(Disclaimer: as always, I do not own any recognizable persons, characters, events, or music.)
A/N: Please excuse the lack of Z-boy mania from this chapter. Character building, you know.
"And when the clock strikes twelve,
Will you find another boy to go and kiss and tell?
'Cause you know I never will;
I think we should strike a match,
And we'll hold it in the wind to see how long it lasts.
We could make the time stand still."
- Five Minutes To Midnight, Boys Like Girls
Chapter 2: A Concert and A Decision
One Week Later
She couldn't believe it. They were at a Sex Pistols concert. The fucking Sex Pistols, man! Jezebel thought. She had a hard time standing still; they'd taken the bus to Del Mar, and her leg jostled against her friend's the entire trip. On the outside though, standing in line, she appeared calm and collected. Peggy was equally as excited, but showed the same restraint in making that known to the general public, lightly brushing it off as just another adventure; even if they refused to admit it, secretly they were dying inside with explosive eagerness.
Jezebel's pale blue-gray eyes danced happily, and her curly, wily elbow-length hair stood big as ever, shifting with the slight breeze as she waited with Peggy. Her hair was known for being untamed most of the time, thanks to inheriting her father's hair texture. This was emphasized on humid days or when she spent time in the ocean, where the salt contributed to its size and added a rougher texture. They could hear distant screaming and rumbling emanating from within the venue; the stomp of feet on metal stands, the buzz from the mosh pit and surrounding area, the screams and shouts of eager fans. The pit already had a few scraggly-looking people, from what Jezebel could see from standing on her tiptoes to peer over the sea of heads in front of her. The opening act played their clashing metal with the echoes of unpracticed, raw, screaming punk voices. The din of the sold-out show amped everyone up, waiting to have the time of their lives.
"Duuude, Peggy, can you believe we're here pretty much because of T. Rex? Like, seriously, without those guys there'd pretty much be no 'punk'. I mean, maybe someone else woulda influenced someone else to make music like this – well, Iggy Pop, too – but damn. God better bless Marc Bolan!" Jezebel gushed, nudging her friend in the ribs when she caught a glimpse of the Sex Pistols' drummer walking inside the venue, unaccompanied by bodyguards.
"Ooohh yeah, Marc's pretty much a god himself... I'm not sure he needs blessing…" she mused dreamily, a far-off look in her eye as she focused on the upcoming activities. The line moved forward slowly, inching along to much fanfare.
The blood pounded in Jezebel's ears, pulsing through her veins, and the music mingled with its constant rush to her head as the pair entered the doors among the throng who had been let through. The crowd was so large and crazy, they were allowed into the venue in lots separated by ticket number. The pure, unadulterated sounds assaulted Jezebel's ears, amazing her to no end. As they entered the stadium, people bounced around, most of them dressed in all black with crazy hair and a multitude of piercings. Having been suddenly and violently shoved, Jezebel grabbed onto the leather jacket of the nearest person, who luckily happened to look quite friendly. She noted his very-tall, ginger-red Mohawk as she righted herself and brushed off her top, which was held together at the shoulders by a series of safety pins.
"Sorry! Hey, you know who's the shitty opening band?" She shouted at the top of her lungs in order to be heard over the blasting amplifiers. She figured it couldn't hurt to ask, as she'd just bumped into the guy. She had to stand on her tiptoes to get close enough to his ear so he could hear her question.
The guy turned around. "No harm, no foul! I dunno, it's the Weirdos, or some shit," he shouted back. "Hey, you wanna come up front with me? Bring your friend along," he suggested as he gestured to Peggy, who was pressed close to her side due to the pushing of the crowd, willing herself not to get lost in the sea of crazy fans.
"Fuck yeah, we do!" Jezebel shouted more loudly than before, practically screaming as two people turned to look at her. She cupped her hands around the other girl's ear and shouted to relay the message.
"Are you kidding?! I wanna get so close to that stage, Johnny can spit on me! Hell, I wouldn't care if he spat a whole bottle of water on me!" She yelled at the top of her lungs over the din, her voice carrying even better than her younger friend's, and Jezebel broke out into hysterical laughter.
The girls grabbed hands and Jezebel took a handful of Bret's jacket as they followed him to the mosh pit in the front of the arena, pushing and shoving people out of the way as they went.
"Hey, know any place that does clean piercings? Like, near Dogtown?" Jezebel shouted to the guy who invited them up front, noticing he had a brow piercing.
"Piercing? In Dogtown?" The guy repeated loudly, contemplating this question for a moment. "Yeah – one on 5th, they're pretty cool – also one near Bicknell!"
"Thanks," she practically screamed, then returned her attention to the mass of concert madness unfolding before her.
Peggy leaned both elbows on the edge of the stage, about a foot away from the singer with whom she was not-so-secretly in love. Her eyes beheld an odd sort of glaze as if entranced, and Johnny Rotten was some sort of science specimen she was studying in a biology lab. For a second, he made direct eye-contact with her, and she squealed loudly, but the noise was lost in the crowd. She stood fully and nearly lost her balance as she bounced up and down like a pogo stick, being further jostled by the crowd in the mosh pit, and Jezebel caught her shoulders to steady the other girl. Someone shoved them again, and she could feel a bruise beginning to rise under her ribs as an elbow slammed into her. Jezebel's personal favorite member was Sid, though he couldn't sing that well and wasn't a very technical guitarist, either; in fact, she had absolutely no idea what he brought to the band, except for a bad-boy, torn-up, 'dirty punk' image. Maybe that was it. She loved his accent, and it practically made her swoon every time she heard his foul mouth utter a sound.
A raucous song queued up, and people shoved harder, banging purposely into each other, bouncing up and down with their arms stiffly at their sides. At one point, Jezebel was shoved up against the stage, giving the other side of her ribs another gnarly bruise. The screaming, discordant sounds clashed in their heads, ears ringing and bodies vibrating. By the close of the concert, Peggy and Jezebel sported quite a few fresh bruises, scratches, and at least one cut each, caused by the spikes, zippers, or straps of others' clothing assaulting them. Jezebel had a large, purpling bruise on her jaw, accompanied by a deep gash that may very well scar, to the unexpected chagrin of Skip when she returned home the next day.
The concert proved amazing as it came to a close that seemed a little too soon, she decided as she headed backstage with Peggy and Bret, the guy who invited them into the pit. Turned out, he was acquainted with the drummer, Paul. Bret was pretty awesome; he lived in Del Mar, and was on the edge of seventeen – his birthday was within two weeks. He'd been emancipated from his parents the year before, after enduring a majorly unsatisfactory home life. He was a high-school drop-out, into skateboarding and the punk scene. He only skated for fun, and found it fascinating the girls were part of an 'official' skating team. He offered to let Jezebel and Peggy crash at his apartment for the night, which was fine by them. He wasn't too much of a creep. Jezebel had no idea how a local from Del Mar could possibly know a British drummer so closely; but apparently, being the kind of guy who once wandered around following bands he idolized, he'd visited the villas of some stars with his friends, and that was where they'd met.
The minute they walked into the trashed backstage area, Peggy began hyperventilating, her entire body visibly vibrating with anticipation. Jezebel thought her friend's eyes might pop out of her head. Johnny relaxed on a beat-up old armchair Jezebel wondered how the hell this particular chair had gotten here, and how it was still amazingly in one piece. His legs were draped over one arm, his upper body across the other. He looked up for a second, recognized Bret, and looked away.
"Oi, Bret, who're these broads?" He questioned, glancing at Jezebel and Peggy and thinking the former appeared a little young for this particular concert.
"They got backstage shit, J."
"'Beckstage shit', eh? Righ' on." Johnny made direct eye contact with Peggy, who now looked like she might faint. She appeared to be holding her breath, and by that point was practically foaming at the mouth.
"You got somethin' ta say, girlie?" Sid asked as he fumbled into the room, scratching his head with a track mark-decorated arm. His glance trained upon Peggy especially, who had an awestruck expression.
"Yeah, yeah I do. We. Fucking. Love you," Jezebel answered; Peggy nodded in agreement, wide-eyed.
"Do ya, now. Well..." Sid waltzed toward his dressing room with a single jerk of his head in the direction he was heading, and Jezebel followed him.
Skip would probably kill her if he ever found out, though he pretended he didn't care about his daughter's life choices and thought he was being a 'progressive' parent by allowing her freedom. But she knew he still wouldn't have been happy about it. Tony probably would've congratulated her; Stacy would've been unreadable – hesitant because she was so young; and Jay would've been jealous, because, well, he was just 'Jay'. He always bothered Jezebel about boys, worried they'd lose their close bond if she got too close to someone who could detract from their lifelong friendship, or take her away from surfing and skating; and maybe something a little deeper, as well. Jezebel never thought of herself as a true 'groupie' of any band until that night; in fact, it didn't really hit her until the next week, when reality caught up to her. She hadn't actually had sex with him, in reality he'd just gone down on her; but it had been one of the first forays into her own 'sexual awakening'. The next morning, the two girls rode their skateboards back to the bus stop, headed home after a night to remember.
Two-and-a-Half Weeks Later
On a sunny Sunday morning, Bret called the house. Jezebel had quite frankly forgotten she gave him her number before she and Peggy left. She vaguely heard the phone ring two or three times, assuming Skip had picked up the receiver, then heard him slam it back down again as telemarketers and bill collectors called a dime a dozen, but finally answered on the third consecutive call.
Skip hollered over the din of the stereo, which he had turned up relatively high as he helped himself to a breakfast of stale beer and leftover donuts. "Li'l Bit, phone!"
Jezebel emerged from her room to answer. She yelled over the racket, "Who is it?"
"Whaaat?!" He shouted back.
"Who – oh fuck's sake, gimme the damn phone Skip!" She unceremoniously snatched it from him, stomping into the bathroom and dragging the curly cord through the hallway, closing it under the bathroom door. She locked herself in and rested atop the marble sink, feet resting on the toilet seat.
"'Hullo? I heard a lotta yelling, what's up? It's Bret," the voice on the line greeted, and Jezebel could hardly believe her ears.
"Hey Bret, how's it? That's just Skip, I'm his kid, biologically at least," she half-joked.
"'M actually moving down to VB soon, would ya mind showing me around? Thought I'd scout out the area! I'm at a phone booth on Bicknell right now. You could come meet me, get that piercing you wanted, or something? I'd love to introduce you to my buddy Marco; he's an excellent artist at that shop I was telling you about, he won't do you wrong. Why don't you meet me at the top of the Hill?" He asked hopefully.
Jezebel was bewildered and rendered completely speechless. It was very rare any guy other than one of the boys on the team wanted to hang with her, as she was essentially a pariah at the high school where she rarely attended. She was a little, shall we say, 'intense' most of the time, which was just in her nature. Her personality had been shaped by where she'd grown up, with whom she'd grown up. Growing up as one of the younger kids in a group of hard-core, rowdy, unbridled boys shaped her in ways she didn't even realize.
"Uh sure – I can meet you in, like, fifteen minutes. See ya!" Jezebel answered, pumping a fist into the air and accidentally bumping the mirror.
"Skip, 'm going out!" She shouted over the blasting record music, tucking her board under her arm and hopping toward the door while simultaneously pulling her Vans onto her bare feet.
"What the hell're you wearing?" Skip observed from an armchair in the front room where he'd recently moved from the kitchen, turning down the music to speak with a cigarette in-hand.
She paused at the door a moment, glancing down to survey her clothes which consisted of a mostly-destroyed Iggy Pop t-shirt full of holes, chopped off half-way down her midsection just below a picture of his face, a triangle swimsuit underneath, and a pair of super-old, ripped cut-off high-waisted shorts before answering smartly, "clothes."
"Okay then. Don't get arrested, little maggot…" He advised sarcastically with a chuckle, rolling his eyes as she flew out the door. This daughter of his was going to give him a coronary.
Jezebel's head spun as she stood outside, dumbly trying to remember how to get to Bicknell, then wandered down the street at a quick pace. Normally, this trip would've been an easy feat, since she'd lived in the area forever and knew it well; however, her brain just wasn't working today, and she just couldn't remember how to get to the popular skate haunt to save her life. She slowed to a walk once more, dumbfounded, and ducked into the nearest storefront to ask a clerk directions. A second later, a reset switch flipped in her brain and she snapped out of her daydream, back on-track again.
Along the way, she rolled past a group of her friends who were heading the opposite direction on various modes of transportation including bikes, roller skates, and skateboards, shouting, jostling, and causing havoc wherever they roamed.
"Where ya going?!" Jay shouted from somewhere near the center of the pack, breaking through the throng to follow her. She answered over her shoulder as a few heads snapped in her direction, intending to address the entire crowd, "gettin' my lip pierced, bitches!"
She missed the sight of Stacy shaking his head as Jay continued following her for a short time, before she noticed what he was doing.
"What – you inviting yourself along, JB?" She asked, turning to dangerously skate backwards down the sidewalk for a moment, facing him. This caused her to slow considerably, and he caught up, falling into the same pace alongside her.
"Hey, I'm not invited?" He asked, pretending to be moderately hurt by this.
"Well if you want, I can't stop you. 'M meetin' my friend, Bret," she answered, picking up the pace now. She glanced over just in time to witness him wrinkling his nose.
"Nah, catchya later," he answered; and he disappeared.
When she finally found the phone booth, she was about five minutes past her estimated time of arrival and very sweaty. She dropped her head to smell her underarm, then made a face at having forgotten to put on deodorant. She stood outside for a moment, holding her board underneath her foot, as her heart sped up; she stared through the glass at him. His long, dark-ginger Mohawk was down today, pulled into a low ponytail. He had two new visible piercings: a labret in his lip, to be exact, and another ring through one nostril. With his hair down, you could barely tell both sides were shaved short. He opened the glass door to greet her; it was amazing there was still a door on the booth, as usually the glass would've been broken out a couple days after it had been installed.
His face flushed slightly as he emerged. "Hi – the place is this way. What're you thinking of getting?" He asked conversationally. She picked up her board, carrying it over her shoulders and behind her neck as she fell into step with him, quickening her pace to match his long-legged strides.
"I was thinking a lip piercing... and I want to get my cartilage pierced a couple times. And, maybe a tattoo on my wrist?" She'd wanted this particular tattoo for a long time, but the piercings were a relatively-new revelation.
"Well, the piercing will definitely be harder to take care of – gotta make sure the holes don't close up and you don't get an infection. Tattoos don't really require much maintenance past the new stage, though you do have to make sure it doesn't get infected before it heals. It's nothing to worry about, really, I'm sure you'll take great care of it," Bret rambled.
Jezebel was all for this sudden, uncharacteristically talkative burst from him, mostly because she couldn't think of a single thing to say in response. She kept thinking of his labret piercing; how wonderful it looked and how the letters b-r-e-t were in labret, and 'Bret' was his name, which made her giggle internally.
"Here it is... I don't know how we're going to get around the policy, though. What do you think your f-" Bret began. For a moment, Jezebel forgot Bret didn't know much about Skip, other than he was pretty much always drinking, co-owned a surf shop, and loved loud music, all information she divulged the night they stayed at his place, or what he could deduce from his phone call.
"Don't worry 'bout it, Skipper'll definitely say yes – he don't care. He'll be too drunk or stoned to figure anything out until the day after, anyway," she answered, formulating a plan in which to get Skip to sign the necessary consent forms while he was lollygagging-drunk. She probably could've forged it, she mused, but why bother when he'd say 'yes', anyway?
"Let's see what you think about this place and the artist I know first," he answered as she followed him into the bright red-painted brick building, glancing around curiously.