Christie Road

The ticking of the wall clock was so loud it echoed off the scuffed tile floors, and every cough, every scratch of a pencil was like glass shards in his ears. That, coupled with the fact that the February sun was the brightest it had been in two weeks, was enough to make him wish he'd stayed at home in bed, suffering in peace. But the headache, that was the killer. The dry mouth, the sandpaper in his eyes, the taste in his mouth like pond scum, just put the icing on the cake.

The thought of icing made him want to hurl.

"Psst!" he hissed, tapping the shoulder of the brunette who sat in front of him. She turned her head slightly, more in annoyance than acknowlegement.

"Hey, what's the Treaty of Paris? Is it 'B'?" he whispered.

All she had to do was nod or shake her head a little. He wasn't asking her to GIVE him the answer, for Christsakes, he just wanted to check the one he'd already put down. But no, Miss Winona Whitebread stiffened, lifted her perky little nose a bit higher in the air, and turned back to her no doubt perfect test paper.

"Bitch!" he spat, under his breath, and this time her head snapped around to face him.

"Excuse me?" she mouthed.

"You heard me," he said, staring directly into her brown eyes, challenging her to say anything else. He glanced up toward the front of the classroom. Mr. Bennett was reading "Civil War Digest" and sipping his coffee, glasses pushed down to the end of his nose.

Billie's hand lifted from his paper, middle finger rising as the others curled into a fist. A satisfied smirk lifted the corners of his mouth.

The girl huffed, whirling back around in her seat, and she laid a protective arm around her paper.

Rolling his eyes, he laid his pencil down. There was no point finishing--he'd only answered seven questions, and would have been guessing at the rest. As the bell rang, he grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and started up the aisle toward the door.

Just as he was passing the girl's desk, she stepped out in front of him, and his shoulder collided with hers, knocking her books out of her arms.

"Billie Joe!" she shouted in exasperation, "are you always such an incredible jackass?"

The class began to snicker, and his face turned crimson, not with embarrassment, but with rage. "If I throw a stick, will you chase it?" he snarled, his jaw jutting in cocky defiance.

Her mouth sagged, and she looked around for support. Several of the boys were laughing openly, but her friends were gathering beside her, their eyes throwing daggers at him.

"Do you think you're funny?" an auburn-haired girl in a pink sweatshirt said, her ponytailed head cocked to one side. She held her books tightly to her chest with one hand, the other on her hip, and her lips pursed when she finished speaking.

He barely bit back the profanity that sprang to his lips, and instead, pushed his way through the wall of feminine indignity and charged, head down, for the door. Mr. Bennett's voice drifted out into the hall after him. "Mr. Armstrong, you forgot to turn in your test paper..."

His sneakers slapped briskly down the hall, and there was a resounding "bang!" every few seconds as he slammed his fist into the front of a locker, leaving a dent. As he passed the glass wall of the office, he stopped suddenly, pushing the door open and dropping his books on the counter.

"May I help you?" the secretary asked, her eyebrows furrowed as if to let him know he was on thin ice.

"Who do I have to see to get out of this place?" he said between gritted teeth.

"Do you need a sick leave pass?" she asked, reaching under the shelf into one of the cubbyholes without taking her eyes off him.

"No, I mean for good. Like dropping out."

She straightened slowly, taking her glasses off and folding them thoughtfully. "Your name, please?"

"Billie Joe Armstrong."

"B-I-L-L-Y," she mumbled, writing it down on a yellow Post-It.

"It's B-I-L-L-I-E," he snapped.

She glared at him, continuing to write. "Let me get the vice principal. I'll be back in a moment. Just have a seat."

As she disappeared through the door at the back of the office, he paced the small waiting area. She returned with Mrs. Revels, who was well acquainted with Billie from their previous meetings, none of which had been pleasant.

"Billie," she nodded, without expression. "Come on back."

He followed her into her office, and stood in front of her desk, too agitated to sit.

"I understand you want to file a withdrawal," she said, sinking into the deep brown leather chair. "Have you given this some thought?" she asked, folding her hands.

"Let's not pretend you even want to try to talk me into staying here, okay? You'll be as glad to see me leave as I will. I turned eighteen last week, so just tell me what I need to sign and I'll get out of your hair." He was in no mood to be cooperative.

The thin veneer of concern dropped. "Okay, fine, Billie Joe. You're right. You've been in and out of this office eight times this year, and I know perfectly well that you have no intention of graduating. But have you talked this over with your mother?"

"My mother has nothing to say about this. It's my decision."

She took a deep breath, considering whether to pursue it further. Then she opened her drawer, and pulled out the green consent form and a pen.

"Sign here, then," she said, pointing toward the middle, "and here," indicating the bottom of the page.

He scribbled his name hastily, and slid the paper back toward her. "Is that it?" he said curtly.
"That's it," she said, leaning back in the chair. "You're free to go."

He scooped up his books, and jerked open the office door. As he passed through the waiting room, he dumped them unceremoniously in the trash can by the secretary's desk.

"There. You keep 'em," he growled.

Sitting on the floor in his room, he carefully sprinkled the green flakes into the thin rice paper. He rolled it tightly and lit the tip, inhaling deeply. Eyes closed, he felt the acrid smoke fill his lungs, and almost immediately a calm spread through him. It would be at least four hours before anyone else got home, so he could relax and finish the song he'd been working on for the last few days.

The battered notebook was under his mattress, and as he opened it and set it on his lap, he tapped the pen against his leg, gathering his thoughts. The ring of the doorbell caused him to groan, and he considered ignoring it. But he heaved himself up, and shuffled down the hall.

"Hi, Jasmine," he said to the young girl who stood looking up at him, his voice sounding tired. "What's up?"

"Billie, I'm sorry to bother you, but my dog got loose and I'm trying to find him. Have you seen him in your yard?" Jasmine was twelve, with glossy black ringlets and crystal blue eyes. Her skin was pale and smooth, and she had a splash of freckles across her nose. She'd lived next door to Billie for most of her life, and Anna had brought her to their house many times to babysit while her parents went out.

"Sorry, Jasmine, I haven't seen him around. When did you lose him?" He glanced down at his watch, hoping she'd let him go back to his room soon.

"Just a few minutes ago. I was walking him and the leash broke, and he just bolted." She fidgeted with the leash looped through her fingers. "I was wondering if you--well, if you might help me find him. If you've got time, I mean."

He groaned inwardly. Woodruff was old, but he could cover a lot of ground in a very short time. The gloomy bassett hound loved to sniff every tree, every trash can, every car tire in his trek through the neighborhood, and had an annoying habit of letting people get within a few feet of him before making a mad dash in the opposite direction.

This could take hours.

"Look, I'm kind of busy right now, you know?" he said, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. "It's been sort of a rough day."

"Oh," she said, nodding. "I understand. Sorry I caught you at a bad time. See you later." She turned and started down the steps, her head drooping.

He sighed. "Hey, Jasmine, hold up. Let me get my shoes and I'll come with you. Two of us have a better chance."

She smiled brightly. "Thanks, Billie. He likes you. I really appreciate the help."

"No problem," he said, pulling on his chucks. "I'll put it on your tab." He ruffled her hair gently, unable to stay mad at her for long. She was almost like a little sister.

When he got home nearly two hours later, Anna had gotten back from her job at the hospital. She waved absently at him as he trudged through the dining room to get a soda.

"Want one?" he asked, his head in the refrigerator.

"Sure. I'll take a Sprite," she said, punching numbers into her calculator.

"What's all that?" he asked, setting the drink carefully away from the papers spread out on the table.

"I'm trying to get my tax stuff together," she said, head in her hand. "And the bills are due next week, so I'm trying to get it all done at one time. Stewart's late on the alimony again, so I'm trying to stretch this paycheck out as far as I can."

He sat down across from her and opened the root beer. "Anna," he asked, "I need to tell you something. I'm not going back to school. I've decided to drop out."

She laid her pencil down and looked at him for a moment. "Why?" she asked, a sad smile touching her full lips. "You only had a few months until graduation. Why not go ahead and finish when you're that close?"

"No, I had a few months until the end of the year. But you know as well as I do that I wouldn't graduate. Not this year, anyway."

She shrugged. "Well, Billie, you are eighteen. I guess it's your choice. Are you going to work, then?"

"I guess I will, for a while. What I really want to do is work on the band. But I know Mom needs some help, so I'll get a job and try to pay for some groceries or something."

"She'll welcome the help, I'm sure," she agreed. "But just make sure this is the best thing for you. She worries about you so much."

"I know," he said, raking his fingers through his curly hair. "Believe me, I know." His eyes rolled.

"She just loves you, Billie," Anna chided, laughing. "You're the baby, so when you're all grown up, she's done being a mom. Enjoy it while you can."

"That's easy for you to say," he said. "You don't have to listen to the complaining anymore."

"Oh, I hear my share of it, trust me," she said with a wry grin. "'Anna, why aren't you engaged yet?' 'When are you going to ask that boss of yours for a raise?' 'Don't you think that shade of lipstick is a little dark, dear?' Oh, yes, I hear it plenty."

Billie grunted, and finished the rest of his soda. Tossing his can into the recycling bin, he patted his sister on the shoulder.

"I'm heading out," he said.

"Be back for dinner?" she asked. "We're having mac and cheese."

"Maybe. Go ahead without me if I'm not back."

"Aren't you going to tell Mom?" she asked, knowing the answer.

"Eventually. Just not tonight." He zipped his jacket and jammed his ball cap backwards on his head. "I'll be at Mike's house." With his guitar case and notebook in hand, he pushed the front door open.

Jasmine was in the yard next door, practicing cartwheels. Quickly, before she could spot him, he ducked around the side of the house, heading down the block toward the street where Mike lived. She was a nice kid, for twelve years old. But that was just the problem.

She was twelve. And he was eighteen.