Categories > Celebrities > Green Day > See You Tonight

Worry Rock

by abbeyrose92 0 reviews

Category: Green Day - Rating: R - Genres: Angst,Drama,Romance - Published: 2013-04-06 - 2578 words

What little rest she got that night was fitful. She tossed and turned all night upon the plush couch, dreaming of wandering around her old home only to find it barren and empty. All the while, a thunderstorm brewed outside, thunder claps seeping into what was quickly becoming a repetitive nightmare. Finally, as the dream reached its peak, she came to stand before her old bedroom door, as a sense of dread tugged on her sub-conscious.

With hesitation within her, she slowly turned the knob to find a beautiful porcelain doll. She breathed a sigh of relief and began toward it. She stopped in her tracks as the doll began to contort, its glassy lips pulling into a sharp smile, before it began to cackle a shrieking laugh.

She bursted awake just then, her ears ringing from the shrill laughter. She realized this laughter was not a figment of her imagination as she turned. Upon the table before her sat a young boy, shaking with laughter. Her eyes narrowed, and her cheeks reddened in embarrassment. The olive skinned boy’s mouth snapped shut at her reaction. He held his hands up in an apologetic gesture.

She shook her head trying to remember exactly where she was. She glared at the dark-haired boy a moment before she realized who he was.

“Frankito,” she mumbled, “I presume.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he told her.

“Frankito,” Tré called from what Abbey assumed was the kitchen, “leave her alone.”

“Sorry,” Frankito called back, running his fingers through his black hair.

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” he apologized quietly, “it’s just that you talk in your sleep.” Abbey's cheeks flushed, and she ran her fingers through her tangled hair.

“What in God’s name did I say?” She asked frantically.

“Nothing much,” Frankito told her with a chuckle, “mostly mumbles.” Abbey sighed in relief before Frankito held up his hand to halt her.

“There was something though,” he admitted with a grin, “I believe it was, ‘Help me, Tré,’” Abbey’s hands flew to her face.

“Oh my God,” she groaned in exasperation. Frankito stood and patted her bushy hair.

“It’s cool,” he told her, “your secret is safe with me.” For some reason, this reassurance brought tears brimming in her eyes.

“Thanks, kid,” she muttered.

“Breakfast,” Tré called from down the hall. Abbey uncovered her face as Frankito started toward the kitchen. He turned to her as she remained on the couch.

“Come on,” he motioned her forward. She begrudgingly followed him only to be met with the delicious smell of bacon. It suddenly occurred to her; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten anything other than cheap junk food.

“Abbey,” Tré said warmly as she stepped into the spacious kitchen, “I see you’ve met Frankito.” She nodded, standing awkwardly in the threshold. Frankito began piling mounds of eggs and bacon onto his plate, the smell wafting in Abbey’s direction causing her stomach to growl in response. She blushed in embarrassment, before Tré motioned her to the island counter. She slowly padded over and pulled herself into a tall stool. Tré smiled and pulled a plate from a cabinet and began placing food on it.

“I hope you’re not a vegetarian,” he said with a laugh, as he placed it before her, “we eat a lot of meat in this house.”

Abbey smiled shyly back at him and stared down at the steaming hot food. She hesitated a moment as her mouth watered. Frankito laughed and shoved a fork into her palm ending her indecision. She shoved a small bite of eggs in her mouth and to her delight, they were perfect and fluffy. She ate with haste and it took every measure of self-restraint she had not to lick the plate when she was done.

As she looked up, Frankito stared incredulously and Tré smiled with approval.

She blushed and muttered, “I never expected you to be this good of a cook.” Tré laughed heartily.

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Frankito told her with a grin.

A while later, Abbey excused herself from the counter and drifted back to the living room where she found her clothes missing.

“They’re in the dryer,” Tré said startling her out of her confusion, “everything was caked with sand.” Just then, he threw her a towel.

“Tré,” she began, “I was just going to-“

“Nope,” he said cutting her off.

He directed her to the bathroom and stood awkwardly at the door.

“Well,” she said scratching the back of her neck, “I guess I’m gonna take a shower.” Tré shifted oddly and cleared his throat before nodding and walking away. Once inside she quickly removed the borrowed clothes and turned on the complex looking shower. While waiting for the shower to warm up, she turned and looked at herself in the mirror, and as she did a gasp ripped through her chest.

She hadn’t realized just how much weight she had lost, but now her bones stuck out at strange angles, her cheekbones even sharper than before in her sallow looking face. Her eyes were lined with deep circles and her hair while frizzy and curly lie, mostly limp against her skull. Her scrawny arms reflexively flew up to cover her body and shield her mind, but as she slid under the hot water, she knew it was too late as sobs of despair shook her frail body.

She dare not touch the assortment of soaps lined in the door but to her relief and confusion, she found that some feminine looking shampoo and conditioner lying on the floor of the shower, and she squeezed a sparse amount into her palm and vigorously scrubbed the sand from her hair, raking her nails across her scalp. This alone took 20 minutes before finally her red, burning scalp was sand-free.

Meanwhile, Tré and Frankito sat in the down the hall in the living room, Tré in the leather recliner, Frankito on the couch that Abbey slept on. Her blankets folded neatly in the corner. Frankito stared blankly down at his algebra homework, bouncing his pencil rhythmically back and forth on his binder, while Tré stared down at his cell phone, reflexively tapping his foot along with the beat.

Just then Frankito mumbled in observation, “she’s been in there a long time.”

Without looking up Tré replied, “she covered in sand. She’s been staying on the beach.” Frankito’s eyes widened, yet Tré didn’t look up.

“Dad,” Frankito all but shouted, “how do you know she’s not some kind of dope fiend, or worse yet a serial killer?!” Tré shook his head and finally turned to look at his son, a weak smile playing on his lips.

“Frankito,” Tré said with confidence, placing a hand on his shoulder, “it’s all about the eyes.”

Frankito shook his head in incredulity before spouting, “what the hell are you talking about?”

Tré’s eyes tightened, but his smiled didn’t falter.

“You’ll get it when you’re older,” he said simply.

Back in the bathroom, Abbey stood wrapped in the towel raking her pruned fingers through her hair before the mirror, doing her best not to look anywhere below the neck. The face alone startled her. She hardly recognized this bony, scraggly woman staring back at her with fear in her eyes. It was only going to get worse; she would starve to the point of pain and then death, on the beach and now with everything she owned gone; she had no way to survive.

For a brief moment, she considered that she should go home and just as quickly she pushed the thought away with a scowl. She would have died before she went back. Someone knocked, and she cracked the door open a peek and saw her clothes folded on the floor outside it. She scooped them up quickly and closed the door, before pulling her clothes on as fast as she could, her skin still slightly damp.

She finally dared to give an appraising glance at herself in the mirror and sighed with relief. Clothed her visage was much less severe, and she looked more model starved than sickly, thanks to her now, nearly constant light tan. She cringed remembering the unknown fate of her sunscreen. Finally, she pushed the door open with a huff and joined Tré and Frankito in the living room.

“Thanks,” she squeaked sitting down on the couch to pull her Chuck Taylor’s on.

Tré smiled and waved her words away, “no problem.”

She shrugged into her tattered leather jacket and hopped to her feet and headed toward the door. Tré and Frankito stared after her as she gripped the knob.

“Where are you going?” Tré asked with interest and confusion.

She blushed at his attention, “um, I was just going to get out of your hair.” Tré scoffed at her rhetoric and pushed himself from the chair.

“And sleep on the beach tonight?” He asked, his blue eyes bright with disapproval, “not a chance!” Abbey flinched back and stared at him, her eyes wide like a wild animal.

“But-,“ she began her hand still clutching the door knob as if for dear life.

“Shh,” he said to her, swiping her hand from the knob, “just let me help you.” She shook her head in refusal; she would not burden him, whose kindness she couldn’t understand and every nerve in her body told her to get out before she overstayed her welcome. She’d learned that from her first weeks on the street, after having waked upon a park bench with two police officers staring down at her.

Tré grabbed her shoulders to stop her head-shaking and stared into her eyes.

“I know you don’t belong on the streets,” he told her severely, “I want to help you put your life together.”

“But,” she cried, “why?” Tré blanched. His blue eyes dropped to the carpet.

He shrugged, “it’s the right thing to do.”

She blinked back tears and sighed.

“Tré,” she reassured him, “any moral obligation you felt was long since fulfilled, seriously.”

“No,” he told her sharply, “it’s not about that.”

“Then what,” she asked him, turning again toward the door, “What is it about?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly, “but don’t leave.”

Finally, her hand dropped from the door, and she sighed.

Meanwhile, Frankito began his homework not trying to comprehend what was happening. Tré grabbed Abbey’s scrawny elbow and towed her into the kitchen.

“What did you lose?” He asked sitting beside her at the island. At this, his eyes prickled, and she squeezed them shut.

“Everything,” she groaned, mournfully, “birth certificate, social security card, my resume.”

Tré seemed surprised by the latter.

“Your resume?” He asked in confusion.

“From back home,” she muttered, “I’m an art technology student. Or I was.” Tré sat quietly in thought for a minute, and Abbey thought he had forgotten her.

Suddenly, he asked, “you could just call and order your papers, right?”

“I suppose-, “she started to say.

He interrupted her, “and you could retype your resume?” She nodded quickly and wondered what his point was.

“I’ll be back,” he shouted and burst from the room. She sat awkwardly, tapping the toe of her Converse against the metal of the chair. A moment later he returned with a cordless phone and a laptop computer.

“You know how to use this, right?” He asked gesturing to the laptop, which now sat before her. She stared down at the impressive piece of machinery with admiration.

“Of course-“she began but yet again he cut her off.

“Good,” he said with excitement, “call and get your papers and type out your resume, I’ve got to make some phone calls.”

With that he left the room, his cell phone already pressed to his ear. She stared after him a moment before opening the laptop and using a search engine to find the number for the courthouse in her hometown. After 45 minutes of arguing she finally convinced the public official to send her documents to her P.O. Box, which she was sure was practically empty. She then opened a word processor and typed out her resume from scratch. At some point, melodic music began to flow from downstairs, and she wondered if it was Frankito. Finally, when her wrists were sore from misuse, she saved the page and closed the laptop with a sigh.

Frankito peeked his head in then, Stratocaster dangling from a strap across his shoulders.

“What’s up?” He asked her cautiously. She shrugged and smiled at him.

“Wondering if my presence has made your father go insane,” she replied with a surprisingly easy laugh.

“Nah,” Frankito responded, reciprocating her smile, “he crossed that bridge long ago.” She chuckled and slid down from the stool.

“Nice Strat,” she observed, slipping her hands in her pockets.

“You play?” Frankito asked, his fingers strumming soundlessly.

“Guitar, no,” she told him, “but I do play keyboard.” He smiled and told her to follow him. She turned and grabbed the laptop.

“Your dad will probably want this back.”

They trudged up the spiral staircase and Frankito took the laptop and walked down the hall to what she assumed was Tré’s room. He returned a moment later, empty-handed and gestured toward a door in front of her. He stepped inside, a smile on his lips. She followed him in and gasped.

Before her, was a room jam-packed with every instrument known to man. The walls lined with what looked to her like foamy egg cartons. Every musical instrument in sight was in incredible condition and made by the highest standard of manufacturers. Frankito practically basked in her reaction before pointing toward a beautiful and complex keyboard before sitting in a metal chair and plugging the Stratocaster into a giant amplifier.

She sat upon the piano bench and flipped on the power switch. Her fingers drifted momentarily over the keys, before she began to feel out a tune and a shrill, startlingly breathtaking melody flowed from the speakers. After a moment, Frankito joined her, his pithy guitar chords meshing seamlessly with her notes. They continued in the fashion for what felt to Abbey, like hours, drifting from nameless song to nameless song.

Tré burst in suddenly, his blue-eyes glittering with excitement. Abbey’s fingers hit a sour note and all three of them cringed until there was silence.

“I think,” Tré began his tight-lipped smile beaming, “I’ve found you a job.” Abbey flicked the power switch without thinking and stood as Tré began downstairs.

She followed quickly after him, her light footsteps clicking on the wood, “what are you talking about?”

At the bottom, he turned suddenly to face her.

“I was looking at your resume,” he told her, “when it hit me.” She nodded expectantly.

“You can do desk jobs, right?” He asked with sudden uncertainty, “like secretarial work?”

“Yes,” she told him, a flutter of excitement burrowing inside her. He breathed a sigh of relief.

“You know how to do an interview?” He asked her, his smile even brighter than before. She simply nodded profusely.

“Thank God,” he said leaning against the wall, “Adrienne will be here any minute.” Abbey’s jaw dropped, and her cheeks flushed. Just then, there was a knock at the door.
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