Welcome to California, Chanel., chapter 2
In the days following, she watched out her window every day for Billie. He would pass by three or four times a day, sometimes with friends. It was usually a boy with brown hair and blue eyes, or a boy with black hair and brown eyes. A lot of the time a guy with green hair would pass by, only in a car. She didn't relate the green-haired man to Billie or his friends.
Fortunately, she wouldn't come out and say hi to Billie, or sit on the steps. She would watch, wondering if he knew up on the top floor she was watching him, wishing to be one of those friends. But she wouldn't be. She wasn't punk. Her hair was its natural black. She liked the Cure, the Clash, and Blondie, but sure as hell didn't dress like a fan of them. It didn't make much sense. After all,
Day by day, the house began to get more complete. A second-hand dining table appeared in the kitchen. A repairman fixed the plumbing. One by one, the closets filled themselves with consignment-grade clothing. A brown and red plaid couch and a television took up residence in the living room. Four beds were hauled up the stairs. Posters were taped to the white stucco walls of Soph and Chanel's room. A new phone, instead of the broken 60's-esque one, was installed in the wall. The exterior was painted eggshell white once again. And finally, the piano was taken out and sold.
The house was complete at last, one week before the start of Pinole Valley High for the year.
***
Billie had walked by the house every day. From Gilman, and back. From Tightwad Hill and back. Sometimes with Mike and Al. Sometimes alone.
Yet it had seemed Chanel had just disappeared into thin air. Today, as he was walking by, the house looked different. The outside paint was a fresh coat. Two chairs were set up on the porch.
He had seen who he suspected was Chanel's mother and sister pushing mattresses through the front door, but nothing more than that. The mother had waved and gone into the house.
He looked up and could feel someone's eyes on him.
There was a muffled scream, and a black-haired figure dissapeared behind the curtains.
Must be her, he thought. Why would she be watching him?
He looked up at the grey and white curtains and kept on walking, although he heard the distinct rumbling of a car off in the distance.
An old Cadillac barreled down the road and took a sharp corner. He recognized the driver...that drummer from the Lookouts. They played a show once together.
***
Chanel stared out the window, head propped up by her elbow, her eyes locked on Billie. Today his hair was not gingery-brown, but shocking blue. He had on a jean jacket, navy Chucks, and torn (but seemingly loved) jeans.
Her stomach did a backflip. Blue hair.
How could she ever--
She shrieked and drew the curtains.
He had seen her.
Chanel collapsed onto her bed and sighed. Next Monday at Pinole, it would be hell in a hand basket, she thought, as a few streets away, a Cadillac roared down the road, carrying the green-haired man and his drum set.
Fortunately, she wouldn't come out and say hi to Billie, or sit on the steps. She would watch, wondering if he knew up on the top floor she was watching him, wishing to be one of those friends. But she wouldn't be. She wasn't punk. Her hair was its natural black. She liked the Cure, the Clash, and Blondie, but sure as hell didn't dress like a fan of them. It didn't make much sense. After all,
Day by day, the house began to get more complete. A second-hand dining table appeared in the kitchen. A repairman fixed the plumbing. One by one, the closets filled themselves with consignment-grade clothing. A brown and red plaid couch and a television took up residence in the living room. Four beds were hauled up the stairs. Posters were taped to the white stucco walls of Soph and Chanel's room. A new phone, instead of the broken 60's-esque one, was installed in the wall. The exterior was painted eggshell white once again. And finally, the piano was taken out and sold.
The house was complete at last, one week before the start of Pinole Valley High for the year.
***
Billie had walked by the house every day. From Gilman, and back. From Tightwad Hill and back. Sometimes with Mike and Al. Sometimes alone.
Yet it had seemed Chanel had just disappeared into thin air. Today, as he was walking by, the house looked different. The outside paint was a fresh coat. Two chairs were set up on the porch.
He had seen who he suspected was Chanel's mother and sister pushing mattresses through the front door, but nothing more than that. The mother had waved and gone into the house.
He looked up and could feel someone's eyes on him.
There was a muffled scream, and a black-haired figure dissapeared behind the curtains.
Must be her, he thought. Why would she be watching him?
He looked up at the grey and white curtains and kept on walking, although he heard the distinct rumbling of a car off in the distance.
An old Cadillac barreled down the road and took a sharp corner. He recognized the driver...that drummer from the Lookouts. They played a show once together.
***
Chanel stared out the window, head propped up by her elbow, her eyes locked on Billie. Today his hair was not gingery-brown, but shocking blue. He had on a jean jacket, navy Chucks, and torn (but seemingly loved) jeans.
Her stomach did a backflip. Blue hair.
How could she ever--
She shrieked and drew the curtains.
He had seen her.
Chanel collapsed onto her bed and sighed. Next Monday at Pinole, it would be hell in a hand basket, she thought, as a few streets away, a Cadillac roared down the road, carrying the green-haired man and his drum set.
