Extraordinary Girl, chapter 1
It was a cool night for summer in California as I headed down the avenue. I had just come from Billie Joe and Adrienne's anniversary party at their house. My car was in the shop—and Tre had already left—so I decided to catch the train back to Oakland. Sarah was home sick, so I didn't have the heart to call her to get her to pick me up. I always left parties as late as possible, because less people were out on the street late at night; therefore, I wouldn't be mobbed by screaming fans and paparazzi. (I've had some bad experiences that left me with a phobia of huge crowds and too much attention.)
I increased my pace as I came into downtown Berkley, heading for the train station. Taxis and cars whizzed by on the street, and people passed by me. I pulled the baseball cap (my "disguise") further down over my head. I was thinking about Billie Joe and Adrienne. About how happy and how in love they were. Even though they were my best friends, I felt the slightest twinge of jealousy at how perfect their marriage was. I wondered if Tre felt the same way—seeing as we were both divorcees. At least I had Sarah, I thought.
Sarah.
I loved her, honestly. I would do literally anything for her. I told Tre and Billie Joe this and they only asked me why don't I propose to her? I asked myself that question too. I wanted to marry her. I wanted our marriage to be just like Billie Joe's and Adrienne's... if not better. But after being married twice, I was a little intimidated by commitment. I decided to hold off on popping the question.
These thoughts were clouding my mind. I was watching the ground, not where I was going. This led me to walk right into a guy—and not the type of guy you want to bump into. I looked up at the huge biker towering over me, assortments of piercings hanging from all over his face, tattoos plastered on his arms. At a time like this, I wondered why the hell I didn't have a bodyguard. "Watch where you're going, jackass!" He yelled, giving me a hard shove.
The shove sent me sprawling into a dark alleyway. I collided with a few garbage cans, knocking them over. I stood up quickly, ready to kick the guy's ass (if only he knew who I really was... ), but quickly wasn't fast enough. He was already gone. "Fuck," I muttered, wiping the shit off of my jacket. I felt a sharp tingle in my hand and looked down to see a zigzag shaped gash stretching across my palm. "Double fuck," I added, as I tried to stop the blood as best I could. And that's when I heard the noise.
It sounded like a small child whimpering. It grew slightly louder, into a crying type of noise. I whirled around—behind me—where the noise was coming from. I saw the shadow of a figure hunched down near some card board boxes. "Hello? Who's... who's there?" I called. The person did not answer; instead I just heard more of the whimpering sounds. As I made my way cautiously closer, I saw it was a young girl, who looked to be about 14. Her jeans and T-shirt were ripped and dirty. She was bleeding from the neck. I briefly noticed she had no shoes on.
Gently I knelt down beside her. Every move I made, she cringed. "It's OK." I whispered, though I didn't sound very convincing. Suddenly, the cut in my hand was nothing compared to the girl lying helplessly in front of me. I took off my jacket and pressed it against the wound on her neck. Tears streamed uncontrollably from her face. "What happened?" I asked—not knowing if I was going to get an answer. I felt I had a vague idea of what happened, anyways.
As I expected, I didn't get an answer. I was ready to take out my phone and call the police, but decided against it. God only knows what this girl had been through. I couldn't leave her here, though, and I was pretty sure she wasn't going to want to come back to my place. So, I decided to gain her trust. Glancing at my watch, which read 11:16 PM, I knew I'd never catch my train and would have to wait for the next one.
I sat down beside her and examined the bleeding area of her neck. I'm no doctor, but I could tell it was an attempt to probably kill her. "What's your name?" I asked quietly. Her chest rose and fell with staggered, frightened breathing. She opened her mouth and let out a tiny whisper: "Please don't call the police." I nodded and said, as assuringly as possible, "I won't. I don't think you need to go to the hospital, either. I was just heading home, if you'd like to stay at my place."
Wrong move, I was sure of it. She did not move, did not speak. I swallowed and looked away. There was an awkward silence before she spoke. "My name is Hailey." She whispered. I smiled at her and said, "My name's Mike." For some reason, I was hoping she didn't recognize me, or didn't know who I was. She didn't smile back. We sat for a while. I offered her my water bottle and she drank the whole thing. Finally, she spoke again.
"He just... attacked me. I... I couldn't do anything, couldn't move, it happened so fast... " She choked back the tears. I waited, saying nothing. "He tried to kill me... but I... I grabbed a beer bottle and hit him on the head... he left... " I watched as she let a single tear drop escape from her eyes and run down her dirt-streaked face. That was all she let go: one tear.
The bastard, I thought. What kind of person would do something like this? To a girl so young? I sat with her, not saying anything, for about 10 minutes. Finally I said, "I won't call the police, I won't take you to the hospital. I need you to come back to my house. My girlfriend is there. We can take care of you. I know it's hard, but you have to trust me." Her luminous green eyes (which reminded me of Billie Joe's) locked on mine. Then she nodded. I smiled, but once again, she did not smile back. Carefully, I helped her up. She cringed as she stepped, barefoot, on the hard ground.
"First things first, let's get you a pair of shoes." I said. We walked slowly down the street until we came across a shoe store that was—thankfully—still open. I bought her a pair of flip-flops, which she gratefully thanked me for. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe this girl had a family. If she did, wouldn't they be looking for her? Or wouldn't she be heading home? I decided not to ask.
If you were to watch us heading for the train station, it would be a peculiar sight. Me—a normal-looking guy, but in reality a member of one of the biggest, most well-known bands in the world; and her—a teenager, clothes torn up and dirty, mascara bleeding down her cheeks, her eyes red from crying. But then, at that moment, little did I know how helping one helpless girl out in the world would affect my life forever.
I increased my pace as I came into downtown Berkley, heading for the train station. Taxis and cars whizzed by on the street, and people passed by me. I pulled the baseball cap (my "disguise") further down over my head. I was thinking about Billie Joe and Adrienne. About how happy and how in love they were. Even though they were my best friends, I felt the slightest twinge of jealousy at how perfect their marriage was. I wondered if Tre felt the same way—seeing as we were both divorcees. At least I had Sarah, I thought.
Sarah.
I loved her, honestly. I would do literally anything for her. I told Tre and Billie Joe this and they only asked me why don't I propose to her? I asked myself that question too. I wanted to marry her. I wanted our marriage to be just like Billie Joe's and Adrienne's... if not better. But after being married twice, I was a little intimidated by commitment. I decided to hold off on popping the question.
These thoughts were clouding my mind. I was watching the ground, not where I was going. This led me to walk right into a guy—and not the type of guy you want to bump into. I looked up at the huge biker towering over me, assortments of piercings hanging from all over his face, tattoos plastered on his arms. At a time like this, I wondered why the hell I didn't have a bodyguard. "Watch where you're going, jackass!" He yelled, giving me a hard shove.
The shove sent me sprawling into a dark alleyway. I collided with a few garbage cans, knocking them over. I stood up quickly, ready to kick the guy's ass (if only he knew who I really was... ), but quickly wasn't fast enough. He was already gone. "Fuck," I muttered, wiping the shit off of my jacket. I felt a sharp tingle in my hand and looked down to see a zigzag shaped gash stretching across my palm. "Double fuck," I added, as I tried to stop the blood as best I could. And that's when I heard the noise.
It sounded like a small child whimpering. It grew slightly louder, into a crying type of noise. I whirled around—behind me—where the noise was coming from. I saw the shadow of a figure hunched down near some card board boxes. "Hello? Who's... who's there?" I called. The person did not answer; instead I just heard more of the whimpering sounds. As I made my way cautiously closer, I saw it was a young girl, who looked to be about 14. Her jeans and T-shirt were ripped and dirty. She was bleeding from the neck. I briefly noticed she had no shoes on.
Gently I knelt down beside her. Every move I made, she cringed. "It's OK." I whispered, though I didn't sound very convincing. Suddenly, the cut in my hand was nothing compared to the girl lying helplessly in front of me. I took off my jacket and pressed it against the wound on her neck. Tears streamed uncontrollably from her face. "What happened?" I asked—not knowing if I was going to get an answer. I felt I had a vague idea of what happened, anyways.
As I expected, I didn't get an answer. I was ready to take out my phone and call the police, but decided against it. God only knows what this girl had been through. I couldn't leave her here, though, and I was pretty sure she wasn't going to want to come back to my place. So, I decided to gain her trust. Glancing at my watch, which read 11:16 PM, I knew I'd never catch my train and would have to wait for the next one.
I sat down beside her and examined the bleeding area of her neck. I'm no doctor, but I could tell it was an attempt to probably kill her. "What's your name?" I asked quietly. Her chest rose and fell with staggered, frightened breathing. She opened her mouth and let out a tiny whisper: "Please don't call the police." I nodded and said, as assuringly as possible, "I won't. I don't think you need to go to the hospital, either. I was just heading home, if you'd like to stay at my place."
Wrong move, I was sure of it. She did not move, did not speak. I swallowed and looked away. There was an awkward silence before she spoke. "My name is Hailey." She whispered. I smiled at her and said, "My name's Mike." For some reason, I was hoping she didn't recognize me, or didn't know who I was. She didn't smile back. We sat for a while. I offered her my water bottle and she drank the whole thing. Finally, she spoke again.
"He just... attacked me. I... I couldn't do anything, couldn't move, it happened so fast... " She choked back the tears. I waited, saying nothing. "He tried to kill me... but I... I grabbed a beer bottle and hit him on the head... he left... " I watched as she let a single tear drop escape from her eyes and run down her dirt-streaked face. That was all she let go: one tear.
The bastard, I thought. What kind of person would do something like this? To a girl so young? I sat with her, not saying anything, for about 10 minutes. Finally I said, "I won't call the police, I won't take you to the hospital. I need you to come back to my house. My girlfriend is there. We can take care of you. I know it's hard, but you have to trust me." Her luminous green eyes (which reminded me of Billie Joe's) locked on mine. Then she nodded. I smiled, but once again, she did not smile back. Carefully, I helped her up. She cringed as she stepped, barefoot, on the hard ground.
"First things first, let's get you a pair of shoes." I said. We walked slowly down the street until we came across a shoe store that was—thankfully—still open. I bought her a pair of flip-flops, which she gratefully thanked me for. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe this girl had a family. If she did, wouldn't they be looking for her? Or wouldn't she be heading home? I decided not to ask.
If you were to watch us heading for the train station, it would be a peculiar sight. Me—a normal-looking guy, but in reality a member of one of the biggest, most well-known bands in the world; and her—a teenager, clothes torn up and dirty, mascara bleeding down her cheeks, her eyes red from crying. But then, at that moment, little did I know how helping one helpless girl out in the world would affect my life forever.
Page 1/6 | Next
