(Disclaimer: Song lyrics and recognizable persons/characters do not belong to me. I only own Jezebel and Bret.)

"So, if you please, take this moment;
Try if you can to make it last.
Don't think about no future,
And just forget about the past;
And make it last."

-Reach for the Sky, Social Distortion

Chapter 5: More Than One Birthday Surprise

Jezebel awoke on Sunday, the morning of her fifteenth birthday, with a massively-pounding headache. She could already tell this day was going to be less enjoyable than she would have liked. Firstly, right out of the gate she rolled out of bed, and... 'SMACK!' directly onto the hardwood floor, bumping her head on the nightstand in the process and earning herself a nice bruise. She flung her arms out to the sides in frustration, unwittingly punching the bed-frame and causing her to curl her hand inward toward her body, laying still for a few moments before reluctantly pulling herself to a stand. This morning was already hell, and she hadn't even been awake a full minute. It was two hours earlier than she would normally wake on a Sunday, if she were skipping surfing (which she was today), putting the current time around 8 AM. This, though she didn't yet know it, would throw the first wrench of the day into Bret's perfectly-planned 'birthday morning' scheme.

She walked across the hall into the bathroom, turning on the faucet. She pulled the plunger and heard the water roar into the showerhead, spluttering and splattering down into the porcelain tub and bouncing off the shower curtain. The following events would serve as reason-number-two this day was going to hell in a hand-basket. As she heard the water spray, she stared into the mirror at her disheveled appearance for perhaps a minute too long before stepping in without checking the temperature (clearly missing the obvious signs, such as steam or the room gathering heat) then immediately bolted back out as the freezing-cold water hit her skin like a freight train, shocking her awake. To top it all off, she banged her knee on the sink as she rushed out with a shout: "What the flying fuck?!"

Grabbing a cheap towel from the alcove behind the bathroom door and rushing out, she banged on Skip's door with the free fist not clutching the towel around her shivering, freezing body. She seethed at top-volume as she violently threw his door open, shouting, "what the fuck happened to the fucking hot water, Skip?!"

Skip, who had overslept as usual, stumbled out of bed and over to his doorway, supporting himself in the doorframe. "Ah shit, waa'er prolly go' shut off again..." he slurred, slightly hung-over (if not still mostly drunk) from his previous nights' partying and festivities. The 'slow-down on drinking' stint he'd previously been on was beginning to subside, leaving sobriety behind in the dust once more.

"God... that's it, I'm going to Bret's. Get up and take your ass to work, Skip! Why do I always feel like the parent?" Jezebel fumed, stomping off to her room.

"Wha', no breakfast?" He tried to make a joke, failing miserably.

"NO! TAKE-A-FUCKING-ASPIRIN-AND-GO-TO-WORK, DAMNIT!" She screamed from her bedroom, mostly all in one breath as she yanked on underclothes, black track pants, and a loose, neon-green mesh Adidas t-shirt with the neck cut out to expose her shoulders and a black undershirt beneath it.

"...but it's Sunday…" she heard him whine faintly in the background as she stuffed some clothes into her book bag along with a pair of Vans, her combat boots, makeup, a hairbrush, and various other hygiene items. She also stuffed the pile of photos from her dresser into the overflowing bag. In her haste, she nearly forgot to grab her set of house keys, just in case Skip decided to lock the house for once. In the garage, she climbed barefoot onto her old, dirty, mostly-broken bicycle, laid her skateboard across the handlebars, and exited, pedaling down the street in the general direction of the beach toward Bret's apartment. Her bag bulged with effort, barely able to be zipped closed, and a shirt sleeve trailed out in the wind.

Once she arrived, she stowed the rickety bike under the first set of stairs, locking it around a support beam. It was an open-air apartment complex, and she had to climb four decks to get to his door, apartment 483. After ascending, she took a few moments to collect herself and drew in slow breaths before knocking as lightly as she could. She didn't dare wake anyone else before 9 AM – not in this complex, not in this neighborhood. A confused Bret opened the door, messily clothed in an old t-shirt and jeans, his hair a crazy mess sticking out in all directions.

"Bella? What're you doing here? You're supposed to be... uh, can you hold on a second?!" He yelped, closing the door in her face without inviting her inside. She sighed and rested her forehead on the siding next to the front door. The cool vinyl felt nice against her skin, even though the wall was significantly dirty. Her head was still pounding terribly from her headache when he re-opened the door and motioned her inside.

"What was that about? Never mind, I really couldn't care less right now... can I ask a big favor?" She looked slightly hurt, he could see it hiding behind her eyes.

"I guess; shoot," he drawled, furrowing his brow and pinching the bridge of his nose at the super-bright light of the sun blasting him in the face through the curtains behind the couch, as he sat straddling a backwards kitchen chair facing her.

Flopping down unceremoniously onto his old, worn, comfortable couch and dropping her bag to the floor, she asked: "Bret, can I stay with you a while? I can't stand living with Skip right now. I know we haven't known each other for long, but... they shut the hot water off this morning – we're two months behind on the electric bill, and I expect they'll cut that off soon, too – I don't want to burden Jay and Mom, but I really need somewhere to crash for a bit. You'll hardly notice me... d'you mind?"

"You can stay as long as you need; but you know, running away from problems won't help. Do you want something to eat? I have toast," he offered, standing from his chair and leaning down for a one-armed hug.

"No, that's okay, all I really need is some aspirin and a shower... can you help with that?" She looked downright haggard as she stood and brushed some imaginary dust from her top.

"No problem. Bathroom's in there..." he said, guiding her toward a small, avocado green-tiled bathroom with his hand on her back. A calico cat with black mask markings around her eyes perched on the closed toilet seat. He looked uneasy for a second, as if expecting Jezebel not to take lightly to cats, then added, "sorry, it's not so nice, but it's clean. Oh, by the way, that's just Xochitl, she loves water. I caught her a few weeks ago back in the alley with a can tied to her tail. You don't mind cats, d'you?"

"Oh no, I love cats," she responded as she reached out to scritch Xochitl comfortably between the ears, then turned to set her bag on the ground. "I used to take care of the strays around our house, til Skip and the boys scared them all off."

She emptied the bag's contents onto the bathroom floor, placing her toothbrush, hairbrush, and makeup on the counter, and left everything else strewn across the floor. She closed the door, turned on the water, and jumped into the nice, warm, clean shower. The cat lazed on the back of the toilet, content to hang out in the steam-filled room as Jezebel reveled in the calming, beautiful goodness that was unfettered hot water.

Bret paced around his small living room, birthday gifts for Jezebel sitting on the couch in front of him. He'd wrapped the tapestry and beads in newspaper, serving as makeshift wrapping paper; the tiger sat dumbly on the middle cushion, staring at him. To say he was slightly uncomfortable would be an understatement as he stood in the middle of the apartment, absolutely dumbfounded as to what to do next.

Jezebel stepped out of the shower and opened the bathroom cabinet. She grabbed a bottle of aspirin and popped four into her mouth; the bottle said one or two, but she always took more. She unceremoniously grabbed a black halter out of the pile of stuff on the floor and slid that on, choosing high-waisted, acid-yellow, large-belled pants to go with it. She wrapped a decorative silver belt around her waist comprised of a series of large circles, pulled her floppy combat boots over her bare feet, smothered her eyes with heavy, black eyeliner, and brushed the ends of her her unruly hair, taming it as much as could be expected. She brushed her teeth and smooshed all her possessions back into the bag, spraying herself with one of Skip's old colognes she'd stolen on her way out of the house.

Bret stood outside the bathroom; he'd changed into a clean, white t-shirt with a beat-up, dark-blue blazer over it, wearing the same light pair of jeans in which he'd slept. He'd planned on doing laundry that morning at the laundromat, but was determined to devote his day to Jezebel. He even put his hair into his signature Mohawk and applied some eyeliner. She wondered about the special occasion; then, she remembered she was turning fifteen today. It was her birthday, and she'd completely forgotten.

"You were born on this day, July 12, 1962, at 3:35 AM, in Manhattan, New York; your mother named you Jezebel, because she knew you'd be a beautiful rebel. In January 1965, she dropped you off at Skip's house. And in May 1976, I met you at a Sex Pistols concert. You were beautiful, and you got pushed into me and decided to start talking to me. Today is July 12, 1976, and you're fifteen years old. I know so many things about you, but there's one question I want to ask: I was wondering if you'd go out with me." He looked hopeful, leading her to the couch. He sat on the left side and motioned her to take a seat opposite him, taking her hands in his. Her mouth flopped open and closed a few times.

"Ah... uh... I... okay," she fumbled with uncertainty, eyes sparkling. She was close to speechless as she hopped across the space between them on the couch and kissed him on the cheek, hugging him tightly. "Yes!"

"These are for you," he mumbled into her hair as she pressed against him. A huge smile plastered itself across his face.

"I'm in a much better mood now... so, I guess I should apologize to Skip for storming out... but I really don't want to live with him right now. Do you think I can still crash here?" She looked up, releasing her grip.

"Stay as long as you want," he answered, rubbing her back. "You want to open your gifts?" He grinned broadly, not unlike a child on Christmas morning, "well, actually this one's already open," he motioned to the stuffed tiger.

"Yes, it is. I love it so much!" She replied, squeezing the large toy in both arms. She placed it back on the couch, reaching for the other two wrapped gifts.

Jezebel and Bret walked into the Zephyr storefront hand-in-hand, and she walked straight through to the shaping studio. She inhaled the heavy scent of pot, but thought nothing of it. Skip sat in the back with another guy who worked there named Montoya, passing a joint between them and listening to the radio. Chino was making fun of Nathan as he swept the floor half-heartedly. He didn't really do much, and it just got worse again anyway; Skip could never tell the difference between clean and dirty. One or two other friends milled about, doing odd jobs around the shop floor.

"Skip, I'm sorry I screamed at you, and stormed out of the house an' shit. I just can't take living with you right now. I'm gonna stay with Bret a while. Dude, get your shit together. You really need to pay the water bill and the electricity," she reminded; she thought back to earlier that morning when she couldn't help but feel like the parent of the family.

"Oooh, yer kid riffin' on ya, Skipper?" Montoya teased with a laugh hidden in his question.

"Well, y'ar my kid after all. Wouldn't expect nothing less. And don't worry about it, baby-doll – yer old man's got it all under control. You worry about your birthday today," Skip ignored Montoya's cat-calls and didn't seem to understand he'd be living completely primitive, if not on the street, if he didn't pay some bills soon.

"Sure, Skip. Whatever; never mind," she acquiesced as she turned to go.

"Hey, Jez, wait." He stopped her with his words. "Pick out a board; for your birthday. I'm kinda tight on cash right now."

"No shit," she mumbled under her breath, simultaneously rolling her eyes at the lame excuse. On the way out of the shop, she grabbed a plain, black surfboard from the display stand in the front window, pulling it out the door along with herself and Bret.

"So, uh, what do you wanna do today, Bella?" Bret asked once they were outside and headed back toward the apartment.

"I thought I'd look into getting my learner's permit – y'know, so I can get my license to drive eventually. It'd be great to drive Skip's old truck around, legally, instead of walking or biking or skating. Lord knows he's hardly sober enough to use it," Jezebel answered.

She had wanted to start working toward her license for a while; the act represented freedom, not being tied down in one place. Skip tried to teach her to drive a little earlier that year, but most of what she knew she'd learned from Stacy who had his own car, lots of patience, and was not often drunk.

"Euhm... where does that happen, again?" Bret asked, pulling on his left earlobe in nervous habit; he still didn't have his license either, but he couldn't afford a car so it didn't really matter.

"At the DMV. Unfortunately, it's downtown. Wanna come? I've only got a bike... but there's pegs on the back. There's no way I'm skateboarding my ass all the way there," Jezebel paused as she smiled to herself at the thought of Bret on the back of a bicycle with his huge Mohawk and leather jacket; she pulled a large, plain black sweatshirt with the neck cut out from her overstuffed bag and slipped it over her head, then finished, "we gotta go back to my house to get it, though."

"I guess," he answered simply.

After a fifteen-minute fanfare including the pair traversing the few streets between Bret's apartment and Skip's house, the old bicycle in question wobbled along, Bret balancing on the back pegs, Jezebel pedaling away as quickly as she could. It felt awkward riding a single-person bike in tandem, squished against someone you'd only just begun dating, but he quickly forgot his unease due to Jezebel's erratic pedaling. Bret had a mildly-horrified expression on his face, unable to quite process just what was happening as the pair sped along, whilst Jezebel grinned a wide Cheshire cat-like grin. The DMV was a small, dingy building in a strip mall smack in the middle of town, right next to a seedy sandwich shop, the kind not uncommon in midtown. Jezebel locked the bike around a lamppost.

Inside, the front desk was occupied by a large, ancient-looking woman. She grabbed a number from the ticket dispenser and stepped into the queue. The waiting line was uncharacteristically short; nevertheless, she tapped her foot impatiently. To their benefit, the line moved quickly, and the lady behind the desk peered at her through squinting, watery green eyes behind coke-bottle lens glasses; Jezebel accurately guessed her vision was failing.

"How old are you, dear?" The woman asked, a slight superiority overtaking her tone as the sight of the unusual pair.

"I'm fifteen today, thank-you-very-much. I want to register for my learner's permit; can we get this over with?" Jezebel snapped back in a rude voice. The receptionist pulled out a giant heap of paperwork, as well as a paper copy of the pre-driving test, which Jezebel eyed warily with an overly dramatic sigh.

"Take these documents home and have them signed by a legal parent or guardian. You will not be allowed to drive without a licensed driver in the front seat until you are sixteen years of age and have passed your official driving test. Happy learning," she rattled off in a rehearsed, emotionless monotone.

"That was madness. Pure, utter madness," Jezebel complained as she sped along back to Zephyr with a sour attitude, the necessary papers crumpled and shoved into her back pocket, her mood just one of the many side-effects from their trip to the DMV. And, worse, she had to get more 'authorized signatures' from daddy-dearest, with whom she wasn't exactly thrilled at this point. Bret, slightly less horrified this way around, relaxed his grip on her shoulders as they approached the street where the store was located.

She flung open the shop door with gusto and almost sent a Z-boy sprawling; he was leaning casually against it, but caught himself before he crashed to the ground and nearly got trampled. It was Nathan Pratt, to whom Jezebel referred as 'the Brat', and who stuck out his tongue at her as she lightly made fun of him for leaning against the door. She heard faint whispering and giggling coming from the shaping area, and a blond head popped slyly around the doorframe, hoping to be inconspicuous; Nathan had been the lookout for the past hour, and he bolted across the room, shoving the blond head back inside.

"What the –" Jezebel began, pulling Bret's hand.

When she reached the room in the back, a mass of mostly-blonde heads popped up seemingly out of nowhere, with some other hair colors sprinkled throughout; they were all crowded around a tan-bodied second-hand acoustic guitar. Jezebel had played guitar since she was nine years old, though she'd never owned one herself. She'd been in band in school every single year since age ten, which did not require her to produce her own instruments. She hadn't played much lately, as her school attendance had been quite spotty, but she could still hold her own at the annual concert. Stacy stepped forward, followed by Shogo and Peggy.

"It's for you," Stacy said simply, grinning expectantly from ear to ear.

"We all went in on it..." Peggy added, moving slightly closer to Stacy.

"We knew ya played since a li'l kid; now ya got yer own." Shogo gestured toward the instrument.

"Go on, pick it up, play something," Jay's voice inexplicably popped up next to her ear, where he'd weaseled through the mob crowded into the small space. Jezebel reached for the neck of the guitar; Bret handed her the strap. She asked, "Did you know about this?"

"Yeah..." Bret nodded sheepishly, wiping sweat from his forehead as he helped her place the strap over her shoulder.

She strummed the first few notes of Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here just as Wentzle ran in from outside.

"I got the picks guys, she here yet?" He skidded comically to a halt, nearly knocking Jezebel off her feet as they collided; his face turned an embarrassing shade of puce.

"Heh-heh... hey babe… I see you... discovered your present. Here's some picks so your fingers don't bleed much!" He chuckled, dropping five small triangles into her palm.

"Gee, thanks…" Jezebel stuck all the picks into her pocket except one. This one was old and sort of worn, but just felt right in her fingers as she grasped it, pulling it over the strings. She played a few more chords of the song before placing the guitar safely atop a desk on the far side of the room. She found Bret sitting on a stool on one side of the small room whilst the rest of the group chattered amongst themselves, deciding what to do next. Jezebel pulled a stool up next to him and took his hand in hers.

"Oooh, you two birds officially an 'item' now?" Tony teased with a goofy, lopsided grin when he noticed them sitting together, leaning in close to be heard above the din.

"Boy, do you catch on fast!" Jezebel shot back in a laughing voice, playfully pushing his shoulder away from her.

A second surprise of the day shook the small storefront.

"Hello?" A raspy, tired feminine voice shouted from the front of the shop, "anybody home? Knock, knock."

Jezebel handed the guitar to Jay, who was closest, and casually walked out front.

"Uh, hi, we're closed…" she said cautiously, sounding much like Skip in that moment. "Can I help you... ma'am?" She tacked on a term of authority for good measure on occasion of her birthday as she eyed the woman up and down.

"The door was open. Looking for Jezebel Engblom... I assume her name's Engblom now. Know where I can find 'er? Or Skip." The woman had long, brunette hair and green eyes; she was only a few inches taller than Jezebel, maybe 5'5.

"...that's me, I'm Jezebel. What of it?" Jezebel asked suspiciously, narrowing her eyes to slits and crossing her arms out of habit. Bret walked out of the back room and put a hand on Jezebel's shoulder for support.

"I'm Lita Ingersoll, yer ma. God, you look nothin' like I remember," the woman responded breezily with a slight New York accent.

Jezebel almost lost her balance in shock; Bret caught her around the middle and helped her back into an upright position. She leaned her head against his shoulder for both physical and mental support; she felt as if she'd been punched in the gut. Skip never talked about her mother; he only told her she'd abandoned Jezebel when she was three. Now, she was just going to waltz back in again?

"Okay, what's this about? What d'you want with her?" Bret could no longer restrain himself while this woman who claimed to be Jezebel's mother waltzed back into her life and tore it down with a few choice words.

"Just came to say, 'Happy Birthday' to my little girl, is all," her mother pouted, trying to sound sympathetic.

"That's bullshit, Lita. What do you need, money? Why're you showing up now, after all this time? I'm fifteen! I lived without you this long, never knowing who you were; I didn't even know what you looked like, not that it matters. You look like absolute shit." Jezebel's eyes were beginning to water; she refused to admit they were tears as she roughly pushed them back with her mind.

"Ok, Jezebel Lola Ingersoll, or Engblom, or whatever your name is – there's something I need… 'n you're the only one left who can help me..." Lita began.

Whatever it was, Jezebel was certain it would not be something she could just let go when all was said and done. She had a sinking, sick suspicion about this whole terrible situation. For all the ups in her day, it certainly had an awful amount of downs, and this one was proving to be more painful than any of the physical downs she'd endured thus far combined.