No One Knows (Sequel to 16) (Completed)

Chapter 2: Private Ale

Annabel's POV

In my life I have to say that the question which brought on the most painful anxiety; the kind that makes your chest ache and your heart pulse in your throat or your head, was this:

"What's your home situation?"

It's something obviously so meaningless I suppose, and seemed to be only uttered by good-intended teachers and parents when they saw the bruises on my face or the cuts of broken beer bottles on my arms. But it could also come in the more casual form of "what are your parents like" or such from cautious or curious classmates. It used to bother me a lot more when I was younger, those first initial years of absolute pain. I didn't answer back then. I've learnt to lie quite easily now.

But, just for fun, what was my home situation? 

I had my mom, who was amazingly neurotic and who probably had lost touch with reality in most likely a means to protect her own psyche. Then there was Jeremy, who despite a few lapses of pity for me, maintained his guilt-riddled state of asshole. After Cassie's funeral there was a brief spell of peace, but it was soon shattered by various normalities; my mom screaming in the night from bad dreams, Jeremy coming home past midnight with perfume and whiskey on his breath. But something I suppose had shifted: they both left me quite alone after that week in December.

My home situation I suppose though was improved significantly by the addition of a very welcome member...

It started as most stories seem to start; with Billie Joe Armstrong. 

It was probably about a week after I had taken Mona to her first Green Day gig where we should begin. I had been developing a slight scheme in order for her to grow accustom to the new presence of the Three Musketeers Of Pot (I suppose because I realised I couldn't not have their shenanigans in my life), and so enticed her to see perhaps a different side of them. Especially regarding Billie; she really was on edge around him despite the good-humoured enthusiasm . I had only found out around then exactly what he had done to make her mistrust him so much. 

Anyway, it was a particularly warm Sunday afternoon and I was lazing around in my bedroom, singing obnoxiously to a Stooges record and pretending to be a thrashing, shirtless Iggy Pop on my bed, hairbrush microphone in hand. I wasn't wearing pants and I was home alone; Jeremy was experiencing a moment of redemption that on average lasted for about a week and had taken my mom to Berkley. It was then that I heard the all-too-famliar three distinct knocks on my window. 

He was grinning as he climbed in the room, my face bright red.

"Christ you Peeping Tom!"

He laughed hard and allowed me to give him a few whacks before he settled onto my bed as he always did, hands behind his head, staring at the star-wallpaper on my ceiling. His eyes were still smiling.

Oh, this would be as good a time as any to describe the relationship between Billie Joe Armstrong and myself. The long answer is that after that fateful and cold few days before Christmas Billie became my friend. Something had seemed to settle in both of us. We talked about Cassie and Ritalin sometimes, if we needed to. We never talked about the kisses, or how he held me. I didn't know if there was anything to say; we were emotional and teenagers so to say there was any real substance behind it all would be naive as hell. I knew how he was by then. A good guy but careless with hearts. I knew that a kiss was just a kiss to him.

The short answer: I had no fucking idea what we were, but I'd be more than happy to settle for friends. 

"So what can I help you with? If it's scratching your back again I'm pushing you out the damn window."