The Jesus of Suburbia

Rage and Love

"I'm the son of rage and love, the Jesus of Suburbia." I whisper just under a volume that would have been heard by the man across the room. He had a black suit and a strong jaw that made him look like someone from the FBI.

I know he's just a social worker, trying to get into my business. Almost the instant I stepped into the room he critiqued my choice of clothing. Right now I wore black skinny jeans, TOM's, a band tee from "My Chemical Romance" and a few band bracelets.

He told me how obsessive I was and then chastised me for my swearing.

Fuck off.

I don't need his help, I'm seventeen and could have just moved out on my own after my mom died.

I don't need to go through this adoption shit.

He looks up at me in distaste.

"So, James... We-"

"It's Red." I interrupted quickly.

The man, Mr. Andrews, looked at the papers in his hand.

"Well it says here that your name is James Kiane Dexter."

All this paperwork, it's really getting on my nerves.

I lean back in the ridged chair and insist, "I don't give a fuck what the papers say. It's Red."

Mr. Andrews sighs and gives me a look of pity, like I'm a hurt kitten or something. I know the resemblance is incredably striking but I'm not.

"Fine, Red. We put you up for adoption a couple weeks ago, as you know. We recently recieved an offer, but it would require you to move to California."

I groan and roll my eyes. "Who would ever want to adopt me?"

I bet it's some old women in California, an orange farmer or something. Someone who thinks that since I'm adopted, I have to be tamed like an animal, that I'm a psychotic rebel.

He looks through his stack of paper for a moment before saying, "Billie Joe Armstrong."

I have to admidt that this put me off for a second. Maybe he actually had a sense of humor.

"Yeah right," I drawled sarcastically. "Who is it really?"

"It's really Billie Joe Armstrong. We were looking at his records. He's a musician, so I thought you might like that. You play guitar right?"

I nod, too stunned to speak. The sharp self inflicted pain of a pinch didn't snap me out of any daze.

"Like, the lead singer of Green Day?" I ask quietly before clearing my throat. That sounded weak.

"That's the one." Mr. Andrew's straightens up and nods. "Before we say yes to anything we need your approval."

If my mom hadn't just died, I would have said yes in a heartbeat, but now I was thinking. I'd heard good things about Billie, seen his interviews, listened to all his music.

What if he wasn't the way I thought he'd be?

What if he was just a rich singer hoping to get some publicity by adopting a kid from Brooklyn?

On the positive side, I'd only be there for a year or two. It be interesting. I'd get to meet Green Day, live with them, maybe tour with them.

Finally, after a couple minutes of silence I answer with.

"When do I leave?"