And You Can't Tell Anyone (Track Twelve: III) 2, chapter 16

Sunday passed in a hazy blur, mostly because the boys were struck with end of the weekend apathy and decided to fight it with beer and pot. Wren took advantage of their lack of observation to spend a great deal of time in her room, retching and feeling horrible. There was no chance for her to get to the store for a testing kit, because the car had not been used and using it would have wrecked the prank. Though the 7-11 was within walking distance, she was fairly sure that it did not carry what she needed to either allay or compound her distress. Even if she did go there and found what she needed, there would be no way she could get the box home and into the bathroom undetected by the boys. The bathroom still had the tendancy to explode whenever someone entered.

*Billie Joe*
Some people have no respect for the sacred. None at all. I would never fuck around with her make-up. Okay, maybe a little, but this is just too wrong.

Unhappily, he continued towelling off his hair for the second time that morning. He had to give Wren--he was sure it was she who did this--props for going for his soft spot. If he wanted to, he could leave the bottle and Tré would probably get it too. Billie Joe felt a wise expression settle onto his face. Putting down the towel, and whiping off the gel bottle, he left the bathroom.

Tré barreled past him and sprinted into the bathroom. On his way by, Tré grumbled, "God, what's took you so long?"

Billie Joe refrained from commenting as the drummer shut the door. Lazily, Billie Joe slumped against the wall and waited. Tré was never one to pride himself too highly on bathing, but he did have a sort of primitive, grungy pride. As he heard the sink's tap begin to run, Billie Joe sauntered into the living room.

Tré'll kill me for not telling him if he knows that I already knew about that. But, if he doesn't know, then he'll have all his pissiness to send at the other two.

Billie Joe was just beginning to clean his fingernails with a plectrum when Tré came rushing into the room like a stealthy, but furious flood. White marshmellow goo was dripping down the side of his face.

"Billie, we need to do something," he hissed. "Right now. Revenge. Something, anything big."

"I don't know, we don't have much time for a big thing. There's nothing we can do right now that compares with that bomb stuff they got." Intently, Billie Joe wracked his brain for an idea. As he did so, Tré wandered over to his drum kit. Billie Joe frowned as Tré began dragging his bass drum towards the middle of the room. "What're you doing?" he asked as Tré started down the hall, drum in tow.

"This'll be a little taster. It's all I can think of. You need to practise your drumming." Tré responded with a conspiring waggle of his eyebrows. "If you know what I mean."

If ever a list were compiled of the greatest pranks, Billie Joe doubted that this particular one would even make the top fifty. Nevertheless, a weak prank was better than no prank.

Billie Joe went over to the kit and eyed the cymbals. "Do we need everything?"

"I dunno," Tré said. "We at least need to take the ride and the crash." His eyes suddenly lit up.

Billie Joe was treated to that uncomfortable yet exciting feeling he always had when Tré was on a roll. Things were going to become a bit more interesting; he could tell.

"Crash and splash," Tré mused. "Crash and splash. I need a bucket." He darted into the kitchen, with Billie Joe following. After a little rummaging under the counters, the drummer found an ice cream pail. He stuck it under the sink and commanded, "Go put the ride and the crashes by the door. Actually, no, back everything up against the wall across from the door. I don't wanna get everything wet. And bring the snare. That'll be good. Put it all real close together, with just enough room for you to sit. Do you know if we got any food coloring?"

"No, um, I think so." Billie Joe started opening cupboards an peering inside. Finally, his eyes settled on a small box. "Yep. What color? There's red, blue, and yellow."

Tré shut off the tap and put the pail on the counter. "Fork over the blue."

Swiftly, Billie Joe tossed the dye to Tré before heading back to the living room. With as much quiet as he could summon, Billie Joe moved the cymbals and drum to the hallway. Tré came down the hall, holding the bucket with both hands. The water inside was now nearly black.

"Okie dokie, my lovely," he purred to the water. "We're gonna teach you to fly."

Sitting on the drum seat, Billie Joe pointed out a flaw he had discovered while waiting. "Their door opens in. You're not gonna be able to put that bucket up there."

"So? I'm not putting the fucking bucket up there anyways. Mike's too much of a chickenshit and he'd find it right off. We gotta get them not thinking." Tré shifted so that he was standing beside Billie Joe. Instinctively, Billie Joe leaned away from the water that was sloshing in the bucket. Tré rolled his eyes in annoyance. "I'm not gonna to spill the damn thing on you. As I was saying, you gotta play loud and fast. No little lead ups to start. Make it like, like a fucking explosion. If they don't come out, get real quiet and then start up again."

Billie Joe nodded and picked up the sticks. "Ready?"

"Ready."

It was a tribute to Tré's teaching just how loudly and raucously Billie Joe could play. Like a furious whirlwind, Billie Joe smote any surface he had within reach. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tré blink in a cringing motion.

Imagine waking up to this, Billie Joe thought wickedly.

"Aw God! Stop!" Wren's voice came through the door.

An evil grin spread on Billie's face as he and the snare did their best impression of a machine gun. Wren was a semi-morning person and would settle for just hollering. Mike, on the other hand, was an absolute grouch on the sunniest of days. From previous experience, Billie Joe knew Mike was the type to throw alarm clocks across the room without a word of warning.

C'mon Mike, I know you can't take this. Get up.

As if summoned by the thought, the bassist yanked open the door. Instantly, Tré threw the water at him. Perfect timing caused it to slap Mike full in the face just as Billie did a cymbal hit. As the cymbal's echoes vibrated away, blue rivulets poured down Mike's chest. Silently, Mike clenched his jaw, looked skywards and then looked back at Tré and Billie Joe. A sour smile crossed the bassist's face before he stepped back into the room and shut the door.

Through the door, they could hear Wren's muted voice. "What the hell happened to you?" Mike's response, if he made any, was not heard by Billie Joe. He was doubled over on the drum seat, laughing his head off.

Of course, Mike and Wren got their revenge when an explosion under Billie Joe's ass almost sent his head through the roof of his car.

*Wren*
Her fingernails were in grave danger of being gnawed down to the bone as she waited for her class to end and her spare to begin. The bell clanged and she nearly sprinted for her locker.

Gotta get away before he comes. I just got to get this over with.

Hastily, she poured her armful of books into her locker and slammed it shut.

Alright, if I take this door, I can avo--

"Hey."

Crap.

Wren pasted a normal expression on her face as Mike sidled up. "Hi."

"Whatcha doing?" He asked playfully.

"Getting ready to go out for a walk."

"Want company?"

Okay, now what?

"Er, don't you have class?"

"I don't have to go," he shrugged. "Where you walking to?"

Well, I guess going a bit self suicidal is better than the truth.

"To the store to get some um, girl things."

His mouth opened in a small O. Then he cleared his throat. "Yeah, uh, you're right, we've got a quiz today. I better be there. See you a lunch." Rather quickly, he departed. Grabbing her purse, Wren did the same.

Thank God that guys don't like to talk about 'girl stuff.'

All the way there, she kept her mind carefully blank and her head down. Once in the bright open store, she tried her best to remain insignificant as she slipped down to the proper aisle. Feeling unclean and indecent, she took the horrid little box up to the counter. The woman at the counter eyed the box, then looked at Wren and back to the box.

Luckily, she said nothing more than, "Five seventeen please."

Hurriedly, Wren counted out the change. Every second she spent in there was increasing her chance of being caught by someone she knew. She slapped the money on the counter and swiped up the box. She was so petrified, she nearly ran out the door with her purchase. Hunched over and clutching the box under her jacket, she went back to the school.

Now that she had the test, there was no sense putting it off. Furtively, she snuck into the bathroom. Nerves made her fingers clammy and cold. Frightened, she performed the test and waited.

Please be negative, please be negative.

Wren felt the seconds grate by as she waited. Then....

Positive.

Horrified, she stared at the little stick, willing it to change. It didn't. Minutes flickered by and still nothing. All that happened was the weight of consequences settled heavily on her shoulders. Then came realization of how exactly this would affect her life.

I'm gonna have to drop out. And what about us? I don't think I'm ready to be a parent, neither is he! I'm too young for this. What are we going to do? He's going to be shocked. But I have to tell him, but not now. Not at school. I can't stay here.

Flight reflexes took over. Wren picked up her jacket, stuffed the positive test back in the box, and burst out of the stall. Head down to hide tears, she headed out of the bathroom, right into a head on collision. She and the other girl bounced off each other and Wren's armload went flying as she hit the floor. Desperately, she grabbed for the box, but the other girl picked it up.

"What's this?" Mirabelle opened it and looked inside. "A test kit? Positive? Sounds like someone's in a spot of trouble."