Cemetery Street

The one thing I did remember was that some of my supposed friends - well there really was only one in particular - had abandoned me. Since my accident, I hadn't heard from Steve Lucas. "I have a hard time getting upset over somebody else when my supposed friends are no where to be found."

"I'm here. Diane and your father are here. If Count was alive he'd be here."

"What about this Jerome kid? If we were friends why didn't he visit? What about Steve Lucas, I remember that rat bastard, I know who he is, where the hell is he?"

"Jerome had no way of getting here," Shannie answered.

"He could have hitched a ride with you. The bitch did, I remember her in the hospital. He could have come with her. What's the difference, you probably coerced her to come."

"Whoa Captain Vocabulary, they're teaching you well in language therapy."

"Fuck you Shannie."

"You must be acing profanity 307."

"You know, if you're going to be an asshole, leave me alone?"

"That's a good idea," Shannie snapped. "I'll see you later, okay?"

"Whatever," I mumbled.

"By the way, Steve Lucas is away at college. He's worried about you. He plans on spending some time with you over Christmas break.

I felt sick watching the GTI crawl through the parking lot and into the night. "Everything all right?" the night watchman asked as he came outside to catch a smoke.

"Can I bum one?" I asked.

"Sure." he extended the pack to me.

"Thanks." We smoked in silence. When I finished I thanked him again and shuffled to my room. I twisted and turned in my bed. I switched on the television and when Saturday Night Live failed to lull me to sleep, I looked for the notepad with the Ortolan's phone number. I called Shannie.

"Hello," Diane answered groggily.

"Diane, it's James, is Shannie there?" I asked.

"James, do you know what time it is?"

"It's late."

"No, she isn't here."

Did she go to the beast's house?" I continued.

"The who's house?" As Diane spoke, a familiar voice crawled over Diane and through the phone line.

"Who's that?" I asked.

"Who's house?"

"Who's in bed with you?"

"None of your business!"

"Is it who I think it is?" I persisted.