Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Merch Girl, Mine

Collin

Everyone had fallen asleep.

Tre was half slumped over the arm of the green room couch like a ragdoll, clutching an empty Cheetos bag. Billie had his hoodie pulled halfway over his face, knocked out in a corner with his boots still on. Erin was curled on a pile of merch shirts like they were made of silk, one hand still loosely holding a half eaten candy bar.

The room smelled like stale weed, synthetic leather, and someone's deodorant that had given up hours ago.

I was sitting on the floor near the doorway, legs tucked to my chest, a warm bottle of water in one hand and a brain still drifting in that soft, sticky haze that comes after the high. I should've felt out of place - this quiet little ghost girl surrounded by passed out punks in a backstage broom closet but I didn't.

It felt weirdly like... home.

Mike's voice cut through the quiet. Soft, careful.

"You still awake?"

I looked up. He was sitting against the wall near the door, nursing the last bit of a flat Dr Pepper, the green room's only light casting shadows across his face.

"Barely," I whispered.

He gave a small smile. "Mind if I ask you something kinda personal?"

"Go for it."

He shifted, resting his elbows on his knees. "In New York you said... you're adopted."

That caught me a little off guard. But it wasn't weird. Just honest.

"Yeah," I said. "Since I was a baby. My parents couldn't have kids. My mom's sister. My aunt, was a nurse in Utah. Said this teenage girl had just given birth. Didn't want to keep the baby. No one even knew who the dad was - she didn't wanna say."

I paused. The details weren't foggy. Just heavy. Like opening a drawer with too many memories inside.

"My aunt called my mom, said there was this baby girl in a bassinet by herself. There was a crazy snow storm outside. My mom said she didn't even think twice. She and my dad got in their truck the same one we're driving now... and went straight to Utah."

Mike let out a breath. "That's kind of beautiful."

"Yeah," I said, glancing toward my backpack, where the keys to that truck were still clipped. "I've thought about it a lot. How that drive must've felt. My dad behind the wheel, my mom probably squeezing her hands the whole time. Not knowing what they were going to find. Just knowing it was me." I paused, collecting my thoughts.

"I didn't ask a lot of questions growing up," I said. "Guess I was scared of what I'd find.''

''They sound like good people," he said gently.

"They are."

There was a long pause. A warm one.

"You ever wonder about her?" he asked gently. "Your birth mom?"

"Sometimes," I admitted. "Not in the 'do I need to find her' way. More like... wondering if she ever thinks about me. If she'd recognize me if we passed on the street. If she'd be surprised to know I listen to punk music and drive a swampy old Chevy and got tangled up with a guy who thinks Led Zeppelin lyrics count as flirting."

Mike chuckled. "She'd probably be proud."

I shrugged. "Or horrified. Hard to say."

He tilted his head. "You seem like you turned out alright."

"Don't let the hair and boots fool you," I said. "I'm still figuring it out."

Another pause. Then, softly, he said, "I was adopted too."