, illuminated in the bright fluorescent glow from the ceiling.
I looked up and smiled at him. He smiled back, warmly.
“Get the hell out of here and never come back.”
I looked up at the angry manager, surrounded by a practical horde of confused teens and angry workers. I laughed a little and pulled Billie Joe closer to me.
“C’mon, Gloria. Let’s head out,” I whispered.
“One more thing, though,” he said back, and I let him do his thing.
He was Gloria, of course.
“Well, you know what? Fuck you all. ‘Cause we are the Class of…”
I joined him: “The Class of Thirteen. Raised in the era of humility. We are the desperate in the decline. Raised by the bastards of nineteen sixty nine!”
We both grinned as we walked out, leaving stunned and angered people behind us. Billie Joe leaned up and kissed me quietly on my cheek.
“That was amazing,” I told him. “You’re a fucking genius.”
“No way in hell. But thank you anyway, Tré.” He grinned a bit, looking like he was walking on a cloud.
“It’s not every day you find a hot guy who is the rebel leader who is also gay,” I commented with a little bit of a smirk.
“Bisexual. But I catch your wave -- willing to kiss another guy, right?”
“Oops. But yeah, exactly.”
Billie Joe smiled further, before checking his watch. “Damn, it’s nearly five. I’ve gotta get home soon.”
“Oh shit. Yeah, same. See you around?”
“Call me tonight, okay?” he called, as he walked away. I ran after him.
“Hey! I will. Of course I will. But don’t I get a goodbye kiss?”
Billie Joe grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”
He kissed me on the cheek again, before looking straight in the eye and saying words I’d never forget:
“Tré Fucking Cool… you know what? I think I may be falling, head over heels, madly in love. With you.”
And with that statement, he turned around and walked away, heading to his own house.
“Yeah. Billie Joe. Gloria. I love you, too,” I whispered, smiling and glowing with happiness, as I walked back to my house.
(Tré’s POV)
As I pulled the cold metal lever down, white and frosty looking soft serve ice cram poured into my chocolate lined waffle cone. The chill of the delicious vanilla flavored stuff seeped into my tightly gripping fingers. I let go of the handle and watched with fascination as the ice cream curled into an elf hat curly tip.
The seat I’d reserved at the popular old café was also cold as ice, having been unused for a few hours at the very least, and the whole day at the very most. But that, of course, was quite unlikely.
It was three thirty in the afternoon now. He was supposed to show up in fifteen minutes.
Twitching with anticipation, I cautiously picked at my vanilla soft serve, eating it fast enough so that it wouldn’t melt but slow enough so that it would last me a while. The sweet vanilla bean flavor was ignored as I anxiously waited for my first date in a while.
Three. Forty. Five.
I jumped as the little, old timey bell rung, signifying that the colorful glass door had been opened. I turned around slowly and yet impatiently to see who had just entered the ice cream centric café.
Billie Joe Armstrong stood at the door, awkwardly looking around and running the fingers of his left hand through his hair. A simple – although slightly wilted – red rose dangled from his right hand. His usually spiked hair was down and neatly combed back – actually, all of it except for some loose strands that dangled in front of his eyes. He was dressed in a clean dark red shirt and neat blue jeans, which were covered in odd designs and hand drawn band logos.
I smiled a bit. Time to win over my first boyfriend in who knows how long.
“Hey – Billie Joe! Gloria?” I called. He looked up at me, and I noticed then that his clear green eyes were lined in simple black eyeliner.
A grin spread over his pretty pink lips as he walked over to the table that I’d reserved for us. “Mr. Tré Cool,” he said, smirking. Billie sat down and somewhat nervously tapped his fingers on the table. “Fancy meeting you here, isn’t it?”
“Oh, I’d say it is.”
I smirked back at him, self consciously smoothing my hair back once more. Under his steady cat’s eyes green gaze, I felt nervous and small. My palms began to sweat and I rubbed them on my coarse jeans under the table.
His smirk turned to a smile and I found myself smiling back at my date. I bit my lip, not knowing what to say, and he shook some hair out of his eyes.
“Um, sorry. I’m kinda -- sorta borin’, ya -- y’know?” I commented, just above whisper tone.
“Heh. Don’t worry. I -- I am, too. Sometimes. Heh.”
I’d noticed by then that he tended to ramble when he was nervous, a trait I found extremely cute. Billie Joe swallowed quickly.
“Gah. My mouth’s so dry…”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “You want me to get you some water or something?”
“Fuck, did I say that aloud? I have this weird habit of, um, thinking’ out loud -- I live basically alone, you know?” he half said and half asked quickly.
“’Course I know. I live pretty much alone, too.”
“R-really?”
“Yeah. D’you still want me to get you some water?” I asked.
“Um… oh. Yeah. Sure. I mean… yes, please.” He laughed a little, nervously. I just smiled at him and all his odd cuteness as I stood up and walked to the bar. As quickly as I could, I got a glass of water and went back to our table.
It was awkwardly silent and the minutes ticked on monotonously once more. Billie Joe sipped his water silently across the table from me, and my fingers absently drummed a tuneless beat on the faux wood plastic in front of me.
“So, um, you’re good with, like, you know -- rhythm stuff. D’you play an instrument?” he asked nervously. Clearing his throat, he added, “Um, I sing, y‘know, just a bit. And play a little guitar, but I’m no good at either, ‘specially not guitar.”
“I, ah, I drum a bit in my spare time. Not that I have much spare time, well, um, I guess I do now, heh. Now that school’s out ‘nd all. I’m kinda sorta decent, in a way. But not really -- ya know what I’m sayin’?”
“You’re probably better than me at, like, anything.”
“You’re saying that to the kid who graduated with a C-.”
“You’re saying that to the only other kid who graduated with a C-.”
“Eh. I missed all of ninth grade and a bit of tenth. Long, long story. So I basically worked my ass off and graduated with a GPA of two.”
“Damn. That sucks.” I laughed a bit, “I got a low grade ‘cause I was damn lazy.”
Billie Joe also laughed, a quiet laugh that reminded me of happy music that would make you want to dance. It certainly made me want to dance -- want to dance with the freaking hot guy sitting only two feet (or less) away from me. I grinned sheepishly, laughed quietly, and watched as he tilted his head to the side.
“It’s nothing,” I said. “It’s just that you’re really, really cute and really hot and… fuck. You’re awesome.”
Billie blushed slightly and looked away. “Um. I could, um, say the same about you.” Hurriedly, he looked up at me. “I meant that as in I really could. I wasn’t bluffing. Holy shit am I awkward.”
“You’re thinking out loud again,” I playfully chided. Billie Joe laughed a bit once more, before shuffling in his seat slightly and pushing some of his black hair out of his face. Just then, I noticed his black nail polish, a bit chipped but still mostly intact.
I sighed, having run out of things to talk about. I decided to pull something out of my ass, actually -- it was something I had been planning to talk about since his little speech slash rant slash yell fest slash argument at the graduation ceremony, two whole days ago at that point in time.
“So you’re -- you’re Gloria, right? Leader of the Class of Thirteen, and all that jazz?” I ventured.
He nodded. “Uh huh. I’m not as special as Gloria is, though. In a way, we’re separate people -- if you get what I mean.”
I nodded as he cleared his throat. Before he could add anything else to his statement, I cut in. “So, I mean, the whole Class of Thirteen thing -- it’s pretty damn amazing. I can’t believe you could pull it all together like that. You’re actually pretty damn amazing.”
“I -- what. Oh my God, I am?” he half exclaimed, biting his lip a bit at the end of his sentence. I just nodded once more, and grinned.
“You’re like… what we’ve been waiting for all along. Y’know? You’re just what we’ve needed since Whatsername ran away and the Underbelly called it quits.”
Billie Joe winced a bit at my mention of Whatsername and the Underbelly. “Well, ya know, they were -- they’re my inspiration. Especially -- ‘specially Whatsername. He was… he was pretty damn cool.”
“Wait -- you knew Whatsername? And Whatsername was a guy?”
He nodded and quickly took a large sip of his water, buying him time to think of an answer.
“Y-yeah. I met him a few times. Y’know, just said hi and stuff. He was really girly, too, ya know. Even more than me -- he had really long black hair and more makeup than I do,” he improvised.
I smiled. This wasn’t the whole truth, and I knew it, but I didn’t press. I wanted to date him, not probe into his life like a school counselor or someone trying to force feed you psych meds. Hah, I have this funny story about sporks and psych meds…
A story for another time, of course.
“That’s really cool. I mean -- Whatsername’s the biggest name in the revolution, probably.” I winked at him. “And Gloria’s probably the second!”
Billie Joe half blushed, half nervously grinned, and half laughed quietly. Wait -- three halves? What the…
“Anyway! As I was saying -- you’re amazing. You know, you’re just what we’ve needed lately. You picked up right where Whatsername --” He flinched again. “-- left off. You’re like the hero for a three years lost cause, man. You’re big. You are making a fuckin’ difference.”
He smirked and temporarily regained his confidence. “Oh, you’d bet I’m big. Just wait till you see me in a bedroom, when we’re alone… together…”
I rolled my eyes. “Wow.”
Billie Joe just laughed as I regathered my thoughts.
“So -- um, anyway -- you’re making the Class of Thirteen -- um, you’ll make ‘em go far. They’re gonna change something With your leadership and -- um, guidance, they might impeach Bush. Y’know? I bet they could.”
“No way in Hell we could do that,” Billie Joe muttered darkly, looking down. I smiled again.
“You can do it. Just look how far you’ve gotten the Class so far! Look how far Gloria’s taken the Revolution!”
“Yeah. That’s Gloria. G - L - O - R - I - A.” He even spelled out the name and all. “Not Billie Joe, the nobody from the middle of nowhere, from the town that don’t exist…”
Once more, I raised my eyebrow. “You. Are. Fucking. Gloria. Well, I don’t mean you’re fucking her, fucking her -- that would be creepy -- what I meant is that you, yourself -- you are Gloria.”
“I guess. I just don’t feel that important.”
“You are. Trust me. Billie --” I reached out across the table and put one of my hands on his warm arm, my pasty white skin standing out starkly from his darker slight tan. “-- you are very, very important. You are, you’ve met Whatsername, you’re Gloria, you’re the leader, the founder of the Class of Thirteen. If that doesn’t make you important, then -- I don’t know what would.”
“No. I’m just not -- listen. I’m not --”
I cut him off with an impatient sigh. “Shut up. Seriously. Do you want me to have to French you again in front of an audience to shut you up?”
“Well, that would be rather nice,” he admitted, grinning slyly.
“How’s this -- if you let me be your official one hundred percent real boyfriend -- and if I can join the Class of Thirteen -- and if you do admit that you, or Gloria, or whatever, just as long as you admit you’re making a difference. If you do all that, then I’ll kiss you,” I compromised, grinning.
“Um. Gah. Okay. Fine.”
“Say it.”
“You, Tré Cool, or Frank Edwin Wright III, you are my official one hundred percent my boyfriend. And you are now a part of the Class of Thirteen -- I’ll drag you along to the next meeting on Tuesday. And…” He dragged the word out for much longer than necessary. “And… I, Billie Joe Armstrong, or Gloria, the leader of the Class of Thirteen -- I am important and I have and I will make a difference.”
He smirked and stood, leaning against the table, his hips cocked seductively. “Now… kiss me, you fool.”
“Fine. I will.”
I stood up and full speed embrace attacked him, pulling him into me and pressing my mouth to his. He leaned up on his tip toes, wrapping his slender arms around my shoulders. I tightened my grip around his waist and leaned further into him, simultaneously deepening the kiss.
Most would call this going too fast. I called it teenage hormones, rebelliousness, and the Class of Two Thousand and Fucking Thirteen.
He quietly moaned into my mouth, our tongues writhing together in simple and pure and wonderful and delicious unison, exploring each other’s mouths and tasting each other, forever imprinting that flavor in our memory.
Maybe it was going too fast. But still, it was our white hot fury and romance that drove us forward.
Billie’s fingers entangled themselves in the short, gelled together locks of my reddish hair as my hands snaked up his back. We were both breathing at a nearly dangerous rate now, hot breaths escaping into the other’s mouth, onto the other’s face. We didn’t mind. We were one in that moment, and we were perfect.
After an eternity of beauty and passion, we broke apart. Out hands slid down and grasped each other, our fingers intertwined. I half leaned against a table, trying to catch my breath as Billie Joe did the same. Some sweat glittered on his forehead, illuminated in the bright fluorescent glow from the ceiling.
I looked up and smiled at him. He smiled back, warmly.
“Get the hell out of here and never come back.”
I looked up at the angry manager, surrounded by a practical horde of confused teens and angry workers. I laughed a little and pulled Billie Joe closer to me.
“C’mon, Gloria. Let’s head out,” I whispered.
“One more thing, though,” he said back, and I let him do his thing.
He was Gloria, of course.
“Well, you know what? Fuck you all. ‘Cause we are the Class of…”
I joined him: “The Class of Thirteen. Raised in the era of humility. We are the desperate in the decline. Raised by the bastards of nineteen sixty nine!”
We both grinned as we walked out, leaving stunned and angered people behind us. Billie Joe leaned up and kissed me quietly on my cheek.
“That was amazing,” I told him. “You’re a fucking genius.”
“No way in hell. But thank you anyway, Tré.” He grinned a bit, looking like he was walking on a cloud.
“It’s not every day you find a hot guy who is the rebel leader who is also gay,” I commented with a little bit of a smirk.
“Bisexual. But I catch your wave -- willing to kiss another guy, right?”
“Oops. But yeah, exactly.”
Billie Joe smiled further, before checking his watch. “Damn, it’s nearly five. I’ve gotta get home soon.”
“Oh shit. Yeah, same. See you around?”
“Call me tonight, okay?” he called, as he walked away. I ran after him.
“Hey! I will. Of course I will. But don’t I get a goodbye kiss?”
Billie Joe grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”
He kissed me on the cheek again, before looking straight in the eye and saying words I’d never forget:
“Tré Fucking Cool… you know what? I think I may be falling, head over heels, madly in love. With you.”
And with that statement, he turned around and walked away, heading to his own house.
“Yeah. Billie Joe. Gloria. I love you, too,” I whispered, smiling and glowing with happiness, as I walked back to my house.
11/1/09
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.
(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.
Chapter Two: 21st Century Breakdown
(2890 words)
(Billie Joe's POV)
It was a dark and stormy night as I lay in bed, reminiscing about the year I had just spent in the twelfth grade.
Well, if I said that last line seriously, I’d be lying. Not that I haven’t lied before, but that would be a totally pointless lie. I don’t even know why I’d lie like that, with that particular lie. Those last few sentences were totally the product of the Redundancy Department of Redundancy, but I didn’t -- and I still don’t -- really care. They’re my thoughts, anyway.
Anyway, I was laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, totally random thoughts running through my head at a million miles an hour. Who I was and who I was becoming. How the hell I was supposed to get into college with a 2.0 Grade Point Average.
As I remembered that essay, I groaned and sat up, rubbing non-existent sleep out of my eyes and further smearing my eyeliner. I stumbled across the room, three fourths awake and zombie-like, before flicking on the overhead lamp and having my eyes burned out by the light.
“Damn bright lights,” I muttered, my voice rough from lack of water and sleep. On the corner of the desk that I was aiming for, a stack of old, coffee stained papers sat on top of my half dead, 10 year old laptop. The first paper on there was my essay -- the same essay that I wrote at 1 AM and ended up with a C- from. That bitch of a 12th grade director marked me down for “incorrect facts.”
Incorrect facts my ass. I knew that Alice Melare hated me with a passion through the year, and that my graduation essay was the perfect time for her to strike. She gave me a freakin’ C- on something I poured my heart and soul into, just so I could graduate and get into college. God knows how hard I had to work through 10th grade to make up for missing most of 9th.
…missing most of ninth grade. Not something I like talking about much, but, of course, Melare knew what I’d been up to when I was fifteen. For one, as soon as I came back, rumors of where I had been for a whole year spread around quickly. Had I finally committed suicide? Did I run off and join a circus? Did someone else kill me? Did I run away with a secret lover -- male or female? Of course, the principal of the goddamn school sat me down and made me explain it all.
I did explain it all, all of it except for the part where Whatsername was really a guy and I was his boyfriend for a year.
Yeah. More topics I really would rather not be talked about, thank you very much.
I looked over the essay again, and for something written at 1 AM, at the very last minute, it was a work of goddamn pure genius. Einstein’s 1 AM ramblings wouldn’t have been better than this piece of new classic American literature.
Well, you know what, Alice Melare could jump in a hole and die and I wouldn’t care. I would just point and laugh at her, celebrating in my own way as she fell to her death in a fifty foot deep hole. I wanted to see her go splat.
Unconsciously, I’d started to draw that on the back of my essay using a pencil that I’d gotten out of nowhere -- well, off my desk, I assumed. A badly drawn hole, with a badly drawn splattered version of my evil teacher at the bottom of it. A badly drawn stick figure version of me stood on the edge of the hole, pointing and presumably laughing.
Yeah, I’m kinda a little insane sometimes, but that’s why people love me.
With a sigh, I put the paper back down on the mountainous stack of crap on my poor computer and sat back down on the bed, burying my head in my hands.
How the hell was I supposed to ever get into a respectable college -- no, not even a damn respectable college -- with such shitty grades? I worked my ass off for three years straight and I ended up graduating highschool with a freaking C-. A Grade Point Average of 2. I was severely screwed in the aspect of college and ready to kiss my scholarship to UCLA good bye.
Good bye, dreams of a decent future. At this rate of decline, I’d either end up flipping burgers for some corporate giant trans fat run company like McDonald’s for the rest of my life, or I’d end up as that one hobo on the side of the road who looks like a gay emo kid.
Well, there was always the Class of Thirteen to fall back on, and my so called friends -- more like acquaintances -- that I could hang with for a while. Or, you know, the rest of my life.
Yeah, I could live the last 82 years of my whole life as a worthless piece of crap in someone’s basement, kinda like my mom. Well, you know, assuming I’ll even live to 100. It’s more likely that I’d die at the age of 37 than live to see fifty. Kind of sad, but, you know -- die young and save yourself, right?
I sighed again and looked up, glaring at the lamp that glared back with retina burning and eye killing intensity and light.
“Burn in hell,” I groaned as I sat down on my creaky wooden desk chair. Okay, I technically was burning -- well, my eyes were, anyway -- and this goddamn town might as well have been Hell, so I was actually close enough to burning in Hell. All I had to do was stay glued to this seat for the rest of my life, and never move, and hey! I’d be burning in Hell for all eternity!
Yeah, fat chance of that ever happening.
For the moment, however, I was perfectly fine with just sitting there and waiting out my usual insomnia. I didn’t dare check the time, just in case it was really three in the morning and I was still only one fourth asleep. It was just too hard to sleep. The anxiety for the coming day weighed on my chest like that damn house weighed on the chest of the Wicked Witch of the East.
Because in around 15 hours or something, I was going to finally graduate and be done with high school, also know as the worst four years of your life. Well, it is the worst four years of your life if you happen to live where I did and think like I do. That would make it the worst four years of your life. It would make you want to run away and never come back.
Well, some people do that. Some people also run away and end up coming back a year later. Some people run away and get hitched and have kids and never come back. Some people run away and get killed. Some people flat out commit suicide.
Yeah, this old town has the ability to drive people mad. It also has the ability to empower the true idiots and let them take charge over the actually intelligent people. The other idiots who aren’t yet adults are hailed as the top of the class, or grade, or whatever the hell the favoritist teachers decide they should be on that particular day.
I never got anything like that. Since I was brave enough to speak my opinion, I was the worst student as this goddamned highschool. I was probably the worst student in the whole town. I was probably the worst student in the whole world, in their eyes.
Just because I thought differently than all of them.
Well, I guess I had a small advantage in the fact that there was a group of students that were all my age in the next closest town who all thought along the same lines as I did, and along the same lines as I still do. And I was like their leader in this Revolution that we’d started.
It was my idea. Modeled after the Underbelly from the City, I created the Class of Thirteen. No one in this godforsaken suburban hell wanted to join, so I biked for a few hours and made it with like minded people in the other town. I became their leader, and in the style of being a rebel guy who wears eyeliner (like Whatsername is or was), I took on a female alias.
And thus I became Gloria. Latin, or Spanish, for ‘glory’ and I became the shining light of the Revolution, the avatar for change, and the leader of the slowly becoming iconic Class of Thirteen.
Once Whatsername completely disappeared in early 2010, the Underbelly disappeared and faded out of the eye of the mainstream media. It left a vacant hole that was empty for a few years before I made the Class of Thirteen.
The Class of Thirteen…we had taken that name from the year all or most of us were going to graduate high school, 2013. A few of us were younger, a few of us were older, and the spectrum ran from around 15 to around 21, give or take a couple years on both. The average, however, was 18, the ones in classes that were going to graduate in 2013. And that’s where we got our name, and thus our chant.
“We are the Class of, the Class of Thirteen! Born in the era of humility! We are the desperate in the decline! Raised by the bastards of 1969!”
We chanted that at all of our protests, screaming mean averages about our group. We were truly desperate, all trying to get jobs in this era of economic decline that was getting close to the harshness of the Great Depression. Most of us were raised by parents born in or around ‘69.
So, just imagine 200 or so teenagers chanting that as one huge crowd, holding signs and looking angry. Imagine this group with a short 18-ish guy, wearing more makeup than a regular 18 year old guy should be, at the front, leading them. Once you can see that, then you can see one of our average protests. And, of course, I’m the 18 year old at the front, so unselfishly leading them all.
I looked across my messy and cluttered desk at a rather recent group photo of us all. In it, I stood at the front of them all, grinning this stupid grin and throwing my arms in the air. Everyone else behind me was also grinning, some in totally stupid poses and others also throwing their arms in the air. A banner held by a few members in the middle said, “The Class of Thirteen!” and was thrown in the air with pride.
Looking more closely, I noticed the rainbow wristband on my wrist and smirked at the photo of myself. The Class of Thirteen certainly did not discriminate. I noticed, again, the diversity of the people standing behind me -- all different skin tones, all different religious beliefs (or lack thereof), all different sexualities and gender identities.
For what it was -- a group of like minded but minority thinking teenagers -- the Class of Thirteen was pretty freaking amazing. It was open and everyone was at least semi decent to eachother. We were a somewhat functional family, and to me, more functional than dysfunctional. It was a relief for most of us who had come from severely dysfunctional families, or had raised ourselves. Some of the members had been kicked out of our families when we were younger. Some of the members were kicked out as soon as they joined the Class of Thirteen.
It was sad how families were deteriorating so quickly over such small thing as religion (or lack thereof), political beliefs, and sexual attraction (or, sometimes, lack thereof as well). Divorce rates were soaring, and same sex marriage still wasn’t accepted. People were marrying for money over love, or sometimes for sex over love. Some people married and divorced to steal from their ex-spouse for all they were worth.
It was a shameless and repeating cycle of sex, pain, heartbreak, and greed, with the occasional prison sentence resulting from death that came from a BDSM session gone wrong.
It was sickening, saddening, and maddening how wrong the country had been running at that point in time. And that is exactly why I created the Class of Thirteen -- to try and change something, to try and change anything. We were trying to stop the government from becoming even more dictatorial than it was. The government was destroying the nation, the whole world one corrupted person at a time. I thought that it was high time for us to stop that from happening.
So, as one cohesive group, the Class of Thirteen would go out into a public place -- any public place, really -- and yell and scream and kick and try to bring it all down. We would fight it all until something was done.
By then, there were hundreds of YouTube videos on the Class, even though we had only been active for half a year at that point. We were quickly attaining celebrity status. In particular, so was I. Not as Billie Joe Armstrong, some naysaying nobody from the middle of nowhere, but as Gloria, the world and life changing leader of a huge group that bordered on a political party in its own right.
Yeah, look out for it on the next census: the political party option of "Class of Thirteen."
But really, it wasn't me. I had to owe it all to Whatsername and her group. They were my inspiration (not to mention the fact that Whatsername was my first real boyfriend), but an inspiration that I preferred not to talk about. If it wasn't for the Underbelly and some of the stuff that they did, the Class of Thirteen wouldn't exist. The persona of Gloria that I donned whenever I left this hell of a town wouldn't exist. I would still be an 18 year old nobody who had just barely -- and by barely, I mean by one freaking percent -- graduated the twelfth grade.
So, I really truly owed it all to Whatsername.
The Class of Thirteen was really a force of nature in its own right, and by that point in time, it was reaching the heights of closeness to changing something and the heights of popularity and reach as the Underbelly.
Just thinking about the Underbelly, and not even Whatsername in particular, made me feel sick, so I put the picture away and stood up, pacing the room and passing all the random band posters on the way. It really was strange, that only three or four years ago I'd been a delinquent in the City, fighting in what really was the largest revolution to ever exist, and that I was now in my room, looking around and wonder where I screwed up so badly that I just barely passed all of high school.
Sometimes, even years later, I still think of the contradiction of those two people -- the person I'd been in 2009 compared to the person I was in 2013 -- well, Gloria, really.
Willing myself not to think about the Underbelly or Whatsername at all, I just thought about what had driven me to run away all those years ago, as a fairly young and quite insane 15 year old. It was really the persecution I had faced in the suburban hell that I would sometimes call home -- or my fake home. It was the intolerance of people who were different from them that had driven me to run away, the sheer force of hatred that rained down on me from all over, that seethed out of the pores of my peers and teachers. Especially the hatred and contempt held for me by my old counselor, Doctor Diana Crawford. Well, I was the reason that Dr. Crawford ran away -- not exactly ran away, but left nonetheless -- this little town in the middle of nowhere.
I still felt an odd sense of pride thinking that I had been the reason that she'd fled the town.
I sighed and turned off the light -- whose radiance I had finally gotten used to -- and flopped down on my bed, resigning myself to staring at the ceiling once more as darkness pressed down on my like a thick, silencing blanket.
Then, I had an idea of what to do with my insomnia.
I grabbed some paper and my old flashlight, along with the pencil that lay on my beside table, and sketched out what I would say as my graduation speech. It was going to be simply brilliant, and everyone here would know I was Gloria. Everyone would finally know that their enemies weren't people like the Class of Thirteen, but the government and their lies.
It was an essay about knowing their enemies, and I fell asleep at 4 AM while writing it.
(Billie Joe's POV)
It was a dark and stormy night as I lay in bed, reminiscing about the year I had just spent in the twelfth grade.
Well, if I said that last line seriously, I’d be lying. Not that I haven’t lied before, but that would be a totally pointless lie. I don’t even know why I’d lie like that, with that particular lie. Those last few sentences were totally the product of the Redundancy Department of Redundancy, but I didn’t -- and I still don’t -- really care. They’re my thoughts, anyway.
Anyway, I was laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, totally random thoughts running through my head at a million miles an hour. Who I was and who I was becoming. How the hell I was supposed to get into college with a 2.0 Grade Point Average.
As I remembered that essay, I groaned and sat up, rubbing non-existent sleep out of my eyes and further smearing my eyeliner. I stumbled across the room, three fourths awake and zombie-like, before flicking on the overhead lamp and having my eyes burned out by the light.
“Damn bright lights,” I muttered, my voice rough from lack of water and sleep. On the corner of the desk that I was aiming for, a stack of old, coffee stained papers sat on top of my half dead, 10 year old laptop. The first paper on there was my essay -- the same essay that I wrote at 1 AM and ended up with a C- from. That bitch of a 12th grade director marked me down for “incorrect facts.”
Incorrect facts my ass. I knew that Alice Melare hated me with a passion through the year, and that my graduation essay was the perfect time for her to strike. She gave me a freakin’ C- on something I poured my heart and soul into, just so I could graduate and get into college. God knows how hard I had to work through 10th grade to make up for missing most of 9th.
…missing most of ninth grade. Not something I like talking about much, but, of course, Melare knew what I’d been up to when I was fifteen. For one, as soon as I came back, rumors of where I had been for a whole year spread around quickly. Had I finally committed suicide? Did I run off and join a circus? Did someone else kill me? Did I run away with a secret lover -- male or female? Of course, the principal of the goddamn school sat me down and made me explain it all.
I did explain it all, all of it except for the part where Whatsername was really a guy and I was his boyfriend for a year.
Yeah. More topics I really would rather not be talked about, thank you very much.
I looked over the essay again, and for something written at 1 AM, at the very last minute, it was a work of goddamn pure genius. Einstein’s 1 AM ramblings wouldn’t have been better than this piece of new classic American literature.
Well, you know what, Alice Melare could jump in a hole and die and I wouldn’t care. I would just point and laugh at her, celebrating in my own way as she fell to her death in a fifty foot deep hole. I wanted to see her go splat.
Unconsciously, I’d started to draw that on the back of my essay using a pencil that I’d gotten out of nowhere -- well, off my desk, I assumed. A badly drawn hole, with a badly drawn splattered version of my evil teacher at the bottom of it. A badly drawn stick figure version of me stood on the edge of the hole, pointing and presumably laughing.
Yeah, I’m kinda a little insane sometimes, but that’s why people love me.
With a sigh, I put the paper back down on the mountainous stack of crap on my poor computer and sat back down on the bed, burying my head in my hands.
How the hell was I supposed to ever get into a respectable college -- no, not even a damn respectable college -- with such shitty grades? I worked my ass off for three years straight and I ended up graduating highschool with a freaking C-. A Grade Point Average of 2. I was severely screwed in the aspect of college and ready to kiss my scholarship to UCLA good bye.
Good bye, dreams of a decent future. At this rate of decline, I’d either end up flipping burgers for some corporate giant trans fat run company like McDonald’s for the rest of my life, or I’d end up as that one hobo on the side of the road who looks like a gay emo kid.
Well, there was always the Class of Thirteen to fall back on, and my so called friends -- more like acquaintances -- that I could hang with for a while. Or, you know, the rest of my life.
Yeah, I could live the last 82 years of my whole life as a worthless piece of crap in someone’s basement, kinda like my mom. Well, you know, assuming I’ll even live to 100. It’s more likely that I’d die at the age of 37 than live to see fifty. Kind of sad, but, you know -- die young and save yourself, right?
I sighed again and looked up, glaring at the lamp that glared back with retina burning and eye killing intensity and light.
“Burn in hell,” I groaned as I sat down on my creaky wooden desk chair. Okay, I technically was burning -- well, my eyes were, anyway -- and this goddamn town might as well have been Hell, so I was actually close enough to burning in Hell. All I had to do was stay glued to this seat for the rest of my life, and never move, and hey! I’d be burning in Hell for all eternity!
Yeah, fat chance of that ever happening.
For the moment, however, I was perfectly fine with just sitting there and waiting out my usual insomnia. I didn’t dare check the time, just in case it was really three in the morning and I was still only one fourth asleep. It was just too hard to sleep. The anxiety for the coming day weighed on my chest like that damn house weighed on the chest of the Wicked Witch of the East.
Because in around 15 hours or something, I was going to finally graduate and be done with high school, also know as the worst four years of your life. Well, it is the worst four years of your life if you happen to live where I did and think like I do. That would make it the worst four years of your life. It would make you want to run away and never come back.
Well, some people do that. Some people also run away and end up coming back a year later. Some people run away and get hitched and have kids and never come back. Some people run away and get killed. Some people flat out commit suicide.
Yeah, this old town has the ability to drive people mad. It also has the ability to empower the true idiots and let them take charge over the actually intelligent people. The other idiots who aren’t yet adults are hailed as the top of the class, or grade, or whatever the hell the favoritist teachers decide they should be on that particular day.
I never got anything like that. Since I was brave enough to speak my opinion, I was the worst student as this goddamned highschool. I was probably the worst student in the whole town. I was probably the worst student in the whole world, in their eyes.
Just because I thought differently than all of them.
Well, I guess I had a small advantage in the fact that there was a group of students that were all my age in the next closest town who all thought along the same lines as I did, and along the same lines as I still do. And I was like their leader in this Revolution that we’d started.
It was my idea. Modeled after the Underbelly from the City, I created the Class of Thirteen. No one in this godforsaken suburban hell wanted to join, so I biked for a few hours and made it with like minded people in the other town. I became their leader, and in the style of being a rebel guy who wears eyeliner (like Whatsername is or was), I took on a female alias.
And thus I became Gloria. Latin, or Spanish, for ‘glory’ and I became the shining light of the Revolution, the avatar for change, and the leader of the slowly becoming iconic Class of Thirteen.
Once Whatsername completely disappeared in early 2010, the Underbelly disappeared and faded out of the eye of the mainstream media. It left a vacant hole that was empty for a few years before I made the Class of Thirteen.
The Class of Thirteen…we had taken that name from the year all or most of us were going to graduate high school, 2013. A few of us were younger, a few of us were older, and the spectrum ran from around 15 to around 21, give or take a couple years on both. The average, however, was 18, the ones in classes that were going to graduate in 2013. And that’s where we got our name, and thus our chant.
“We are the Class of, the Class of Thirteen! Born in the era of humility! We are the desperate in the decline! Raised by the bastards of 1969!”
We chanted that at all of our protests, screaming mean averages about our group. We were truly desperate, all trying to get jobs in this era of economic decline that was getting close to the harshness of the Great Depression. Most of us were raised by parents born in or around ‘69.
So, just imagine 200 or so teenagers chanting that as one huge crowd, holding signs and looking angry. Imagine this group with a short 18-ish guy, wearing more makeup than a regular 18 year old guy should be, at the front, leading them. Once you can see that, then you can see one of our average protests. And, of course, I’m the 18 year old at the front, so unselfishly leading them all.
I looked across my messy and cluttered desk at a rather recent group photo of us all. In it, I stood at the front of them all, grinning this stupid grin and throwing my arms in the air. Everyone else behind me was also grinning, some in totally stupid poses and others also throwing their arms in the air. A banner held by a few members in the middle said, “The Class of Thirteen!” and was thrown in the air with pride.
Looking more closely, I noticed the rainbow wristband on my wrist and smirked at the photo of myself. The Class of Thirteen certainly did not discriminate. I noticed, again, the diversity of the people standing behind me -- all different skin tones, all different religious beliefs (or lack thereof), all different sexualities and gender identities.
For what it was -- a group of like minded but minority thinking teenagers -- the Class of Thirteen was pretty freaking amazing. It was open and everyone was at least semi decent to eachother. We were a somewhat functional family, and to me, more functional than dysfunctional. It was a relief for most of us who had come from severely dysfunctional families, or had raised ourselves. Some of the members had been kicked out of our families when we were younger. Some of the members were kicked out as soon as they joined the Class of Thirteen.
It was sad how families were deteriorating so quickly over such small thing as religion (or lack thereof), political beliefs, and sexual attraction (or, sometimes, lack thereof as well). Divorce rates were soaring, and same sex marriage still wasn’t accepted. People were marrying for money over love, or sometimes for sex over love. Some people married and divorced to steal from their ex-spouse for all they were worth.
It was a shameless and repeating cycle of sex, pain, heartbreak, and greed, with the occasional prison sentence resulting from death that came from a BDSM session gone wrong.
It was sickening, saddening, and maddening how wrong the country had been running at that point in time. And that is exactly why I created the Class of Thirteen -- to try and change something, to try and change anything. We were trying to stop the government from becoming even more dictatorial than it was. The government was destroying the nation, the whole world one corrupted person at a time. I thought that it was high time for us to stop that from happening.
So, as one cohesive group, the Class of Thirteen would go out into a public place -- any public place, really -- and yell and scream and kick and try to bring it all down. We would fight it all until something was done.
By then, there were hundreds of YouTube videos on the Class, even though we had only been active for half a year at that point. We were quickly attaining celebrity status. In particular, so was I. Not as Billie Joe Armstrong, some naysaying nobody from the middle of nowhere, but as Gloria, the world and life changing leader of a huge group that bordered on a political party in its own right.
Yeah, look out for it on the next census: the political party option of "Class of Thirteen."
But really, it wasn't me. I had to owe it all to Whatsername and her group. They were my inspiration (not to mention the fact that Whatsername was my first real boyfriend), but an inspiration that I preferred not to talk about. If it wasn't for the Underbelly and some of the stuff that they did, the Class of Thirteen wouldn't exist. The persona of Gloria that I donned whenever I left this hell of a town wouldn't exist. I would still be an 18 year old nobody who had just barely -- and by barely, I mean by one freaking percent -- graduated the twelfth grade.
So, I really truly owed it all to Whatsername.
The Class of Thirteen was really a force of nature in its own right, and by that point in time, it was reaching the heights of closeness to changing something and the heights of popularity and reach as the Underbelly.
Just thinking about the Underbelly, and not even Whatsername in particular, made me feel sick, so I put the picture away and stood up, pacing the room and passing all the random band posters on the way. It really was strange, that only three or four years ago I'd been a delinquent in the City, fighting in what really was the largest revolution to ever exist, and that I was now in my room, looking around and wonder where I screwed up so badly that I just barely passed all of high school.
Sometimes, even years later, I still think of the contradiction of those two people -- the person I'd been in 2009 compared to the person I was in 2013 -- well, Gloria, really.
Willing myself not to think about the Underbelly or Whatsername at all, I just thought about what had driven me to run away all those years ago, as a fairly young and quite insane 15 year old. It was really the persecution I had faced in the suburban hell that I would sometimes call home -- or my fake home. It was the intolerance of people who were different from them that had driven me to run away, the sheer force of hatred that rained down on me from all over, that seethed out of the pores of my peers and teachers. Especially the hatred and contempt held for me by my old counselor, Doctor Diana Crawford. Well, I was the reason that Dr. Crawford ran away -- not exactly ran away, but left nonetheless -- this little town in the middle of nowhere.
I still felt an odd sense of pride thinking that I had been the reason that she'd fled the town.
I sighed and turned off the light -- whose radiance I had finally gotten used to -- and flopped down on my bed, resigning myself to staring at the ceiling once more as darkness pressed down on my like a thick, silencing blanket.
Then, I had an idea of what to do with my insomnia.
I grabbed some paper and my old flashlight, along with the pencil that lay on my beside table, and sketched out what I would say as my graduation speech. It was going to be simply brilliant, and everyone here would know I was Gloria. Everyone would finally know that their enemies weren't people like the Class of Thirteen, but the government and their lies.
It was an essay about knowing their enemies, and I fell asleep at 4 AM while writing it.
Act One: Heroes and Cons :: Chapter One: Song of the Century
(1671 words long)
The reign of President George W. Bush has lasted us a -- seemingly endless -- 13 years, beginning with a cheating win in 2000, a vast majority vote in 2004, and another vote to keep him in office (until the war is over) in 2008. Thirteen years of one president, and no one has cried heresy or wolf. No one has come out of the grain and tried to denounce this fool for what he is. No one has mentioned that this war -- fought for money and gas -- has been going on for too long. The only people who have tried to bring attention to these hard, cut and dry facts are small revolutionary groups, the most popular of which was called the Underbelly and lead by one girl named Whatsername.
But the way that the progress of the protests created by the Underbelly were halted in immoral, unethical ways that used to be ruled “unconstitutional.” But since the movement began, and was rooted, in the year 2009, the rules were bent to the liking of Bush’s lackeys. The values of the First Amendment -- the freedom of speech and peaceful petition -- were violated as soon as armed forces stepped out to stop the movement. People were killed at multiple peaceful protests, and no one except for the survivors tried to stop it.
It was not just that. Bush began to send out huge, unneeded, drafts of American citizens. Anyone who was healthy, straight and over 18 was sent overseas. Some went willingly. Others didn’t. Not a single person tried to stop this unnecessary loss of life over something as simple as gas, which is something we could drill for right here in the United States of America. In some parts of the country, rich oil is just under out own feet, but everyone is still obsessed with oil from overseas. People are dying in unprecedented numbers each and every day, far away from their homeland, never to see their families again, just to benefit some rich white men in Washington, D.C.
This war shows no chance of ending -- at least, not until we completely crush Iraq, Iran, and Afghanistan. It should be obvious to everyone by now that this war isn’t because of 9/11. It’s for oil and money, and for George W. Bush to prove his so called ‘worth’ to his pathetic dolt of a father.
It’s sickening that we’re losing so much life so quickly for oil and for bragging rights. Shouldn’t we be trying to improve relationships with other countries, instead of ruining them with all of the Middle East. Last time I checked, we haven’t really made it up to Japan for releasing the atomic bomb over Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Maybe we shouldn’t even threaten to release another on Iraq until we’ve proved our worth as a country, our strengths as a superpower in the world, over again to disappointed countries.
We don’t really have strength right now, not when political parties that oppose our current president -- read: dictator -- are being oppressed and silenced by that same people who we did not want to become three hundred years ago during the Revolutionary War. In fact, it was George Washington himself who said that political parties will weaken the nation. And didn’t good old Benjamin Franklin say, “united we stand, divided we fall?”
Thomas Jefferson and the other anti-Federalists, or the Democratic-Republicans, created the First Amendment to the Constitution because their opinions and reasoning were being silenced as harmful to the state. And what are we seeing now but that same response, even though we’ve had the First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America for over 200 years now.
Isn’t it a shame that the very rights our first president fought to protect are being destroyed by out forty third president, who (quite unfortunately) is named after him? It’s really a disgrace to our country and the people in it that such an imbecilic monkey full of bullshit is running the nation. What we have now is almost a dictatorship, and ‘President’ Bush’s power is nearly unlimited. No one is enforcing what we have written against absolute power and autocracies.
Did I mention that, before his majority vote win in 2004, Bush cheated his way into office? Thirteen years ago, Al Gore should have won the election, and I am not just saying this from a Liberal point of view. He technically did win the 2000 election, but the votes got skewed and Bush was able to weasel his way into office.
George W. Bush was somehow able to cover a war fought for oil with the hasty remark that it was to avenge the bloody deaths on September 11th, 2001. He was able to coercer the British in to giving us troops and help, and he was able to be voted back in to office in 2004. Four years after that, after what should have been the total end of his term, Bush was able to sneak his way in to becoming a dictator over this bloody war.
And America, outwardly, took it without a fight. The people who wanted a fair country tried to stop this madness from occurring, but they were silenced on threat of imprisonment. Protesters, waving their signs and completely defenseless, were taken to jail simply because they thought differently than everyone else. On the other side of the same metaphorical street, supporters with cocked and loaded guns had a blast announcing their victory. They weren’t arrested, even though they could have drunkenly shot and killed somebody.
No, the police were more concerned with the dissenters who weren’t trying to harm anyone. They were with the lunatics who toted heavy guns and wanted to pump lead into the hearts of people that they thought were wrong. Now, those pesky Iraqis would be conquered, America’s power would spread, and we would get more oil to boot!
The way the nation has been run for thirteen years has sickened me. It started when I was five, so not that I had cared much at the time, but as soon as I realized what was going on, I wanted to stop it. For a year or so, I was actually a part of the Underbelly, which was a supportive group of peaceful rebels who just wanted change. I can recall one protest where we all stood in front of a forest that was set for demolition and refused to move, even as the heavy killing machines moved toward us. Whatsername, who was short and didn’t look all that strong, stood at the front of us, shouting our slogans and completely ignoring the buzzing noise of the machines that threatened to kill her and the rest of us.
I just turned 18 in February, and the only reason I have not been drafted yet is on account of my so called ‘mental illnesses’ and my bisexuality. If those are the only things keeping me at home and not in Iraq, killing innocent people, I shudder to think of what people who aren’t ‘anomalies’ like me have to go through with all of the other so called ‘normal’ people.
That protest ended after nearly 100 people were killed as the cutting machines advanced toward us, ignoring the people and going for the trees. Human life was lost, even as we were protesting peacefully. And our government has been condoning this activity since the total Bush takeover that began in 2000 and had sprung into full bloom by 2008.
This essay went off on a huge tangent, but if our president allows and encourages the killing of people for lumber, for oil, for money in general and silences the other opinions -- well, doesn’t that seem a little unreasonable? Over five million Americans have been killed since the so called ‘War on Terror’ started 12 years ago. If this truly is a war against terrorists, doesn’t that mean that we’re sinking into the threats of the terrorists, allowing them to scare us? They want to inspire fear in us and that is why they are called terrorists.
But it isn’t about the terrorists. It is about the oil in Iraq, and it is about Bush trying to increase his own wealth. The mere thought of that is sickening, how much life we’re losing over things as greedy as money and power.
And so, in conclusion, the current government of the United States of America is one run on power and money. Our current government is a autocracy, it seems, and the powers that run us have absolutely no problems with killing supporters of the opposing opinions. This is the kind of government that the United States were created to prevent, not to create. This is the kind of government that the people have a First Amendment right to abolish.
Grade: 72%, C-
Teacher’s Notes: This essay had quite a bit of effort placed into it, and it was fairly well written. The anecdote of the protest at the end was an interesting touch. The same goes for the other little testimonies on your life. You went off on a few tangents, however, and that made you lose a few points. Other factors that made you lose points were the brevity of the overall essay and the rushed feeling it has. In this essay, you answered the prompt and very good except for incorrect facts. Double check some of the reasons for the War on Terror and the definitions of ‘autocracy’ and ‘dictatorship.’ All in all, this is reason enough for a passing grade. With this essay, you have passed 12th grade and you may enter college. Your overall grade for the year, 70%, has left you with an average grade of 71% (a C-), a GPA of approximately 2. Good luck finding a college!
-Ms. Melare, Director of 12th Grade Classes.
May 1st, 2013
Billie Joe Armstrong
Highschool Graduation Essay
Prompt One: Write about the government of today.
Billie Joe Armstrong
Highschool Graduation Essay
Prompt One: Write about the government of today.
The reign of President George W. Bush has lasted us a -- seemingly endless -- 13 years, beginning with a cheating win in 2000, a vast majority vote in 2004, and another vote to keep him in office (until the war is over) in 2008. Thirteen years of one president, and no one has cried heresy or wolf. No one has come out of the grain and tried to denounce this fool for what he is. No one has mentioned that this war -- fought for money and gas -- has been going on for too long. The only people who have tried to bring attention to these hard, cut and dry facts are small revolutionary groups, the most popular of which was called the Underbelly and lead by one girl named Whatsername.
But the way that the progress of the protests created by the Underbelly were halted in immoral, unethical ways that used to be ruled “unconstitutional.” But since the movement began, and was rooted, in the year 2009, the rules were bent to the liking of Bush’s lackeys. The values of the First Amendment -- the freedom of speech and peaceful petition -- were violated as soon as armed forces stepped out to stop the movement. People were killed at multiple peaceful protests, and no one except for the survivors tried to stop it.
It was not just that. Bush began to send out huge, unneeded, drafts of American citizens. Anyone who was healthy, straight and over 18 was sent overseas. Some went willingly. Others didn’t. Not a single person tried to stop this unnecessary loss of life over something as simple as gas, which is something we could drill for right here in the United States of America. In some parts of the country, rich oil is just under out own feet, but everyone is still obsessed with oil from overseas. People are dying in unprecedented numbers each and every day, far away from their homeland, never to see their families again, just to benefit some rich white men in Washington, D.C.
This war shows no chance of ending -- at least, not until we completely crush Iraq, Iran, and Afghanistan. It should be obvious to everyone by now that this war isn’t because of 9/11. It’s for oil and money, and for George W. Bush to prove his so called ‘worth’ to his pathetic dolt of a father.
It’s sickening that we’re losing so much life so quickly for oil and for bragging rights. Shouldn’t we be trying to improve relationships with other countries, instead of ruining them with all of the Middle East. Last time I checked, we haven’t really made it up to Japan for releasing the atomic bomb over Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Maybe we shouldn’t even threaten to release another on Iraq until we’ve proved our worth as a country, our strengths as a superpower in the world, over again to disappointed countries.
We don’t really have strength right now, not when political parties that oppose our current president -- read: dictator -- are being oppressed and silenced by that same people who we did not want to become three hundred years ago during the Revolutionary War. In fact, it was George Washington himself who said that political parties will weaken the nation. And didn’t good old Benjamin Franklin say, “united we stand, divided we fall?”
Thomas Jefferson and the other anti-Federalists, or the Democratic-Republicans, created the First Amendment to the Constitution because their opinions and reasoning were being silenced as harmful to the state. And what are we seeing now but that same response, even though we’ve had the First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America for over 200 years now.
Isn’t it a shame that the very rights our first president fought to protect are being destroyed by out forty third president, who (quite unfortunately) is named after him? It’s really a disgrace to our country and the people in it that such an imbecilic monkey full of bullshit is running the nation. What we have now is almost a dictatorship, and ‘President’ Bush’s power is nearly unlimited. No one is enforcing what we have written against absolute power and autocracies.
Did I mention that, before his majority vote win in 2004, Bush cheated his way into office? Thirteen years ago, Al Gore should have won the election, and I am not just saying this from a Liberal point of view. He technically did win the 2000 election, but the votes got skewed and Bush was able to weasel his way into office.
George W. Bush was somehow able to cover a war fought for oil with the hasty remark that it was to avenge the bloody deaths on September 11th, 2001. He was able to coercer the British in to giving us troops and help, and he was able to be voted back in to office in 2004. Four years after that, after what should have been the total end of his term, Bush was able to sneak his way in to becoming a dictator over this bloody war.
And America, outwardly, took it without a fight. The people who wanted a fair country tried to stop this madness from occurring, but they were silenced on threat of imprisonment. Protesters, waving their signs and completely defenseless, were taken to jail simply because they thought differently than everyone else. On the other side of the same metaphorical street, supporters with cocked and loaded guns had a blast announcing their victory. They weren’t arrested, even though they could have drunkenly shot and killed somebody.
No, the police were more concerned with the dissenters who weren’t trying to harm anyone. They were with the lunatics who toted heavy guns and wanted to pump lead into the hearts of people that they thought were wrong. Now, those pesky Iraqis would be conquered, America’s power would spread, and we would get more oil to boot!
The way the nation has been run for thirteen years has sickened me. It started when I was five, so not that I had cared much at the time, but as soon as I realized what was going on, I wanted to stop it. For a year or so, I was actually a part of the Underbelly, which was a supportive group of peaceful rebels who just wanted change. I can recall one protest where we all stood in front of a forest that was set for demolition and refused to move, even as the heavy killing machines moved toward us. Whatsername, who was short and didn’t look all that strong, stood at the front of us, shouting our slogans and completely ignoring the buzzing noise of the machines that threatened to kill her and the rest of us.
I just turned 18 in February, and the only reason I have not been drafted yet is on account of my so called ‘mental illnesses’ and my bisexuality. If those are the only things keeping me at home and not in Iraq, killing innocent people, I shudder to think of what people who aren’t ‘anomalies’ like me have to go through with all of the other so called ‘normal’ people.
That protest ended after nearly 100 people were killed as the cutting machines advanced toward us, ignoring the people and going for the trees. Human life was lost, even as we were protesting peacefully. And our government has been condoning this activity since the total Bush takeover that began in 2000 and had sprung into full bloom by 2008.
This essay went off on a huge tangent, but if our president allows and encourages the killing of people for lumber, for oil, for money in general and silences the other opinions -- well, doesn’t that seem a little unreasonable? Over five million Americans have been killed since the so called ‘War on Terror’ started 12 years ago. If this truly is a war against terrorists, doesn’t that mean that we’re sinking into the threats of the terrorists, allowing them to scare us? They want to inspire fear in us and that is why they are called terrorists.
But it isn’t about the terrorists. It is about the oil in Iraq, and it is about Bush trying to increase his own wealth. The mere thought of that is sickening, how much life we’re losing over things as greedy as money and power.
And so, in conclusion, the current government of the United States of America is one run on power and money. Our current government is a autocracy, it seems, and the powers that run us have absolutely no problems with killing supporters of the opposing opinions. This is the kind of government that the United States were created to prevent, not to create. This is the kind of government that the people have a First Amendment right to abolish.
Grade: 72%, C-
Teacher’s Notes: This essay had quite a bit of effort placed into it, and it was fairly well written. The anecdote of the protest at the end was an interesting touch. The same goes for the other little testimonies on your life. You went off on a few tangents, however, and that made you lose a few points. Other factors that made you lose points were the brevity of the overall essay and the rushed feeling it has. In this essay, you answered the prompt and very good except for incorrect facts. Double check some of the reasons for the War on Terror and the definitions of ‘autocracy’ and ‘dictatorship.’ All in all, this is reason enough for a passing grade. With this essay, you have passed 12th grade and you may enter college. Your overall grade for the year, 70%, has left you with an average grade of 71% (a C-), a GPA of approximately 2. Good luck finding a college!
-Ms. Melare, Director of 12th Grade Classes.
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