Judge's Daughter

The low august sun beams through the windows, the warmth pouring over the seats as they rumble off the highway and onto a more inviting gravel path: Christie road, a loan street nestled in country side of Martinez, California. Roselain props up on her knees, dipping an arm out the window, feeling the tepid summer breeze pass through her fingers.

Sometimes it's easy to forget that pretty places like this exist. Her neighborhood always felt so congested. The houses, the sidewalks, the people, the powerlines surging through the city like electric, eye-sores. Dingy and dirty, a home that she loves but her heart always aches for this: the rolling fields of green, the smell of fresh earth, the fragrance of flowers and the soft breath of willows. She closes her eyes and leans her head out the window, letting her locks spiral gently in the wind.

She’d been out here a time or two on her own, having heard through word of mouth at Gilman about low-key parties in fields, drinking on the tracks, drunken get-togethers that have yielded quite a few interesting photos on her part. Mingling was never much of her thing, but it's hard to find drunken high schoolers who don't want their photos taken.

She glances over her shoulder to see Billie watching her, a grin playing on his lips, seemingly amused by how she was practically hanging out the window.

"Don't get out of the city much, do you?"

"Not nearly as much as I'd like," she murmurs with a smile, turning her face back toward the warmth of the sun. They pull off onto the side of the road, gathering their booze. Tre pops the trunk, pulling out a shitty set of little travel-drums as Mike and Billie sling their acoustics over their shoulders. She'd kind of imagined more of an electric show, but that then again, that doesn't make sense out in the middle of nowhere.

Mike and Tre start trudging through the field as Billie waits for her to tag along.

"You ever been out here before?"

"I have, a few times, actually. Mostly for little parties and whatnot," she recalls, letting one of her hands dangle at her side, the smooth tips of tall grass tickling her fingertips.

"Ever meet anybody cool?"

"I mean, I always seem to meet some pretty wonderful people, but I don't usually take up numbers or anything like that. Would rather see 'em when I see 'em."

"Ah, so you’re the phantom type, huh? One moment you’re there, the next you’re gone."

"Yeah, guess I'd rather just haunt places like this."

"Well feel free to haunt us as much as you'd like, we could always use the spare company," Billie says with a grin. A helpless smile melts across her lips as she looks out across the field, drinking in the beauty of the shimmering grains. Whenever someone says they’re going to go hang out at the tracks, this little piece of heaven certainly isn’t what most picture. The first time she stumbled upon it, she wasn’t even sure if she was in the right place.

A peaceful sigh parts her lips, her eyes fluttering shut, the scent of blooming poppies dancing on the breath of the wind. Billie nudges her shoulder gently with his own, earning her attention as she glances over at him, a content grin playing on his cheeks.

“I could tell as soon as we pulled onto this road that you loved it out here, but now you just look so damn peaceful that I’m worried our scraggly ass music might ruin it,” he laughs, adjusting the strap on his acoustic. She giggles, brushing off the notion with the shake of her head.

“Are you kidding? Scraggly ass music is exactly what this place is missing,” she says with a grin, playfully bumping her shoulder against his.

“Hey guys, how about here?” Mike calls over his shoulder from beneath the shade of a willow tree, clearly not realizing they were only a few steps behind.

“Seems good to me,” Billie says, dropping the brown liquor bag into the shorter portion of grass before shrugging his guitar off his shoulder. She glances up at the tree above them, it’s thick, curvaceous boughs splitting into hundreds of rope-like branches. Her fingers dance along the length of limbs, weaving them in and out of the dips of her knuckles.

“It’s funny you guys picked this particular tree, weeping willows happen to be my favorite,” she says, winding a limb around her arm. Billie kneels on the ground, removing his guitar from its case before looking up at her, smiling warmly as their eyes meet.

“Doesn’t seem like most people have a favorite type of tree.”

“Yeah, well I do. When I was a kid I used to wrap them around my arms and imagine I was an aerial trapezist,” she murmured, hands instinctively playing out the memory as if she were still small enough to lift herself from the ground. “Of course, you can probably imagine how poorly that worked out.”

Billie laughs, watching her as he shuts his case, a guitar pick hanging from the corner of his lip.

“I didn’t really get to be around many trees growing up, but the one time I did I got too ballsy like the bad ass little kid I was. Ended up falling out of the tree, breaking my fuckin’ arm and chipping a tooth,” he snorts, flashing his pretty, crooked teeth. He shifts into a sitting position, removing the pick from his mouth to twirl between his index and thumb.

"Hey, they're charming. I just ended up busting my head open and now I have tiny little scars all over my forehead," she laughs.

“No way, come here, let me see," he says, grabbing her wrist and pulling her to the ground beside him. She holds her breath, thrown off by the sudden proximity. She sweeps her hair to the side and sure enough, three of the tiniest white dots are scattered across her forehead. He chuckles, a warm smile melting on his face.

"They're cute; I probably never would have noticed if you hadn't said anything," he says, a little twinkle in his eye as he leans back against the dark trunk of the willow. She feels a blush raising on her cheeks and turns her head to see where the other two went. Tre and Mike were a few yards away, gathering twigs and branches to throw on the charred remnants of a previous bonfire pit.

“So, are any other people going to be out here tonight?” she asks, turning back to study Billie as he watches his friends.

“Yeah, probably once the sun sets. Just a bunch of randos, really. The real gang’s already here,” he says, glancing back at her with a grin, his pretty jade eyes thriving in the shadows of all the greenery. His eyes drift down to the camera hanging from her neck.

“That thing feels like a weapon,” he says, nodding his head in the direction of the camera.

“Yeah, there’s a second trigger that fires bullets, it’s crazy.”

He chuckles, rolling his eyes.

“Earlier you took that photo of me so damn fast, it came out of nowhere. There’s no way of telling when you’ll whip that thing out and snap another,” he says gruffly, eyeballing the lens. A devilish smirk spills across her ruby lips, hands slowly drifting down to cradle the camera.

“Better stay on your toes or I’ll getcha again,” she whispers, clicking her tongue.

“We’ll see about that,” he smirks, a playful darkness swirling in his irises as he stares down at her. It felt like one of those movies where some unsuspecting little bird gets hypnotized by the spiraling gaze of a snake. Except Billie doesn’t seem to be any kind of snake, nor she a bird, but that doesn’t do much to change the sudden helplessness flooding her nerves. A smirk rests on his plump, pink lips as he holds her in a mental grasp, her feeble attempts at looking away drowned by the colors in his eyes. Emerald, Jade, Juniper, Moss, the garden of Eden sprouting from his pupils. A shaky sigh parts hers lips. Goddamn it, what a stupidly attractive guy.

“I’d hate the break up the picnic yet again, but if ya little assholes don’t come help us collect stuff, there’s not gonna be much of a bonfire tonight,” Tre calls out from across the field. This time she practically leaps to her feet, scrambling away to the tune of Billie’s chuckles.

* * * * * *

A group of about a dozen randos have scattered about the area, most huddling near the fire with Mike and Tre. Billie and Roselain linger on the outskirts, the yellows and oranges of the flames licking the canvas of their cheeks as they sit on the ground. Billie picks at the grass, weaving a twig between the strands.

“So, are we far enough out of stranger-danger territory for you to tell me why the hell Mr. Felton referred to you as ‘Two Dollar Bill’?” Roselain asks, brows raised, watching as Billie tosses the twig toward the fire, missing.

“Only if you’re now willing to tell me how you learned origami.”

“Fair. Quid pro quo. You go first.”

“Believe it or not, I’m not tricking for two dollar bills,” he says, rummaging through his pockets.

“No? Alarming. You really struck me as the ‘gentleman of the night’ type,” she says with a smirk, earning a chuckle from Billie as he pulls something out of his pocket.

“Yeah, well, I might have the tight, hot bod of a harlot, but in reality, I’m just selling joints for $2 a pop,” he says, an ear-to-ear grin playing on his cheeks as he pulls out a zip lock bag full of joints. Roselain’s mouth hangs agape, a dry laugh escaping her lips.

“First of all, I know a couple of fellas name George that want to say hi. Second of all, how the fuck does Mr. Felton know that?” She asks in disbelief, watching as Billie places a joint between his lips, eyebrows creasing in concentration as he lights it. She takes a swig off her makers mark as he sucks in a puff of smoke.

“Would you believe me if I told you that I was selling them to that arrogant prick for $15 a joint?”

“$15 for a fucking joint??”

“Yeap. He couldn’t find it anywhere else, all the other students thought he’d be a narc,” Billie says on an exhale, a soft cloud of smoke passing through his pretty, pink lips. “He wasn’t so happy once he figured out how much I sell them to everyone else for. One of the many reasons he fucking hates me.”

Roselain stares at him in admiration, shaking her head. She doesn’t even know what to say to that. The more she learns about Mr. Felton, so the more shocked she is that he is still allowed on school grounds. Billie beams proudly, extending the joint to her. She shakes her head.

“Ahhh, thanks, but I can’t. I’m one of the paranoid types. I have to be very grounded or I can’t smoke.”

“What, you saying you don’t feel grounded with all of us?”

“With this many people? No way,” she says, her eyes scanning the crowd of bustling, drunk teenagers. “Try me again in a couple of weeks, though. I might have a different answer.”

“I’ll be sure to take you up on that,” he grins, eyes floating around the angles of her face. Even in the faintness of the warm light, he can see the blush creeping across her cheeks. He smirks, taking a drag off the joint.

“Anyway, it’s your turn. You’re not self-taught with origami, so how’d you learn?” he asks, exhaling. A pillowy cloud of smoke floats around her, and for a moment she wishes it was thick enough to hide her face. Maybe she wasn’t drunk enough for this question. She knocks back another shot before leaning back on her hands, looking up at the stars.

“My mom taught me when I was just a kid,” she says simply, and maybe that’s all it has to be. He squints, eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

“Why wouldn’t you want to share that with a stranger?”

She swallows thickly, pursing her lips as she watches the clouds pass over the moon.

“I don’t think we’re close enough for me to share that part yet,” she says with the click of her tongue. She can feel his eyes on her face, boring into her profile, trying to catch a glimpse of her eyes for some sort of giveaway. The two dollar bill knowledge really isn’t going to be worth all this.

“Okay, but-“

“Hey man, you ready to do this or what?” a raspy voice sounds from the left. They both look up as an older looking man with a rather tame, black mohawk approaches them. Billie scrambles to his feet and claps a hand across the man’s back, flashing a toothy grin.

“Boy, am I ever,” Billie says as the man slides a small case out of his pocket. Roselain tilts her head inquisitively, rising to her feet.

“Ready to do what, exactly?” Roselain asks skeptically, suddenly a little frightened by what contents the small case might hold. She hadn’t really thought to ask much about the scope of drugs they might use, apart from the obvious, and now she’s inwardly pleading that this isn’t some dude rolling up with a baggy of heroin or something.

“Roz, this is Nathan, he’s the guy that does my tattoos.”

“Tattoos? You’re about to get a tattoo out here?”

The man laughs, shaking his head, his soft brown eyes focused on his hands as he slides on a pair of black latex gloves.

“I do piercings too. Your buddy here has been wanting to get his nose pierced for a minute, so we’re about to make that happen,” he says, pulling a needle out of the case, holding it toward the bonfire, letting the flames lick at the thin line of metal. She nods, watching intently as he pulls out some type of clamp, motioning for Billie to step closer to him. Billie approaches, taking another hit off the joint before putting it out.

“Alright, man, we’re all sanitized so just hold still and we’ll get this shit knocked out,” he says, steadying Billie’s jaw before placing the clamp over his right nostril. Billie’s eyes flutter shut. “Now take a deep breath and slowly exhale,” he instructs, watching as Billie does so. He places the needle in the hole of the clamp, and with one swift motion and a slight wince from Billie, he pushes the needle through as if it were nothing. “Almost done…” the man says soothingly, removing a small silver nose ring from his case, gently pushing it through to replace the needle’s spot. “And we’re done,” he says, patting the side of Billie’s face.”

“How does it look?” Billie asks, eyes twinkling with fervent excitement, blood dripping from the corner of his nose, daring to slip over the brim of his cupid’s bow. She bites her lip, attempting to drop the shutter-speed on her camera without him noticing. A smirk dashes across her face as she swings up the camera, snapping a photo of the bloody nosed boy, his knuckles gently swiping at some of the blood on his upper lip. He laughs, rolling his eyes.

"Really? You're gonna photograph my bleeding nose?"

"Why not? Nothing more punk rock than a bloody nose, right?"

Billie smirks, holding a sleeve to the corner of his nose, shadows from the flames dancing on his pretty, pallid skin.

"Like it?"

"Actually, yeah, I like it a lot,” she pauses, her eyes fluttering over his face thoughtfully, admiring the way it compliments his sharp, yet somehow delicate structure. “It fits your features really well." He smiles at this, burying a free hand in the pocket of his hoodie.

“Glad you could be a part of it,” he sniffles, wiping the last of the blood from his face.

* * * * * *

Roselain is a little surprised by the number of people that have shown up, crowding in a semi-circle around the three, amusing little punks that she recently befriended. In this moment she’s thankful for the buzz vibrating in her limbs and the hot flush of her cheeks. It’d been a moment since she drank this much and she didn’t have her new security blanket friends to keep her company. Somehow, even after the numerous shows and parties, crowds just still aren’t her thing.

Sometimes she thinks that this is why she likes photography so much. Having a camera in her hand allows her to float through a crowd with a purpose, like a ghost, unbothered. The closest she’ll ever get to being a fly on the wall. And now, in this moment, she clings to her camera like a crucifix.

She smirks as Tre props himself up on a log with a bongo between his knees. She hadn’t really thought about what an acoustic drum situation might sound like. Mike unpacks his acoustic bass, opting to remain standing along with Billie. She watches as Billie carefully tunes his guitar, brow furrowed in concentration, eyes strung to the left, finding the notes in his mind.

“Thanks for coming, everybody. We’re only going to play a couple of songs tonight, and then we’ll hand it off to whoever else wants to play,” Billie says, as the crowd mostly lulls to a hushed murmur.
“This song’s called Paper Lanterns.”

Now I rest my head from such an endless dreary time,
A time of hopes and happiness that had you on my mind.
Those days are gone and now it seems as if I'll get some rest,
But now and then I'll see you again and it puts my heart to test.

So when are all my troubles gonna end?
I'm understanding now that we are only friends,
To this day I'm asking why I still think about you.

She watches in awe, completely taken aback by the sound emanating from the three goofballs she had known for less than 24 hours. When they said they weren’t really that great, she had expected that to be at least half-true. But standing here now, listening to the melodies sweet like honey coming out of this brunette boys mouth, the precision and focus in their notes, she’s floored.
Tre’s playing a goddamned bongo for christ sakes and it’s so rhythmic, dynamic, and in time that it sounds better than half the things she’s heard come out of studio lately.

Where the hell did these boys come from? And why hadn’t she heard of them before?

Billie’s eyes find hers in the darkness, creasing at the corners, the faintest smile playing on his lips. He looks pleased. Does he know that they sell themselves short? That they’re better than he says? She feels ensnared in wonder, watching the fire dance in those pretty, emerald eyes while his voice does merry-go-rounds in her head.

Shit. She’d literally brought her camera with the intent of photographing this, and here she is, gawking like an idiot, caught in the trance of a stranger named Billie. Her cheeks flush red as she fumbles with her camera, adjusting her settings before snapping a picture.

She doesn’t have to thoroughly document tonight.

Something in her bones tells her there’s going to be countless more nights just like this one.
And that sounds like the best thing she’s heard all year.

* * * * *

The ride home feels much lovelier, more enjoyable than normal, though that can probably be attributed to the pretty boy sitting next to her and his dorky friends up front. Billie stares out the window, his lips slightly turned up at the corners as he hums songs, assumingly his own. The moonlight slips across his cheeks, carving out the dips of his sharp jaw, his pouty lips, the glossy sheen of his spring-filled eyes, his nose ring glinting in the low-light. His eyes flutter shut, his humming continuing as he slinks down in his seat, lazily letting his head slump against Roselain’s shoulder.

Despite the drunken stupor, her heart hammers in her chest at the dainty little act. He seems so lost in his own world, gently bopping his head to his own little beat, the soft strands of his hair tickling her cheek. He’s probably too drunk to even realize what a cutely innocent thing he’s doing. Part of her wants to playfully ruffle his soft mop of hair, but instead she sits holding her breath, terrified he might snap out of his little trance and sit back up.

Mike watches them in the rearview mirror, flashing a smirk before flickering his eyes back toward the road. Billie suddenly lifts his head, peering up at her through thick, black lashes.

“I’m glad you came with us today, Roselain. You’re a cool girl,” he says quietly, voice smoother than silk as his breath ghosts across her cheek. He smells faintly of the cigarettes, bonfire smoke, the bourbon they’d spent the night hammering back together; there was something strangely intoxicating about the entire thing. His wide green eyes stay locked to hers, a needle and thread seeming to stitch them together. The corner of his mouth turns up into a crooked grin. “Don’t worry though, I won’t tell anyone that you’re the absolute worst parker of all time.”

A series of snickers come from the front seat and she slaps a hand over her face, a groan emanating from the back of her throat at the sudden nauseating reminder of that morning’s humiliation.

“Hey, it’s not my fault those lines are so crooked and shittily laid,” she say, watching as they all laugh at her misfortune. They ease up to a small white house and Billie looks back up at her.

“Well, look’s like this is my stop,” he says huffily, opening the door as he slides across the seat, clumsily climbing from the car. He turns back around to face her, one of his arms resting on the roof, the other on the door. He leans in slightly, a warm, drunken smile playing on his cheeks.

"See ya tomorrow, Roselain," he says before shutting the door and walking toward the house.

“Yeah Roz, see you,” Tre says from up front as he leaps from the car, bounding to catch up with Billie as he walks up the short stairs to the front porch. She sighs, watching as Billie plops himself down on the white porch swing, already striking up a conversation with Tre as they pull back onto the road. Mike clears his throat, drawing her attention back toward the front of the vehicle.

"So, this completes your first day of public school and making friends with some weirdo stoners,” he says, adjusting the mirror so that he can better see her. “I gotta ask, how was it?”

"It's been absolutely amazing, honestly," She says, letting her head fall back against the seat, dreamily reflecting on the entirety of the day.

"You can climb up here if you want, y'know. You don't have to sit in the back now that Tre isn’t up here.”

"That's true, kinda boring back here now anyway," she says, clambering into the front seat, damn near knocking Mike off the road in the process. He smirks, raising his eyebrows at the road.

"Oh yeah, Billie is quite the show, isn't he?" his eyes flicker towards her, watching for a reaction.

"A goddamned opening act. Plus he's so nice to photograph. I mean, Mike, have you ever really –looked at how pretty your friend is?" she asks in a cute drunken slur. Mike chuckles, shaking his head as he flexes his fingers on the wheel.

"He's an attractive feller, alright."

She hums thoughtfully, looking out her window at the passing buildings. "I hope I get to spend more time with you guys, I had so much fun tonight. Hope you guys don't think I'm fuckin lame." Mike laughs, grinning at her thought.

""There's not a lame bone in ya as far as I can tell, Roz. You're definitely a cool girl if I've ever met one." Roselain smiles, feeling a swell in her stomach. "Say, for lunch tomorrow we're all skipping the cafeteria and heading to one of my favorite local places. You wanna come with us?"

"Nah, I'd rather have the pasty cafeteria food than hang out with you nerds," she says, scoffing sarcastically at the idea. "Of course, I'd love to come," she says with a laugh. He smiles.

"We're playing a show at Gilman tomorrow afternoon too."

"Oh no," she frowns, turning to study Mike as he continues driving down the road. "You guys realize I was serious about being barred from that place, right" Mike chuckles, shaking his head.

"Don't worry, we can pull some strings, we're close with the owners. Besides, you'll be -with the band.-" She grins. Mike pulls off the road, stopping in front of her house. She climbs from the car, slamming the door behind her before freezing, wheeling to face Mike with a grimace.

“Shit.”

“What?”

She leans through the window lazily, burying her face in the side of her arm, wanting nothing more than to climb into her cool, fluffy bed and sleep off this drunk.

"I just realized my car is still at school. Is it okay to leave it there over night?"

"Oh yeah, it's all good. People do that shit all the time. Look, I'll pick you up for school tomorrow. Deal?"

"Deal," she chimes, reaching across the seat to dramatically shake his hand. He squeezes her hand warmly, a sincere grin on his face.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Mike. Thanks so much for taking me under you guys' wing."

"Happy to have ya, fledgling" he says with a smile. "Later, Roz."