The plot of 21st Century Breakdown isn't that easy to follow, but once I made Christian and Gloria into people in my American Idiot fic (Forgetting Whatsername) suddenly there was a clear plot. This is that plot. If you have problems with any of it (Names, ages, cameos, locations, ect.) As Billie Joe Armstrong would say: "Go fuck yourself."

Disclaimer: I'm not smart enough to write a rock opera. However, I'm (barely) smart enough to decipher one and write a fic about it.

SONG OF THE CENTURY

Gloria was always different. From the very beginning I'd known that. All of Murder City was middle class. Some parts were just better than most. Within the middle class, there were classes. I was part of the middle of the middle class. Gloria was part of the lower end. I found that out on our first day of kindergarten. Even though Gloria lived on the West side of town, she came to the schools on the East side. Because her mom was afraid of her daughter getting raped by the teachers at West. (It had happened more than once.) Ironically enough, Gloria had to ride a public bus to get to school. So did I. It was almost an unstated rule, that on the first day of school a kid had to dress up, but in way that reflected their personality. My parents sent me to school in a black button down, black jeans, and a red tie. It was the best we could afford. Every girl showed up in a dress. The girls who wore the frilly dresses that made them look like cupcakes with icing spilling over, would grow up to be popular bitches. The ones who wore dresses to short or too old for them, posers. I didn't know what to make of Gloria. The girl showed up in a yellowish-white dress and black nylons with several holes. She had dark circles under her eyes that made it seem like she was wearing eyeliner. Gloria's blonde hair hung around her face in wavy strands. She looked like one of those creepy little kids you saw in haunted houses or rated R horror movies. No one knew where she came from and they didn't want to find out. At recess the future-bitches dared each other to say hi to Gloria. She stood under the basketball hoop, like she was waiting for something to happen. One girl finally walked up to her giggling.

"Hi." She said.

"Hey." Gloria replied.

"My name is Ruby Ultramarine." The girl said waiting.

"Did you know that your name is an oxymoron?" Gloria asked. Ruby stared at her. "Because ruby is red and ultramarine is a shade of blue. Blue and red are opposites, so your name is an oxymoron."

"You're a freak." Ruby sneered.

"What was your first clue?" Gloria replied. Ruby ran off to her friends, upset that her plan had backfired. Most people don't believe that a five-year old could come up with comebacks like that, or even know what an oxymoron is, but I saw it happen. Gloria grew up in one of the worst neighborhoods I've known, maybe it taught her to be quick on her feet. Murder City was always a strange place. Growing up anywhere else your parents told you, "If a stranger offers you candy, don't take it." And you almost never had to use that knowledge. Before I got on a public bus, my parents told me, "Christian, if a stranger offers you candy, it's probably strawberry quick. Thank them, because drugs are expensive, but pass because they're bad for you." Ten minutes later I did exactly that. Another two minutes later, Gloria got on the bus. My parents said to sit on the least-urine-scented seat and don't touch the poles because I'd get MYRSA. Gloria hung onto a pole swinging around it like we were on a playground. Then she started singing. That's right, singing.

"Sing us a song of the century

That's louder than bombs and eternity

The era of static and contraband

That's leading us into the promised land

Tell us a story that's by candlelight

Waging a war and losing the fight

They're playing our song of the century

Of panic and promise and prosperity

Tell me a story into that goodnight

Sing us a song for me"

Everything that she did that day turned me on, at least as much as a five-year-old can be turned on. I don't know exactly why, but I walked away from my newly made friends and over to Gloria under the basketball hoop. She didn't even notice me until I kissed her. I might even say we were making out, except Gloria didn't do anything. She just kept her mouth in place while I kissed her. And when I pulled away, she just stared up at me. Then Ruby got a teacher and I was sent home right away. My parents yelled at me and my mom asked me where I saw something like that. I shrugged and said the bus stop that morning. They had a serious talk with me about how I wasn't allowed to have a girlfriend until middle school, or at least fourth grade. The next day I went up to Gloria and told her what my parents said. I also got fist-bumped by the future St. Jimmy. Two weeks later I was moved up a grade. I pretended to forget her. Out of sight out of mind I told myself. But that was hardly the case. I saw her on some days and on others I didn't. Gloria was always making an appearance. Getting a solo in choir songs, getting suspended, getting a job at the record store on East 12th street across from the building of robots who filed papers all day. Gloria was confident in herself, nobody made a mark on her; she knew exactly who she was and what she wanted in life. I didn't know who I was and the only thing I knew I wanted in life, was her. Gloria skipped fifth grade and moved up to sixth with me. But she didn't notice me. I was just someone in The Class of '13.

I'd been apart of The Class of '13 since Christmas of sixth grade. Anyone who wasn't in it, just said we were a bunch of punks who hung out underneath an old railroad known commonly as "The Underworld". But we saw ourselves as a group of lost teenagers living in one of the worst times in American history. We got together after school and complained about our lives to each other, generally while drinking, smoking, shooting, painting graffiti or playing music. I carried my guitar to and from school most days, sometimes I just left it inside the piano in the Underworld. The music, beer, and drugs were all good, but the graffiti was mediocre; made up if mostly names and swear words sprayed in sloppy black and red letters.

The first day of seventh grade I saw Gloria in the library. I hid behind a bookshelf. When she tried reaching for a book, I saw it on her inner left arm, "Gun for Hire" in print. And on her right wrist in cursive, "for hope". Gloria pulled down George Orwell's 1984. After checking it out I followed her to her locker where she was humming that song again. When Gloria pulled out her backpack, two cans of spray paint fell out.

"Shit." She mumbled picking them up and shoving them back in. I made the connection that day. I wanted her in The Class of '13. It took an entire year of convincing the other members, but the next year, I asked her to join.