What My Father Doesn't Know

Life is too short, why let it pass you by?

This is the story of Ada Armstrong.
It tells of everything she did.
All of her secrets.
Every single one of her mistakes.
And everything her father did not know.

But most of all, it tells a story of growing up.


Prologue


There was nothing like smoking a hefty stash of weed and listening to a Beatles record on a Friday night while the world passed you by. We laid down on her roof, Megan and I, underneath the vast blanket of a star lit sky; the smoke we blew from our mouths into wispy swirls intermingled with the misty fog of the Bay Area. The music drifted up from the record player below us in her attic, and besides the wind that playfully tickled the swaying trees into a song like softness, only our giddy voices were borne on the October air.

I loved Megan, she was my best friend. She was the only one who could comprehend me despite my overflowing basin of emotions and my almost mental mind. She understood the art that flowed from my paint brush, the poetry that I would scribble down on any scrap paper, and the tunes that my fingers would somehow strum out on my acoustic. If there was a science to grasping me, Megan would win the Nobel Prize for such a discovery.

I was so close to Megan, yet I knew almost nothing about her. For me, she was a puzzle to be put together, a maze to be accomplished, and a mystery to be solved. She truly withheld the idea of rebellion in her heart, and every night I spent with her were such adventures that even Indiana Jones would envy them. Maybe that is what attracted me most about her. Besides her petite frame, long brown hair that cascaded down her back in lazy curls, and her brilliant smile, it was her erratic soul that kept me intrigued with her.

I passed her the joint we had rolled up earlier with her brother’s hidden jackpot of marijuana and watched her take a hit. The moonlight was hitting her at a perfect angle; the white illumination enhanced the profile of her face and cast shadows that dramatized her beauty. My fingers itched to sketch her, but the inspiration soon ended when she turned to hand me the joint and a lonely cloud drifted onto the moons path.

In the current darkness, I heard her speak softly, a pitch just barely above John Lennon’s melodic voice that sang into the night. “Did you know that someone at this exact same moment is doing the very same thing as we are?” Her voice was calm, but had an exuberant edge to it. “Can you believe that two other girls somewhere out there in the world are smoking some stolen reefer up on a roof in the late hours, way past their bedtimes, behind their parent’s backs?”

I exhaled some smoke and chuckled, suddenly fascinated by what she had just said. “No, I can’t believe it.”

Really, I couldn’t. After all my fathers hard work of engraining abstinence and proper decision making into me, I couldn’t believe some of the things that I had already done. I might have done some stupid antics, and I might have taken some real risks, but my father always told me that it was better to regret something you have done, than something you haven’t. Of course, that saying is far from a few of the things that I have experienced, for my life was an escapade out of the confines of reality; a long and unpredictable journey of growing up and discovering myself beneath the mask of fame. I didn’t know what people expected of me; was I supposed to be the example of perfectionism, being an obedient good girl to show the camera lens that my father was as equally talented at home as he was on stage? Or was I supposed to grow in the field of my roots and indulge in all of the devilish pleasures that this lifestyle could bring, following in the footsteps that my father had tried to sweep away.

People never understood why I did the things that I did. They thought that with all of the money I had, there was no reason for me to stoop down into a life of mutiny. But if I hadn’t, what would my existence have been like? Ritzy hotel after ritzy hotel, night after night sitting on the tour bus while they partied, school day after school day of trying to not attract attention to my family, album after album, and year after year of success that would have eventually towered over me to the point of where I would always just be Ada, the daughter of Billie Joe Armstrong. I refused to let that happen.

I adored my father, more than I adored anyone else on the entire planet, but life was just too short. There were too many opportunities and new experiences that I couldn’t let pass me by. It put me in agony to know what he had no idea of and that I always had to lie to his face. But there was somewhere within me that felt that everything I did was alright; a necessary evil, a planned sequence of destiny. And when I hugged my father, sometimes it felt like he knew this too.

“Actually, you know what I really can’t believe Ada?” Megan’s sudden whispery voice interrupted my jumble of thoughts. The small orange embers of the joint were dying out, and the moon was now completely covered behind the curves of the full rain clouds.

“What?” I asked, trying to make out her outline in the pitch black darkness.

“That we made it.”

We glanced at each other, and our proud smiles seemed even brighter than the hidden stars.

i love it!!! more soon please?

That was good, Emily. More?

Wow. That was amazing and so descriptive. I love it.

Thank you so much everyone! I really appreciate it! <3

Part 1 – Becoming Me
Chapter 1

When I was young and frightened by my imagination in the late hours of the night, I would often seek comfort from my father. I would crawl out of bed, dash down the stairs, and quietly tip toe into the basement where I would usually find him. He’d be sitting there at his desk in deep thought; his face would be wrinkled into concentration, his hand would be yanking at the strands of his knotted hair while the other hastily wrote things down, his foot would be tapping with impatience, and his lips would be moving slightly, pronouncing mumbles. Crumpled papers of attempted songs would be strewn all over the floor, his acoustic would be laying by his agitated foot, and right next to him on his desk would be baby Joey in his infant car seat, either finally caving into sleep or stubbornly crying.

I hated to disturb him, to interrupt his train of song like thought into a severe wreck just because I was afraid of something my mind conjured up. But whenever I would whisper, “Daddy,” and let tears roll down my rosy cheeks as I nervously played with the last button of my pajama shirt, he would not sigh in annoyance but smile up at me with adoration.

“Look at you,” he would say, pulling me into his lap as he would wipe tears away and kiss me on my forehead. “You have been gifted with my wild imagination, baby. This is the fourth time you have been scared this week.”

It sounded like he was trying to make a point of how tired he was with my problem, but instead he chuckled. It was like he enjoyed my interruptions, like he was happy to see me. Whenever I would run to him, he would always be eager to show me his work, or teach me how to play his newest idea of a melody, or even sing to me. On occasion, if I begged him enough, he would tell me the story of how I came to be.

“Once upon a time,” he would always start out, making it easier for a three year old to comprehend the tale. “There was a man who lived for his art. Ever since he was a child, he had been surrounded by the diverse beauty of music; from the strokes of piano keys when he was five, from the beats of his father’s drums, from the pitches of his mothers soothing sing-song voice, from his very first guitar. Music turned out to be his only outlet, the only thing he really understood in the whole wide world. Eventually, he came to make exactly that. Music, and he wanted everyone to hear.”

This beginning would always catch my attention, even at my tender age, and I would anxiously wait for him to delve right into the rest. I could always imagine everything clearly whenever my father told me stories; they were like movies projected on my mind. As I got older, I started to understand and picture the stories even better. I would lose myself with every word he spoke and before I knew it, I would no longer be in the common surroundings of my home, but back in Minnesota in a small, hot, smoky club.

“He wrote his very first song at the age of fourteen, and from then on, he continued to write. He would grind out all sorts of songs; songs about life, songs about change, songs about feelings, and of course songs about love. But he never wrote such a love song until he met the young woman that was destined to be his soul mate.

“It was there in that dinky club where he first set his eyes on her. He and his band that he came to form were on their very first tour. They toured all over the states, wherever they could play, driving from gig to gig in a clunky old van. That night they played in the twin cities of Minnesota; it was a summer Sunday night, and not many people had showed up to see them. But that didn’t matter at the time for the man; after he caught her eye, he only wanted to sing to her.

“She couldn’t have been human, she was too beautiful. Her hair fell far down on her back in dark dreadlocks, her skin withheld this creamy white radiance, and her eyes were like black emeralds that he swore would twinkle in the light. He almost lost his voice at the sight of her down in the front, bopping up and down to the music and flashing a breath taking smile that was outlined in red lipstick. For the rest of the show he remained numb, only seeing her in his vision.

“Immediately after the small concert, he desperately searched for her. He wondered if she felt the connection he had felt when their eyes met. He wound his way through all of the show comers; nonchalantly shrugging off the compliments and pats on the shoulders he received for his performance. He was so focused on finding the girl with the black dreads and gleaming eyes that not even the new fans that they had recently won over could stop him. When he finally did spot her over in a corner with a group of her friends, he stopped dead in his tracks. The room was full yet it felt like it had emptied, and when she turned to glance casually around the room in a moment of laughter, her eyes halted directly on him. The young man made an attempt to make it look like he was just taking a stroll, but he couldn’t move any longer. She was gazing at him across the room, a look of awe about her face, and all of a sudden she began to strut towards him.

“Then, the goddess spoke. “Do you know where I could find your record?”

“The question had barely broken through the surface of his thoughts. He was mesmerized by her, so captured by her beauty even more now that she was only inches away from him. The man quickly caught himself though, and replied that unfortunately their album had not been released yet.

“He expected that a disappointed look would creep upon her flawless face at his reply, but she smiled instead. She dug into her purse for a pen, grabbed his hand, and then scribbled something down on his palm. The man’s heart was racing at the feel of her soft, warm fingers wrapped around his, and in a clouded state of admiration, he bent down slightly to smell her hair before she finished writing. It smelled of a subtle sweetness, like roses, and it was a scent that would come to frequently remind him of her. The lady had given him her phone number, and then shyly asked for his in return. Of course, he gave it to her.”

At this point in the story I would find that my father had veered off into remembrance. His eyes would slightly glaze over, he would add in more details, and he would completely forget that I was the one he was telling the story to. I didn’t mind though, it made my walk down memory lane last longer.

“That encounter was the dawning of a beautiful relationship. The lady turned out to be just as gorgeous in the inside as she was on the outside. He adored her personality, was fascinated by her intelligence, and was permanently infatuated with her. She understood music the way he did, and that was his favorite thing about her.

“She felt the same about him as well. She often told him that she was amazed by what he could come up with, and so short in the time. She told him that he was gifted and that one day everyone would listen to his music, just like he had wanted. He believed her, and after he wrote his famous song about her called ‘Two-thousand Light Years Away’, they fell in love.

“The two got married after only five months of dating. They had fallen in love rather quickly, but they knew that it was meant to be together. The music had brought the lady and man together, and whenever music played they would feel as if they were one. The wedding took place in her best friend’s back yard; it wasn’t much, but at the thought of belonging to each other, it was all worth it. And before they knew it, they were expecting a baby. That is how you came to be.”

My father would now snap out of his daze, and the sparkle would return to his eyes. He would then tickle me out of my attentive and quiet state, lift me up into his arms, and tell another story of when I was a baby.

“When you were born, my world completely changed,” he would say while staring deeply into my eyes, a proud smile appearing on his tired face. “I never knew I could’ve loved anything as much as I love you.

“You were the very first baby of Green Day, and everyone showered you with attention. You were just a little being, something many of us had never experienced before. Nobody could resist you with your big, curious green eyes, your tufts of black curls, and the character you grew into. To this day you are irresistible, and I am more thankful than any other father out there to have you!”

An eruption of giggles and smiles would come from me after he would tell me this, and my father would laugh as well. But then we would quiet down, the mood would become serious, and a very father-daughter talk would come about.

“The first time I held you in my arms and stared into your precious face, I made a promise to you. I promised that I would try and be the best father to you; to always watch over you, to guide you, and to make sure that you don’t make the same mistakes I did.”

It was the same things that most fathers would tell their children, just a knee-jerk obvious saying. I knew that my father was being honest, and I know he was trying his very best, but there were just some things he couldn’t protect me from.

“I’m still keeping that promise, and I always will,” he would tell me, ending the story. I’d be pretty sleepy by then, and he would kiss me on the forehead and lead me to my bedroom and tuck me back in. He would then forget he left baby Joey alone in the basement and run downstairs while I faded into sleep.

Oh wow. That was so good! You are a great writer!

^ Thats really good; you are a good writer

oh wow! great story!!! i loooove it!! more sooon!!! lol

WOW.
This is so mindblowingly amazing !
More soooon please !! =D