Another Broken Home, chapter 1
The 2006 school year was over, and had been so for over a month. Yet, the grounds of Pinole Valley High were still disturbed by two girls. One had black hair, to her shoulders, complemented by her dark naturally dark eyes, and white shirt and black pants. From what an onlooker would guess, she was probably in her thirties somewhere, and looked as parents would say 'responsible' compared to her much shorter companion, who's long brown hair, dark liquid eyeliner, Ramones shirt, ripped jeans so that you could see pink fishnets through the large holes and high top black Cons. She was much younger than the other, about eighteen or so.
"Rachel," she said, "You really don't have to do this, I'm just a crazed fan."
"Yeah, I know. But I don't feel guilty because, officially I am not your teacher anymore," Rachel smiled.
"Sure? I mean could you get in trouble?"
"Why? Permanent records aren't that off limits."
"Alright... if you want."
"Look, you're the crazy fan, plus its not like you don't deserve a break for once, after all you've been through this year... "
The younger girl looked down, as Rachel put her key into the door.
"Yeah," the younger one sighed, "You're right."
"So... what're you gonna do?" Rachel asked, as she opened the door.
"About... ?"
"The baby?"
"Um... I dunno."
"Abortion?"
"I don't think so, I don't have enough money."
"Adoption?"
"I couldn't do that."
Rachel looked at her former student, "You think you'll have enough time? Okay missy, newsflash: you are going to have your ex's baby, you have just received one of the more competitive scholarships to Cal Berkeley for creative writing, and you think you are going to have time to take care of a child? Plus the fact that you probably won't speak to your mother once you leave... Bridgette, you're fucked."
"Do you think I don't know that? I really don't want to talk about it today. My mother is a dumb fuck who can't even be impressed by straight A's for two years straight, and this whole town is the poorest excuse for a hometown I have ever seen."
"However," Rachel told Bridgette, as they walked into an office, "Pinole breeds famous people, and I can give you some off the top of my head right now."
"Who? Besides Billie Joe Armstrong and Mike Dirnt. I know who they are."
"Natalie Coughlin, you know, the world record swimmer, Olympian, and medallist."
"She's from Vallejo." Vallejo was right next to Pinole and Rodeo.
"Same thing. Okay, hold on so, he would have been the class of... wait, duh I know, I was there."
Bridgette began to sing that song.
"STOP!" Rachel yelled, "No singing."
"Whatever."
"You know, like I said Pinole breeds celebrities, and if Green Day is the next Ramones, like you say, there is still a spot for like the next B52's or Blondie... "
"Gee, you're a genius, I'm not even a blond."
"Shut up, so that was 1990... god, sixteen years ago... "
"Nostalgia!" Bridgette warned.
"Okay, found it," Rachel announced after a few minutes of looking, "You want the other one too?"
"Please?" Bridgette begged.
Rachel nodded, handed her an old manila folder and went back into the filing cabinet. Bridgette looked at the papers inside the folder.
"Damn," she exclaimed, "He was a naughty boy."
"Oh you think? He sold joints for two bucks!"
"Two Dollar Bill baby!"
"Hey how'd you know that?" Rachel asked, handing her another folder.
"I'm the crazed fan. Remember?"
"Eh."
Bridgette took the folders and laid them out on the table. The first folder was the permanent record of a certain Billie Joe Armstrong, and the next was of a person named Michael Ryan Pritchard. The folders were different, as it seemed Mr. Armstrong had gotten worse grades and attendance scores than Mr. Pritchard had. And, of course, Billie Joe had dropped out.
"Finished? Or do you want me to photocopy these?"
"Can we please? Then I could have bragging rights."
"Okay. It's not as though you're never going to find a trace of Green Day-"
"Sweet Children, they were Sweet Children through most of high school."
"Fine, Sweet Children then, not like you're never going to find a trace of them around here... I mean what else do we have to get fame?"
"Natalie Coughlin."
"She's not as big."
"Trust me, I know."
A few hours later, Bridgette sat in her room alone writing a song and skimming through the records. Billie Joe's worst subject had been Math and his best had been English, while Mike didn't really seem to have a best subject, as the grades he got were somewhat the same for each subject.
"Hey, Bridgette, get your ass off that floor and help me bring in groceries," Bridgette's mother yelled harshly from downstairs.
Bridgette did not get up.
"Bridgette!"
"Not coming. Do it yourself."
"What? Come and help me!"
"No!" Bridgette screamed, "Why should I? I hate you."
Bridgette's door flew open and her mother stormed in, in a rage. She stopped directly in front of Bridgette, who had stood up and was facing her defiantly.
"Go ahead," Bridgette provoked, "Hit me."
"You have twenty minutes to get the hell out of my house. If you take the car, I will call the police on you," Bridgette's mother said quietly, and slammed the door behind her.
Quickly, Bridgette began to put stuff into a bag, three notebooks (two were already filled, one was only halfway done), a case of pens, a pair of pants, random shirts, a large sweatshirt, a CD player and a huge amount of CDs, and some other necessities. Finally, she took a look at her two guitars, capturing the Martin's gleaming honey curves, and ebony fingerboard, and the Stratocaster's red body, and light maple neck. She memorized every sticker on it, along with each of the ones on the small amp next to it. Finally, she timidly grabbed a bag of picks from the floor next to the Strat and left, leaving her room to gather dust.
In her garage, she stuffed a can of soda, a water bottle, and some of the cheap snacks into her bag, and took her crappy old bike, strapping a skateboard to the backpack on her back. After taking another long look, this time at an old Jeep sitting in the driveway, next to a crappy old Ford, she left, leaving the home she had lived in, died in, and fought eternal sorrow in for the short eighteen years of her life.
Bridgette biked slowly into El Cerrito, the city next to Berkeley, as the piercing July sun beat down. She thought about Rickie, her old bastard of a boyfriend, who had gotten her pregnant. It had happened the night after Prom, and she had denied it at first, but by graduation, she obviously was suffering from changes in her body. First, it had been only a period, missed by a few days, then a week, then a few weeks, until she had missed two. Then it was the sudden cleavage, she had never had particularly large breasts, but not exactly small ones either, just average. And lastly, she had started vomiting sometimes in the mornings, when her mom had left for work, and she was alone, before school, one of her escapes.
It was just like Rickie to let her go through the whole thing alone. Sure, he was now living in Los Angeles, but hadn't he been the one who slapped her? The one who threatened her? Got her in this mess? Then on top of that dumped her? Yeah, he was. Rickie was probably the most popular 'punk' you would ever meet. He played on the football team, but listened to the Dead Kennedys, and so on. But Bridgette had wanted him, for his looks. He was one of the boys the girls always wanted, with large shoulders, and dark brown hair. For Bridgette, going out with him had made her 'popular' for a bit, and she had enjoyed the ride, having people not stare, and whisper as she walked down the hall, but smile, wave and try to be a friend.
"Fuck Rickie," Bridgette muttered, as she crossed into Berkeley. She got off the bike and began to walk. A woman in a business suit looked at her disapprovingly.
"I'm not a crack whore you know," Bridgette told the woman, feeling angry. The woman walked more quickly, not looking back. A boy with green hair, a black short sleeved shirt with a striped long one under it laughed.
"Nice," he said, from where he sat on the ground, smoking.
"Yeah, whatever."
"Oh, and nice ass," he added.
"Fuck you, you bastard," Bridgette muttered quietly, as she kept going.
As the day went on, she kept on riding, and riding, and riding. The sky began to cloud over, and as she entered one of the wealthier parts of Berkeley, she began to become tired and soon stopped outside an extremely large house, leaning her bike against a tree, and sitting down against the fence.
As seconds turned to minutes, she quickly was fast asleep, just another homeless person, joining the ranks of the many others sitting around Berkeley and Oakland for various reasons.
She was so soundly sleeping that she didn't here the little girl scream "Daddy! There's a girl here!" and a pair of strong arms lift her small, wiry body up and take her to a soft bed inside the house.
"Rachel," she said, "You really don't have to do this, I'm just a crazed fan."
"Yeah, I know. But I don't feel guilty because, officially I am not your teacher anymore," Rachel smiled.
"Sure? I mean could you get in trouble?"
"Why? Permanent records aren't that off limits."
"Alright... if you want."
"Look, you're the crazy fan, plus its not like you don't deserve a break for once, after all you've been through this year... "
The younger girl looked down, as Rachel put her key into the door.
"Yeah," the younger one sighed, "You're right."
"So... what're you gonna do?" Rachel asked, as she opened the door.
"About... ?"
"The baby?"
"Um... I dunno."
"Abortion?"
"I don't think so, I don't have enough money."
"Adoption?"
"I couldn't do that."
Rachel looked at her former student, "You think you'll have enough time? Okay missy, newsflash: you are going to have your ex's baby, you have just received one of the more competitive scholarships to Cal Berkeley for creative writing, and you think you are going to have time to take care of a child? Plus the fact that you probably won't speak to your mother once you leave... Bridgette, you're fucked."
"Do you think I don't know that? I really don't want to talk about it today. My mother is a dumb fuck who can't even be impressed by straight A's for two years straight, and this whole town is the poorest excuse for a hometown I have ever seen."
"However," Rachel told Bridgette, as they walked into an office, "Pinole breeds famous people, and I can give you some off the top of my head right now."
"Who? Besides Billie Joe Armstrong and Mike Dirnt. I know who they are."
"Natalie Coughlin, you know, the world record swimmer, Olympian, and medallist."
"She's from Vallejo." Vallejo was right next to Pinole and Rodeo.
"Same thing. Okay, hold on so, he would have been the class of... wait, duh I know, I was there."
Bridgette began to sing that song.
"STOP!" Rachel yelled, "No singing."
"Whatever."
"You know, like I said Pinole breeds celebrities, and if Green Day is the next Ramones, like you say, there is still a spot for like the next B52's or Blondie... "
"Gee, you're a genius, I'm not even a blond."
"Shut up, so that was 1990... god, sixteen years ago... "
"Nostalgia!" Bridgette warned.
"Okay, found it," Rachel announced after a few minutes of looking, "You want the other one too?"
"Please?" Bridgette begged.
Rachel nodded, handed her an old manila folder and went back into the filing cabinet. Bridgette looked at the papers inside the folder.
"Damn," she exclaimed, "He was a naughty boy."
"Oh you think? He sold joints for two bucks!"
"Two Dollar Bill baby!"
"Hey how'd you know that?" Rachel asked, handing her another folder.
"I'm the crazed fan. Remember?"
"Eh."
Bridgette took the folders and laid them out on the table. The first folder was the permanent record of a certain Billie Joe Armstrong, and the next was of a person named Michael Ryan Pritchard. The folders were different, as it seemed Mr. Armstrong had gotten worse grades and attendance scores than Mr. Pritchard had. And, of course, Billie Joe had dropped out.
"Finished? Or do you want me to photocopy these?"
"Can we please? Then I could have bragging rights."
"Okay. It's not as though you're never going to find a trace of Green Day-"
"Sweet Children, they were Sweet Children through most of high school."
"Fine, Sweet Children then, not like you're never going to find a trace of them around here... I mean what else do we have to get fame?"
"Natalie Coughlin."
"She's not as big."
"Trust me, I know."
A few hours later, Bridgette sat in her room alone writing a song and skimming through the records. Billie Joe's worst subject had been Math and his best had been English, while Mike didn't really seem to have a best subject, as the grades he got were somewhat the same for each subject.
"Hey, Bridgette, get your ass off that floor and help me bring in groceries," Bridgette's mother yelled harshly from downstairs.
Bridgette did not get up.
"Bridgette!"
"Not coming. Do it yourself."
"What? Come and help me!"
"No!" Bridgette screamed, "Why should I? I hate you."
Bridgette's door flew open and her mother stormed in, in a rage. She stopped directly in front of Bridgette, who had stood up and was facing her defiantly.
"Go ahead," Bridgette provoked, "Hit me."
"You have twenty minutes to get the hell out of my house. If you take the car, I will call the police on you," Bridgette's mother said quietly, and slammed the door behind her.
Quickly, Bridgette began to put stuff into a bag, three notebooks (two were already filled, one was only halfway done), a case of pens, a pair of pants, random shirts, a large sweatshirt, a CD player and a huge amount of CDs, and some other necessities. Finally, she took a look at her two guitars, capturing the Martin's gleaming honey curves, and ebony fingerboard, and the Stratocaster's red body, and light maple neck. She memorized every sticker on it, along with each of the ones on the small amp next to it. Finally, she timidly grabbed a bag of picks from the floor next to the Strat and left, leaving her room to gather dust.
In her garage, she stuffed a can of soda, a water bottle, and some of the cheap snacks into her bag, and took her crappy old bike, strapping a skateboard to the backpack on her back. After taking another long look, this time at an old Jeep sitting in the driveway, next to a crappy old Ford, she left, leaving the home she had lived in, died in, and fought eternal sorrow in for the short eighteen years of her life.
Bridgette biked slowly into El Cerrito, the city next to Berkeley, as the piercing July sun beat down. She thought about Rickie, her old bastard of a boyfriend, who had gotten her pregnant. It had happened the night after Prom, and she had denied it at first, but by graduation, she obviously was suffering from changes in her body. First, it had been only a period, missed by a few days, then a week, then a few weeks, until she had missed two. Then it was the sudden cleavage, she had never had particularly large breasts, but not exactly small ones either, just average. And lastly, she had started vomiting sometimes in the mornings, when her mom had left for work, and she was alone, before school, one of her escapes.
It was just like Rickie to let her go through the whole thing alone. Sure, he was now living in Los Angeles, but hadn't he been the one who slapped her? The one who threatened her? Got her in this mess? Then on top of that dumped her? Yeah, he was. Rickie was probably the most popular 'punk' you would ever meet. He played on the football team, but listened to the Dead Kennedys, and so on. But Bridgette had wanted him, for his looks. He was one of the boys the girls always wanted, with large shoulders, and dark brown hair. For Bridgette, going out with him had made her 'popular' for a bit, and she had enjoyed the ride, having people not stare, and whisper as she walked down the hall, but smile, wave and try to be a friend.
"Fuck Rickie," Bridgette muttered, as she crossed into Berkeley. She got off the bike and began to walk. A woman in a business suit looked at her disapprovingly.
"I'm not a crack whore you know," Bridgette told the woman, feeling angry. The woman walked more quickly, not looking back. A boy with green hair, a black short sleeved shirt with a striped long one under it laughed.
"Nice," he said, from where he sat on the ground, smoking.
"Yeah, whatever."
"Oh, and nice ass," he added.
"Fuck you, you bastard," Bridgette muttered quietly, as she kept going.
As the day went on, she kept on riding, and riding, and riding. The sky began to cloud over, and as she entered one of the wealthier parts of Berkeley, she began to become tired and soon stopped outside an extremely large house, leaning her bike against a tree, and sitting down against the fence.
As seconds turned to minutes, she quickly was fast asleep, just another homeless person, joining the ranks of the many others sitting around Berkeley and Oakland for various reasons.
She was so soundly sleeping that she didn't here the little girl scream "Daddy! There's a girl here!" and a pair of strong arms lift her small, wiry body up and take her to a soft bed inside the house.
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