Life Changes, chapter 1

Billie Joe was my best friend. We laughed together. We cried together. We got stoned together. We got drunk together. We hung out together. We had known each other since birth. When we got older, Billie started playing a guitar with our other friend, Mike. He played the bass. Sweet Children.

Mike was cool. Tall, thin, a little pale. But, the one thing you couldn't pass by him without noticing were his eyes. Many a time, when he would be talking to one of his girlfriends, they would compliment him on his eyes. You couldn't blame them, though. They were amazing. A blueish-green color.

When they would practice, I would usually sit on the side of the garage and listen to them play. Usually I would bring along a pencil and a notepad for sketches. They wanted me to design their demo cover. One day, they were in the middle of an Ozzy Osbourne song that they loved to play when I shouted, "I got it!" They stopped and ran over. They bent down on their knees to look at it. "Awesome!" Billie shouted in his cracking thirteen-year-old-voice. "Sweet...Children," Mike said, trying to read upside-down. "Just wait until it's colored," I smirked.

My fourteenth year on Earth was great! I finally had my first boyfriend (and no, it was not Billie or Mike) and Sweet Children was coming along nicely. I was in my room working on the demo cover (yet again) when I got a phone call. "Chassy," it was Billie," I need you to come over right now." "Alright," I said and hung up. I rode my bike the whole nine blocks to Billie's house where he was in the driveway kicking rocks. He looked up as I rode up the sidewalk. "Hey," he said in a quaky voice. "Hey," I said,"Is something wrong?" "No, not really," he said.

We walked through the house and to his room where he shut the door. He sat down on the bed and told me to come over. He pulled out his guitar and and sheet of paper that was tucked in the strings. "I need to sing you something. It's a song I wrote and I need you to tell me if it's okay," he said. "Alright," I said. He unfolded the sheet of paper, started playing and sang.

When he was done, I felt like crying. And I did. "Well? Do you like it?" he asked. I wiped the tears out of my eyes. "Yeah," I sobbed. I felt silly. "It's about my mom," he said,"and my stepdad." "Oh," I wiped another tear and calmed down,"What's it called?" "'Why do you want him?'" he said. A tear ran down his cheek as I gazed at him. As long as I'd know Billie Joe Armstrong, I had never known him to cry. I reached over and hugged him, and he hugged back. "You're my best friend, Chassy," he said through tears. "You're mine," I said.

A year later, when we were fifteen, Billie and Mike began looking for a drummer. "How are we going to find a fucking drummer in RODEO CALIFONIA?" Mike asked. "Well, we have to try," Billie said, "Hey, Chassy, wasn't what's-his-name a drummer?" "Who?" I said,"John?" "Yeah," retorted Mike, tuning his bass," How is 'Old Kriftmeyer'?" "I don't know," I said,"I don't really talk to him anymore." "Do you still remember his number?" asked Billie. "Sure," and I ran inside to call John Kriftmeyer.

Later, John rode up in his beat-up old Catalac that I had always hated. He stepped out. He looked me over. "Hey Chassidy," he said. "It's Chassy," I remarked irritabley. Billie walked over. "Hey, man," he said,"You wanna try out?" "Sure," said John casually. He strutted his way to the drum set that had belonged to my brother and picked up the sticks. "Um, you're holding them wrong," I said, arms crossed. "This is how I hold them," he snapped. He did that alot. He beat the drums, and I have to admit, he was good. Billie gazed as he ran his hand through the bush of reddish-brown hair on top of his head. He made John stop. "You're in," he said.

John Kriftmeyer later became known as Al Sobrante. He, Billie, and Mike were getting very close and I felt left out. I began thinking about it alot. One practice, I sat on a crate in Billie's garage while they played, my head resting in the palm of my had with my other hand in my lap, looking out the garage door at the clear, summer day. They stopped and Billie began asking me what I thought of the song, but I wasn't paying attetion.

"Chassy? Chassy?! CHASSY!" he yelled through the microphone. "Huh? What?!" I snapped back. "What's the matter with you today?" he said. "I don't know," I said, "Change?"