Cigarettes and Valentines (A Billie Joe love story)

*Beep! Beep! Beep!*
I slammed my fist on my buzzing alarm clock to get it to shut up.
I definitely did not want to get out of bed today. My phone vibrated noisily under my pillow and I pulled it out.

Text message from my stupid mother.

“I hope your first day at your new school goes great! :-) love, mom”

Bitch. Over the summer, my mom decided she needed to get away for a while, and took a vacation to Paris. She’s an artist, and told my Dad and I that she needed to leave for artistic inspirations. But we all know that she needed to leave because my dad had developed a bit of a drinking problem since he lost his job last year.

My mom came home halfway through summer with a new French boyfriend and signed divorce papers. So now it’s just me and my dad.

My mom has the nerve to stay in touch, as if I care to talk to her. She totally just walked out on us. I never really got along with my mother, or my father, for that matter. I always called them old-fashioned. They always called me too “moody and angry”.

My dad couldn’t afford to keep the house we lived in, so now I live in a shitty apartment in a shitty town, hundreds of miles away from everything I grew up with. Which wasn’t much, to be honest. I had a few friends, but mostly I just liked to be left alone.

I rolled out of bed and shuffled over to my dresser, spray painted black. We bought it at a garage sale, and it was only 3 bucks, so my Dad said it was either this horrible pink flowery dresser, or a cardboard box.
We made a deal he’d have to buy spray paint too.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror above the dresser. Smudged black eyeliner rimmed my eyes all around. My eyes were red and angry that I slept without washing off the makeup. But I didn’t care.

After throwing on a pair of black skinny jeans and a fresh t shirt, I made my way down the hall to the tiny kitchen to try to find some food.

My dad was in the kitchen having a cup of coffee, wearing a nice suit, which was very out of the ordinary.
“What’s up with the clothes?” I asked, while popping some bread in the toaster.

“Job interview.” he grumbled back. He was most likely hungover. “Excited for school?”

“Not really, I don’t even know anyone,” I responded wearily. “Do I have to go?”

He set down his cup and straightened his tie, “Yes, you have to go to school. And you better get going or you’ll be late.”

The toast popped up and my dad ruffled my hair before stealing a slice.

“Have fun!” he called back before he walked out of the apartment.

I sighed and grabbed my backpack. I laced up my shitty converse and ran a brush through my hopeless dark brown long hair.

“Well, here we go.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The high school was only a quarter mile away from my apartment, so I walked. I kept my head down, avoiding contact with anyone walking by.
I didn’t want to go to the stupid new school, with the stupid people and stupid teachers and stupid assignments.

I got to the office to get my schedule.
The receptionist looked up when I entered and scoffed at me. Yeah…she scoffed. As if I was crazy to even have the nerve to even ENTER the room.

“Name?” she growled.
“Uh..Anna Brinks. Junior.”

She didn’t even look up as she handed me my schedule and shoo’d me out the door.
First class, English. Room 203. Easy enough.

I found the room and took a seat in the back of the class. A few people glanced in my direction, but I didn’t speak. I just sat there and pulled out a notebook and started doodling.
I was feeling a little creative so I started writing down some words. Nothing in particular, but perhaps it was sort of a song…

<i>Take me back to where I want to go
Why’d you leave us here, i feel so alone
I can’t find my place again, in this shitty town
I can’t keep all my anger inside, I’m going up and down</i>

“Stupid...” I mumbled to myself as I ripped the page out of the notebook and crumpled it up.
A voice right in my ear made me jump.

“I didn’t think that was stupid.”

The voice was like liquid velvet pouring across the nape of my neck. Not too low, not too high, nice and soft.
I turned to see who it was.

The first thing I noticed was the hair. Mostly short, with a couple short dreadlocks scattered at the front, the rest spiked up in every different direction, and dyed a shocking blue.
The second thing I noticed was…well, everything else. His eyes were a hazel-green color, with flecks of gold surrounding his pupil. He looked to be about my age, and he had a nose ring. He reached over me to grab the crumpled paper. He flattened it out again and read it.

“Uhm…” I didn’t know what to say.
“I think this is definitely something you could work with. Do you play?”
I stared back. “…play?”
“Guitar?” He smiled, never breaking eye contact.
“Uhm, a little. I’m no professional, but I’m alright I guess.”
“Rad! We should crank it out sometime.”

I still stared. I couldn’t look away from him. He was…beautiful, in a weird way.
Maybe because he was the only one even bothering to socialize with me.
The bell rang and he grabbed his backpack off the floor.

“I gotta go, I was just doing some before-school detention. But find me at lunch, yeah?”
“I, uhh, sure.” I nodded, trying to not look like a total loser.
He smiled. “Cool. What’s your name by the way?”
“Anna. Anna Brinks.”

He smiled, yet again. His teeth were crooked and messed up, but it suited him.

“Billie Joe. Billie Joe Armstrong. And that’s Billie with an I-E, not a Y.”
“I-E, not Y. Got it.” I gave a nervous smile back.

The second bell rang, signaling that class was officially starting. The teacher stood at the front of the class and glared in my direction.

“Armstrong,” the teacher cleared his throat and glared more intensely, “Out of my class.”

Billie snorted and saluted with his middle finger. A few kids rolled their eyes, but I could feel a smile creeping onto my face.
Billie skipped out of the classroom, his jersey T-shirt riding up a little as he hiked his backpack onto his shoulders.
The last I saw of him was his ratty converse at the end of his ripped up black jeans, and the wrinkled paper he took from me.