Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Going to California

Collin

It was 2:03 a.m. and the cicadas hadn't even gone to bed.

The driveway was bathed in porchlight and half shadow, Erin's car packed and humming low as Erin triple checked her fanny pack and muttered something about dramamine and backup cassette tapes. Our suitcases rattled in the bed like nervous teeth. The air was thick with summer dew and anticipation.

And I was standing there in the middle of it, wearing the same sweatshirt I used to steal from the laundry pile in high school. The one with the frayed sleeves. The one that smelled like safety. Like childhood. Like the last second before everything changes.

I didn't know how to do this part. The leaving.

My mom was standing barefoot on the porch, arms crossed over her robe, hair still wet from a too late shower. She looked like she hadn't slept. She looked like she'd memorized this moment a thousand times already and still wasn't ready.

"You packed snacks?" she asked, voice soft but firm.

I nodded.

"Toothbrush?"

I nodded again.

"Your heart?"

That one caught me. I bit my lip and nodded one more time. A little slower.

She stepped forward and wrapped me up in a hug so tight I felt it in my ribs.

"Go," she whispered into my hair. "Don't look back unless you want to. But go. Give it your all. You don't get many chances like this in life, Collin. You love big. That's not a flaw."

I swallowed hard. "Even if it hurts?"

"Especially then."

There was something about the way she said it - like she knew, deep down, that she was letting me go to something bigger than any of us could name. A version of myself I hadn't fully become yet.

She pulled away just enough to look me in the face. "You'll always have a place to land. No matter what happens out there."

My dad was next, stepping down the porch steps with that stiff walk he got when he was holding something back. I braced for a lecture, maybe even a dig. But instead, he handed me the keys to the truck.

"She better drive," he grumbled, nodding toward Erin. "You'll fall asleep and miss the turnoff to the whole damn city and miss your flight."

I smiled through the nerves.

''His name is Billie Joe, Dad.''

''And he's from California? That's about the most southern name I ever dang heard.'' He scoffed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

I offered a meek smile.

He leaned in close, and his voice lowered.

"You take care of each other. And if that stupid Billie kid hurts you again..." He looked past me at Erin, who was zipping up her hoodie like a soldier about to go to war. "Make sure she kicks his ass. For me."

I laughed, a soft breath of relief I didn't know I needed. "You still don't like him, huh?"

"I don't know him. I know you." His hand landed on my shoulder, warm and solid. "And I know how hard you fell."

He looked me dead in the eyes.

"Just make sure he deserves it this time."

I nodded, my throat too tight to respond.

We got into the car a minute later, the engine coughing to life like it was waking up with us. Erin blasted the A/C and threw on a mixtape she'd burned for the flight. Something punk, something loud, something that said we're doing this even when I wasn't sure what this even was.