Categories > Celebrities > Green Day > Life On the Road

Don't Sniff Glue

by DeathzAngel 0 reviews

Category: Green Day - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Angst,Drama - Published: 2011-08-03 - Updated: 2011-08-03 - 638 words - Complete

Storming inside, I plop down on the couch in the room right off the front hall. My dad is there, sitting in a chair, this far away expression in his eyes. He’s the way I expected him to be…removed from the situation, not knowing if he should be mad or just ask what’s wrong. I really hope he’s not decided to be mad. I don’t need people to be mad at me right now.

“Seventeen years and I’ve only actually been around for maybe a total of five of them. I should have seen this coming, though, you being my kid and all. Why’d you run?” dad questions, coming over to sit next to me.

“I couldn’t stand to look at her face; any of their faces. I can’t live with her through. Parading around the house pretending she’s my real mom. We all know she’s not,” I answer.

I’m the kid of my dad’s ex – girlfriend that was dumped on his doorstep after this said girlfriend was arrested for possession of some kind of drug. Dad loves me just like my brothers if not a little more but Adrienne always saw me as some kind of mutant child of another woman. I was good enough to do house hold chores but when it came to being a daughter I guess I fell short. Odd…I always thought moms where supposed to spoil their daughters. Oh, right…I’m not her daughter. No matter though…I’ve got dad and he adores me.

“You made the decision that was easiest for you to live with. That’s all anybody ever asked you to do,” remarks dad before getting up and walking out of the room; shortly after Tré takes his place, his hand on my knee.

“Can I give you a word of advice?” Tré asks.

“Why not.”

“Don’t sniff glue,” answers Tré smartly.

I cannot help but laugh, slipping into a land of the past.

"Hi. I'm Tré."

"I’m the babysitter," I answer.

From then on Tré and I have been like best friends even though at the time I was maybe ten and he was thirty – something. For show and tell in fifth grade I brought in my godfather, Tré Cool and got shit for it. I think that was the first time I used the phrase fuck you, bitch. The kid deserved to hear it though.
Often times, when the drummer was around, Tré would come to my school around recess and we would sit and talk; I never had many friends and it was nice to have someone there.
On days dad had something personal going on, like a dentist appointment, or the doctor, I would get dropped off at Tré’s and we’d sit under his kitchen table in our pajamas, his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and mine black and red plaid, watching cartoons on a portable TV. He always gave the best advice no matter how off it sounded…I knew what he meant.
Tré is like a second dad. When I was in eighth grade the marriage problems between my mom and dad started. I used to take my brothers two blocks down to Tré’s house where it was quiet and we were always welcome. He taught me to cook microwave dinners the right way and to play the drums.

Now I’m seventeen and Tré is thirty – nine. He still gives the best advice. Like about sniffing glue. He means to not do things half – ass. Don’t say you’re going to do drugs but really only sniff glue. He’s telling me to go out and kick some ass, hurt some feelings and be my father’s child, not just pretend.
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