“Will Maggie Armstrong please take the stand,” the court judge questions, speaking the words I’ve been dreading to hear all morning; my grey/green eyes grow wide. I don’t think I can do this. I feel like I’m gonna be sick. I wanna run away.
Shaking, I slowly force my converse clad feet to move towards the box where I’m supposed to sit. Just say dad and be done with it, but it’s not that simple. I’m not even sure I can form words. Looking out at my mom, dad and brothers I finally truly understand how much my decision will impact them. I turn, hurl into the blue garbage can beside me, and then look out at the others in the court room, “I chose to live with my dad.”
I then bolt; running as far away from the court room as my shaking legs will take me. I take in none of the town’s small shops, not that I would want to anyway. I’ve driven past them hundreds of times. Down two streets, take a left, then a right, then another street up; I continue to run.
Eventually I reach the ice cream place my dad used to take me to every Friday when he wasn’t on tour. I take a seat at one of the rusting tables outside, watching cars go by. “Breath in, breath out, breath in, breath out,” I chant to myself, head on the table. I don’t know what I’ve just done. I can’t think right now. I can’t feel. Pulling a safety pin from my pocket I unhinge it, pressing the point into my wrist.
Suddenly, a hand catches mine, prying the pin from my fingers. It only registers in my mind that it’s Mike Dirnt, Green Day’s bassist, when my eyes are connected with his blue ones. I hear the sound of my safety pin hitting the sidewalk somewhere behind us but I still can’t really comprehend what exactly is going on.
“Where’s, Billie?” I question not knowing why I am using my dad’s first name.
“He’s at the house. Come on, get in,” Mike instructs, opening the back door of his car; Tré is in the passenger seat. Why didn’t my dad come and pick me up. Why didn’t he try and find me?
Unable to keep control I punch to back of Mike’s seat over and over again. So much anger is built up inside and I just need to get it out. I need a guitar; no…I need a therapist. One of those really good shrinks who can fix people like me.
“Stop,” Mike demands, pulling his the car into the drive way before turning around in his seat and grabbing my hands so I can’t hit his chair anymore.
Mike Dirnt. I remember the day I met him only too well. I was seven and a complete monster. I’m too much like me dad. I do as I please and am the biggest ass you’ll meet, well, besides my dad. I was an ass since the day I was born.
“I don’t wanna stay at your friend’s house, daddy,” I whine, feet propped up on the dash board.
“You’ll like him,” my dad answers.
Dad sighs as he pulls into a drive way. I don’t like the way the house looks. I’d rather go to the doctor with my dad.
As the engine cuts off a tall man comes out of the orange front door, walking towards the car. He pulls my door open, giving me a goofy grin. I only glare back.
“Hi, I’m Mike. We’re gonna be best friend’s kido,” this stupid looking man says imitating some silly cartoon character’s voice.
“No –” I kick him in the crotch, keeping a blank face as he doubles over –“I don’t like you.”
I laugh as Mike leads me towards this same old house with the orange door. I was so troublesome back then. Well, I guess I’m troublesome now too, but, back then it was funny. Now people just think I’ve got issues. They’re not very far off the mark. I’m a complete basket case.