What My Father Doesn't Know
Prologue
There was nothing like smoking a hefty stash of weed and listening to a Beatles record on a Friday night while the world passed you by. We laid down on her roof, Megan and I, underneath the vast blanket of a star lit sky; the smoke we blew from our mouths into wispy swirls intermingled with the misty fog of the Bay Area. The music drifted up from the record player below us in her attic, and besides the wind that playfully tickled the swaying trees into a song like softness, only our giddy voices were borne on the October air.
I loved Megan, she was my best friend. She was the only one who could comprehend me despite my overflowing basin of emotions and my almost mental mind. She understood the art that flowed from my paint brush, the poetry that I would scribble down on any scrap paper, and the tunes that my fingers would somehow strum out on my acoustic. If there was a science to grasping me, Megan would win the Nobel Prize for such a discovery.
I was so close to Megan, yet I knew almost nothing about her. For me, she was a puzzle to be put together, a maze to be accomplished, and a mystery to be solved. She truly withheld the idea of rebellion in her heart, and every night I spent with her were such adventures that even Indiana Jones would envy them. Maybe that is what attracted me most about her. Besides her petite frame, long brown hair that cascaded down her back in lazy curls, and her brilliant smile, it was her erratic soul that kept me intrigued with her.
I passed her the joint we had rolled up earlier with her brother’s hidden jackpot of marijuana and watched her take a hit. The moonlight was hitting her at a perfect angle; the white illumination enhanced the profile of her face and cast shadows that dramatized her beauty. My fingers itched to sketch her, but the inspiration soon ended when she turned to hand me the joint and a lonely cloud drifted onto the moons path.
In the current darkness, I heard her speak softly, a pitch just barely above John Lennon’s melodic voice that sang into the night. “Did you know that someone at this exact same moment is doing the very same thing as we are?” Her voice was calm, but had an exuberant edge to it. “Can you believe that two other girls somewhere out there in the world are smoking some stolen reefer up on a roof in the late hours, way past their bedtimes, behind their parent’s backs?”
I exhaled some smoke and chuckled, suddenly fascinated by what she had just said. “No, I can’t believe it.”
Really, I couldn’t. After all my fathers hard work of engraining abstinence and proper decision making into me, I couldn’t believe some of the things that I had already done. I might have done some stupid antics, and I might have taken some real risks, but my father always told me that it was better to regret something you have done, than something you haven’t. Of course, that saying is far from a few of the things that I have experienced, for my life was an escapade out of the confines of reality; a long and unpredictable journey of growing up and discovering myself beneath the mask of fame. I didn’t know what people expected of me; was I supposed to be the example of perfectionism, being an obedient good girl to show the camera lens that my father was as equally talented at home as he was on stage? Or was I supposed to grow in the field of my roots and indulge in all of the devilish pleasures that this lifestyle could bring, following in the footsteps that my father had tried to sweep away.
People never understood why I did the things that I did. They thought that with all of the money I had, there was no reason for me to stoop down into a life of mutiny. But if I hadn’t, what would my existence have been like? Ritzy hotel after ritzy hotel, night after night sitting on the tour bus while they partied, school day after school day of trying to not attract attention to my family, album after album, and year after year of success that would have eventually towered over me to the point of where I would always just be Ada, the daughter of Billie Joe Armstrong. I refused to let that happen.
I adored my father, more than I adored anyone else on the entire planet, but life was just too short. There were too many opportunities and new experiences that I couldn’t let pass me by. It put me in agony to know what he had no idea of and that I always had to lie to his face. But there was somewhere within me that felt that everything I did was alright; a necessary evil, a planned sequence of destiny. And when I hugged my father, sometimes it felt like he knew this too.
“Actually, you know what I really can’t believe Ada?” Megan’s sudden whispery voice interrupted my jumble of thoughts. The small orange embers of the joint were dying out, and the moon was now completely covered behind the curves of the full rain clouds.
“What?” I asked, trying to make out her outline in the pitch black darkness.
“That we made it.”
We glanced at each other, and our proud smiles seemed even brighter than the hidden stars.
I loved Megan, she was my best friend. She was the only one who could comprehend me despite my overflowing basin of emotions and my almost mental mind. She understood the art that flowed from my paint brush, the poetry that I would scribble down on any scrap paper, and the tunes that my fingers would somehow strum out on my acoustic. If there was a science to grasping me, Megan would win the Nobel Prize for such a discovery.
I was so close to Megan, yet I knew almost nothing about her. For me, she was a puzzle to be put together, a maze to be accomplished, and a mystery to be solved. She truly withheld the idea of rebellion in her heart, and every night I spent with her were such adventures that even Indiana Jones would envy them. Maybe that is what attracted me most about her. Besides her petite frame, long brown hair that cascaded down her back in lazy curls, and her brilliant smile, it was her erratic soul that kept me intrigued with her.
I passed her the joint we had rolled up earlier with her brother’s hidden jackpot of marijuana and watched her take a hit. The moonlight was hitting her at a perfect angle; the white illumination enhanced the profile of her face and cast shadows that dramatized her beauty. My fingers itched to sketch her, but the inspiration soon ended when she turned to hand me the joint and a lonely cloud drifted onto the moons path.
In the current darkness, I heard her speak softly, a pitch just barely above John Lennon’s melodic voice that sang into the night. “Did you know that someone at this exact same moment is doing the very same thing as we are?” Her voice was calm, but had an exuberant edge to it. “Can you believe that two other girls somewhere out there in the world are smoking some stolen reefer up on a roof in the late hours, way past their bedtimes, behind their parent’s backs?”
I exhaled some smoke and chuckled, suddenly fascinated by what she had just said. “No, I can’t believe it.”
Really, I couldn’t. After all my fathers hard work of engraining abstinence and proper decision making into me, I couldn’t believe some of the things that I had already done. I might have done some stupid antics, and I might have taken some real risks, but my father always told me that it was better to regret something you have done, than something you haven’t. Of course, that saying is far from a few of the things that I have experienced, for my life was an escapade out of the confines of reality; a long and unpredictable journey of growing up and discovering myself beneath the mask of fame. I didn’t know what people expected of me; was I supposed to be the example of perfectionism, being an obedient good girl to show the camera lens that my father was as equally talented at home as he was on stage? Or was I supposed to grow in the field of my roots and indulge in all of the devilish pleasures that this lifestyle could bring, following in the footsteps that my father had tried to sweep away.
People never understood why I did the things that I did. They thought that with all of the money I had, there was no reason for me to stoop down into a life of mutiny. But if I hadn’t, what would my existence have been like? Ritzy hotel after ritzy hotel, night after night sitting on the tour bus while they partied, school day after school day of trying to not attract attention to my family, album after album, and year after year of success that would have eventually towered over me to the point of where I would always just be Ada, the daughter of Billie Joe Armstrong. I refused to let that happen.
I adored my father, more than I adored anyone else on the entire planet, but life was just too short. There were too many opportunities and new experiences that I couldn’t let pass me by. It put me in agony to know what he had no idea of and that I always had to lie to his face. But there was somewhere within me that felt that everything I did was alright; a necessary evil, a planned sequence of destiny. And when I hugged my father, sometimes it felt like he knew this too.
“Actually, you know what I really can’t believe Ada?” Megan’s sudden whispery voice interrupted my jumble of thoughts. The small orange embers of the joint were dying out, and the moon was now completely covered behind the curves of the full rain clouds.
“What?” I asked, trying to make out her outline in the pitch black darkness.
“That we made it.”
We glanced at each other, and our proud smiles seemed even brighter than the hidden stars.