Alliegee and I decided to each write a story on the same theme to see how different they might be. The theme: "Stormer gets sick." Feel free to contribute one of your own. (Sorry Stormer!)

In Sorry Shape

As a young girl, I used to love being sick. Not the actual being sick part—that wasn't fun at all. But I loved how everyone went out their way to take care of me.

Mama would hold me when I had trouble sleeping, and she'd sing any song I'd ask her to.

My dad would spend hours reading to me; when I asked, he'd even read me thick, grown-up books from his shelf like David Copperfield and Robinson Crusoe, and he'd explain all the big words as he went along.

My big brother, Craig, would put on little shows for me with all our toys; he'd also bring in all his records that he otherwise wouldn't let me anywhere near, and I'd get to play them on my little yellow turntable.

Then, it was Mama's turn to get sick.

She didn't get better, no matter how much I sang to her in her hospital room.

Being sick was never fun again.

"I hope you know this lot's bloody heavy, Stormer!"

As I bunched up my sheets and comforter in a vain search for a little extra warmth, Jetta unceremoniously dropped the box to the floor and pantomimed wiping her hands.

"Hey!" I rasped, before hacking into my tissues.

Jetta pushed the box along the floor with her foot, while making sure to keep a safe distance from me. "Not sure what you want with this pile of tapes, Yank. Buncha rubbish, if you ask me!"

I turned over so I could speak to her face. "But we still need one more song for the new album." I sighed, as I hated what I was about to admit: "I just don't have any more material right now. I've gotta see if you guys worked on anything we can salvage."

Jetta folded her arms and snorted. "Good luck with that!" She tried not to look at me as she added, "Not to get sappy on you, luv, but we were right useless without you."

I coughed, and wheezed out, "Thanks, that really does mean a lot." It wasn't every day I got a sincere compliment from one of my bandmates, especially her.

She shrugged. "Anyroad, I say if you're feeling sick, listening to that's the last thing that'll help, believe me!"

I gave her a weak smile. "Thanks for bringing them up here."

Jetta grinned. "I hope you get better soon—you're even more a nesh than usual when you're ill!"

My chuckle turned into another hacking spell. "I have no idea what 'nesh' means, but I'm guessing it's not good, right?"

"You're catching on, mate." She gave me a quick little wave as she backed herself to the door. "Ta-ta and good night! Good luck—you'll bloody well need it!" With a wink, she disappeared into the hall, the door slamming behind her.

I spent the next few minutes working up the will to get out of bed. As soon as I did, I regretted my decision. I hurt all over; I became aware of joints I didn't realize I had, I could feel them ache so much.

I stumbled across the floor to my big stereo system and turned it on. I ripped a tape off the reel-to-reel and dropped it in the little pile of tapes next to the speakers.

After wrapping myself in my robe, and slipping into my warmest, fuzziest slippers, I made my way to the box Jetta had brought me, marked "CRAP" on the top in big, shaky letters. I laughed when it finally hit me why Roxy had asked me to spell that word for her several weeks earlier.

I flipped the box open and pulled out the tape lying on top. I stumbled back to the stereo and threaded it onto the tape player. I picked up my big, pink headphones, and plopped into the blue beanbag chair I keep next to the stereo. I reached over, pressed play, and settled in to listen.

I soon heard indistinct muttering, followed by Pizzazz shouting, "Is this thing on?" and someone yelling "Like this! Like this!"

And then, I discovered that the manufacturers weren't kidding when they called it "Maximum-Strength" NyQuil.

I woke up in a near panic to the rays of the rising sun. I couldn't seem to get used to waking up in my room at the Gabor Mansion, even though I tended to spend three or four nights a week there.

As I began to settle down, I noticed a sound, almost like water dripping. I turned my head to see the reel, which had finished playing hours earlier, and now turned endlessly, with the leader tape flapping with every rotation.

I stood to switch off the stereo, and felt the full weight of my cold still pressing me down.

I slumped back into my beanbag and sighed. The previous week, we'd flown to the Himalayas on one of our manager, Eric's, ridiculous hunches. While we were there, Roxy and Pizzazz managed to cut themselves on poisonous branches, and came this close to dying.

Now, two days later, after we all made it home in one piece, Roxy and Pizzazz were perfectly fine, while I was on the verge of death!

Ok, not really. But I still felt horrible.

Still, as I looked up at the ceiling and hacked up some phlegm, I remembered to thank God for sparing my friends. I also thanked Him for allowing me to be one of the few people to catch sight of one of His rarest and most majestic creatures, the Yeti. (Ok, I know you don't believe me. Hey, I'm used to that now. When I told Craig, he didn't believe me either. Oh, but when my future sister-in-law Aja told him the same thing, then he decided it must be true! Brothers!)

I looked back to the stereo and decided to give the tape another listen—or rather, a first listen.

Once I'd cued the tape again, I settled back with my headphones on and let the sounds wash over me.

"You jerks better not put too much reverb in my headphones," Pizzazz snarled to the control room, "Or I'll put some reverb on my boot when it kicks your asses!"

I smiled—she must have been in a good mood that day.

"'oo emptied me spit valve?" I heard Jetta complain. "The spit's what gives it me signature sound!"

"You said 'shit,' right? That's how I'd describe your sound!"

Roxy's words made me laugh out loud.

"You watch it, Yank, or I'll-!"

"You don't have the guts, and you sure don't have the fists, Brit!"

"Can't deny that, dearie. See, I'm actually a woman, and not a bloody gorilla!"

I then heard Jetta shouting, and pleading, "Let go!" before Pizzazz yelled out, "Knock it off, you two!"

Nothing out of the ordinary, so far.

After finally getting things settled down, I heard some muttering as they tuned up, before Pizzazz finally announced, "Ok, let's hit it!"

I heard Roxy's bass erupt, several bars before Pizzazz even began playing. Jetta never got around to starting before the take broke down.

"What the holy hell was that?" Pizzazz screamed.

I heard Roxy growl, "You said 'hit it,' so I started!"

"But you're not supposed to start until we all start, dimwit!"

"But you said 'hit it!'"

I heard Jetta chuckle. "Don't bother trying to explain it to her! We'll be 'ere all bloomin' night!"

I could tell Roxy had reached her boiling point. "You watch it, Jetta, or that spit valve of yours is gonna be full of blood in a minute!"

"Can you believe the way she talks to me, Pizzazz?" Jetta complained. "Utterly beastly!"

I heard Pizzazz sigh. "I don't care about your stupid arguments! Just remember that we're all supposed to come in at the same time!"

I heard Roxy mumble something, which prompted Pizzazz to snarl, "What'd you say?"

"I said, 'We always knew when to start because Stormer would tap out the count-in on her keytar!'"

The resulting shriek hurt my ears. "I told you already, don't you ever mention that bitch's name again! After everything we worked and fought for, everything we did for her, she had the nerve to walk out on us and hook up with fucking Kimber Benton! If I ever see her again, I swear, I'm gonna rip out every single blue hair-"

I flipped the switch and shut the tape player off, unable to take anymore of Pizzazz's rant.

They had taken me for granted, and picked on me until I couldn't stand anymore.

But nothing's quite that simple. I'm the one that walked out. I'm the one that tried to act like they didn't mean anything to me.

They hurt me, so I hurt them back.

Not our band's finest hour.

I blew my nose and slumped into the beanbag chair, as I wondered if I might be able to throw an instrumental together for the album.

It might not be too bad, I thought. Tracks like "Free and Easy," and Roxy's song, "I'm Gonna Change," weren't typical Misfits fare, anyway.

Except those songs mean something to us. They're not crap we threw together at the last minute.

At that moment, I envied Kimber's ability to throw a song together at a moment's notice. She once told me she wrote one of their biggest hits in about ten minutes, on a shoebox lid.

I always believed our songs were better, but they sure didn't come to me easily.

As I struggled to my feet and prepared to go back to bed, I heard a crash from downstairs.

"It was bloody out, wasn't it, Pizzazz?"

"Like hell it was! You know damn well, the rug marks the foul line! Tell her, Pizzazz!"

As I crept toward the stairs, I heard Pizzazz affect a huge yawn. "Girls, if you think I'm paying that close attention, you're sadly mistaken."

Just when I thought I'd seen it all at the Gabor Mansion, I looked down from the landing to see a tennis net had been strung across the main foyer, with Roxy and Jetta, dressed in all-white tennis skirts and sun visors, holding rackets on either side. Off to the side, Pizzazz lay stretched out on the divan, filing her nails.

I began to cough, which got everyone's attention.

"Hey, you're supposed to be in bed!" Roxy called up.

"Yeah, Yank! Last thing we need's you bollixing things up by refusing to get well!"

"Gee, thanks Jetta," I coughed. "What are you guys doing?"

"Playin' tennis," Roxy retorted. "What's it look like?"

"Bloody hell, Stormer, you didn't pick up some brain disease in the 'Imalayas, did you?"

I clutched the railing as I pulled my aching legs down the stairs. "Why are you playing inside?"

"It's like, a hundred fuckin' degrees outside!" Roxy banged her racket against the palm of her hand. "And I didn't feel like sweatin' today."

"And I thought I'd show this colonist 'ow you play a proper game of lawn tennis…minus the bloomin' lawn." Jetta struck a pose, with the head of her racket resting on her shoulder. "Why, you should 'ave seen me at Wimbledon when I was at uni. The Queen 'erself tried to convince me to turn pro, for the good of Britain, but, I told 'er, 'Liz, darling, as a titled aristocrat, that'd be bloody unseemly of me, wouldn't it?' And she applauded me for me convictions, she did!"

I noticed that Pizzazz perked up as Jetta spoke, and gasped "Really?" when Jetta finished.

As for me, by this point I'd decided that, sophisticated accent aside, Jetta was probably exaggerating most of her stories.

Roxy let out a moan. "All right, Jetta, enough of yer crap! You still wanna play, or do you just wanna make up some more lies?"

Jetta wheeled around and glared at her. "Careful Roxy-all I 'ave to do is make one little phone call, and I'll 'ave Scotland Yard come down on you!"

I sat on the steps and rested my head against the banister.

I'd closed my eyes when I heard Roxy's voice call to me, "Stormer? Hey, Stormer, you ok?"

I opened my eyes to see Roxy moving towards the staircase, as Jetta watched from her side of the net. Pizzazz continued to tend to her nails.

"Yeah, I'm ok," I mumbled. "I think I just need to get back to bed." I pulled myself back to my feet and gestured for Roxy to stay back as she began to mount the steps.

"You sure you can make it?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'll be ok." I re-cinched my robe and began to pull myself back up the stairs.

"Oh, Stor-mer?"

Pizzazz's tone was so sweet, I braced myself for the worst. "Yeah?"

She looked up and gave me an angelic smile. "If you're going to be stuck in bed anyway, maybe you should pass the time by working up that last song we need for the album, hmm?"

I didn't reply, but instead tried to focus on pulling myself up each step, one at a time.

Behind me, I heard Roxy grumble, "She's sick, Pizzazz. What are you tryin' to do to her?"

First one foot, then the other.

"Stormer wanted an equal partnership, right? Well, she gets her share of the credit, and her share of the blame."

God, why did my feet feel like lead?

Roxy spluttered out, "What the hell are you talking about, Pizzazz?"

Just two steps to go.

"Hey, Yank, why don't we get back to the game, all right? It's your serve."

I felt like collapsing when I reached the top.

Pizzazz chuckled. "Go on Roxy. Get back to your little game. I think it was 40-love, but that's just a guess."

As I made my way across the landing, I leaned over the railing to catch a glimpse of Roxy winding up for her serve. After tossing the ball into the air, Roxy swung so fast that she missed it entirely. The racket sailed from her hands and passed over the net, landing flush in Jetta's stomach.

She crumpled to her knees before quickly regaining her breath. "Bloody 'ell, Rox!" she gasped, as grabbed Roxy's racket and shook it at her. "Remember what I said about Scotland Yard!"

Pizzazz's laughter rang through the mansion.

"Which one are we doin' next?" Roxy's voice inquired.

"'Backstabber'!" Pizzazz commanded.

I groaned as I shifted in my beanbag. I'd now listened to four entire tapes, and hadn't found anything worth salvaging. Roxy's melodies were too rudimentary and needed more fleshing out to even be called "riffs." And Pizzazz's melodies all seemed to be ripped off from one old Cars song or another.

"Hit it!" Pizzazz shouted on the tape, as Roxy again came in too early.

I popped in a cough drop and waited for the vapor action to kick in.

I didn't mind the false start-I cringed at whatever lyrics Pizzazz might have cooked up for "Backstabber." I had no doubt who they'd be directed at.

But when they finally did manage a full take, I had the relief of discovering the lyrics were unfinished, other than a chant of "You're a backstabber!" in the chorus, which Pizzazz bellowed repeatedly.

I actually grew to like it after a bit. Had the melody not been swiped from "My Best Friend's Girl," it surely would have made it into the "maybe" pile.

I started to drift off when I heard the sound of a guitar smashing to the floor. Roxy muttered something about the lyrics, before Pizzazz yelled out, "I hate Stormer! I hate her!"

I got up and switched off the tape right as Jetta started calling me a "blighter."

I threw my headphones aside, stumbled to the bed and flopped onto the mattress. I couldn't get Pizzazz's words out of my head.

It's a terrible feeling, when you think of someone as a sister, and realize she might not even like you.

Without thinking, I swallowed. The pain was so sharp I nearly screamed.

I began to cry.

I wanted my mama.

I wanted her to hold me.

I wanted her to sing for me again.

Just one more time.

"Hey, Stormer? You awake?"

I'd spent most of the day trying to sleep. It was early evening when I heard Roxy banging on my door. "Go away!" I choked out. I soon regretted speaking once I felt the sting in my throat.

I didn't realize I hadn't locked the door until she barged inside. "Hey, you ok?"

"I'm still sick, yeah," I muttered.

Roxy sat on the foot of the bed. "That blows."

"Yeah." I blew my nose. "Who won the match?"

Roxy gave me a scowl. "Tennis is for twerps like Jetta. In my neighborhood, we shot hoops. I'd love to see her try that against me—I'd cream her bony ass!"

I smiled a little, to see Roxy so fired up. "You're talking about basketball, right?"

"Yeah." Her face lit up. "Hey, did I ever tell you about the time when I was a waitress, and Dr. J ordered a cheesesteak from me?"

"Doctor who?"

Her face fell. "Never mind. Are you hungry? I can have Matilda bring you up something."

"Nah, it hurts to swallow."

"Well, you gotta eat something! I'll go tell her to make somethin' for you. Maybe some soup? Or those little cubes—what do they call 'em?"

"Bouillon," I croaked.

"Yeah, we used to live on those little things!" She jumped off the bed, "I'll go get some!"

"Wait, Roxy!" I struggled to speak above a whisper. "Why is Pizzazz so—what's her problem with me?" I saw Roxy begin to back away as I started to cry. "I thought things had gotten better lately. Why doesn't she like me?"

Roxy grimaced as her eyes darted to the door. "You're a Misfit, remember?"

I wiped some disheveled strands of hair from my face. My now wilted daisy floated down to my pillow. "I know. I just thought, after everything we've been through—"

"Come on, Stormer, don't get all…just don't, ok?" Roxy folded her arms and leaned against the armoire. "Don't make a big deal out of junk."

I pulled my covers back over me and sank inside them. "You almost died. Both of you."

She shrugged. "I don't remember that."

"But it happened. Jetta and I, we sat at your bedsides, day and night, watching you slip away from us."

"That's crazy," she muttered. "I just remember sleeping a lot."

"Jem saved you. I don't know how, but she did it. There was this strange, beautiful music." For a brief moment, I could almost remember the melody I'd heard—but the memory was too fleeting. "It was like magic!"

Roxy stared at the floor. "You're delirious. You need to eat somethin'."

"I swear, it really happened!" I forced the words through my sore throat. "I was so scared! I was the one who said we needed to help that girl, but I let you and Pizzazz risk your lives! I didn't know what I'd do without you! Without either of you! I couldn't bear losing my best-"

Roxy slammed the door behind her, without saying another word.

"All right, ladies, it's time to put down some useable material—unless you want to flush your careers down the toilet!"

I cringed at hearing Eric on the tape—he never seemed to figure out what a distraction he was when we tried to record.

"Eric," Pizzazz cooed, "Why don't you go back to your adding machine and leave the hitmaking to the professionals?"

"Yeah," Roxy growled, "go drop a log in someone else's punchbowl!"

As sick and as sad as I was, she couldn't help but make me smile.

"Your delicate charm amazes me, Roxy!" Eric hissed. "Just get this album finished, you three! And leave Stormer to me! I'll make sure she and her little Hologram friend never release their album."

I could hear Eric's heavy footsteps on the studio floor, as Roxy called out "You better get her back, Eric! We need her!"

"Too right!" I heard Jetta add. "We're a bloody mess without her!"

I wanted to give them both a hug, but I knew they'd hate that. Still, a girl can dream.

I heard Roxy say something about a drum machine, and Jetta quickly replied, "Yeah, I'm on it, Yank! I'm not barmy!"

I heard Roxy and Pizzazz tune up, as Roxy reminded our leader of the chord changes. Like much of our studio chatter, it came across as fragmentary and indistinct on the tape.

Pizzazz shouted up to the booth, "This one's called, 'I'm Gonna Hunt You Down!' And for fuck's sake, be careful when you log it! You idiots spell worse than Roxy!"

I let myself smile a little: sure, she was rude, but I'd wasted plenty of hours in the last couple years searching for mislabeled session tapes, so I couldn't feel too sorry for our engineers.

"All right!" Pizzazz barked, "Hit it!"

The first few takes fell apart within moments, but my ears perked up when they managed to put a whole performance together. The melody was aggressive, but catchy. The programmed beat was insistent, and the guitars loud and crunchy.

Pizzazz yelled out the first lyric: "I'm gonna hunt you down, whatever it takes, I'm gonna hunt you down!" After that, the lyrics were fragmentary, with lots of place-filling whoops and hollers from our singer.

But the lyrics at the end of the bridge were quite clear: "I'm hot on your track! Hey, where you goin'…?" before she added a plaintive, "Come back!"

I never asked her if it was about me. There's no point—she'd deny it anyway. Still, I've always let myself believe it was.

I'm good at that.

Once they'd finished, I pulled myself to my feet, stopped the tape, and dragged my aching body over to my keytar. I dabbled with a few sounds before finding just the right setting to fake the sound of a hunting horn.

I rewound the tape, unplugged the headphones, and played along, as I started to build a full-scale arrangement in my head. I worked up backing vocals for myself and Roxy, and saw where I could have Jetta double the horn effect with her sax.

After letting the tape play through a few more takes, I'd begun to feel exhausted again. Just one more take, I told myself, and then I'd stop for the night.

It was then that Pizzazz barged in, with a bowl in hand. "What's goin' on here?" She turned to the stereo, and paused for a moment when she heard her own voice playing. "Where'd you get this?"

I slumped onto the bed. "I asked Jetta for the tapes from when I was gone. I needed to see if there was something we could salvage."

Pizzazz shook her head. "It was all crap. That's why we brought you back—you know what you're doin'."

"I know." I added, softly, "I just kinda hoped you'd missed having me around."

Pizzazz placed the bowl on a table next to the door and switched the stereo off. "What'd you say?"

"Nothing. Anyway, I thought that one was really good! I've already got some ideas for how we can record it! Turn it back on, and let me show you."

Pizzazz shrugged, and switched on the tape. I played along, and sang a little backing, between coughs.

When it was over, she folded her arms and stared me down. "It's all right, I guess."

I smiled. She loved it.

"I think I've still got the finished lyrics around here somewhere," she added. "I'll have Matilda look for them."

"Thanks," I rasped. "That'd be a big help."

She gave me a small smirk. "Still feelin' sick?"

"Yeah," I moaned, before hacking up a lung.

"Well, maybe you should try this." She picked up the bowl and brought it over to my nightstand. I looked over and saw a steaming bowl of soup.

"What is it?"

Pizzazz gave a small grin. "Something my…somebody used to make it, when I was a kid. Always helps me when I'm sick."

I tried to smell it, despite my stuffed up nose. "Chicken noodle?"

"You boil a packet of the chicken noodle, then at the last moment, you whisk in an egg. Makes it kinda like egg-drop soup."

"And this really works?"

She laughed. "Never fails, kiddie! Try it."

I dipped the spoon in and took a sip. The warm soup felt nice on my swollen tonsils. "It's good," I whispered.

"Of course it is! I made it!" Pizzazz sauntered to the door, telling me as she did, "Now eat it all—we need you well again as soon as possible! We've gotta finish that album, and we've got a tour coming up!"

"Pizzazz?" I called to her as she reached the door.

"What?"

There'd be no hugs, but she wasn't gonna deny me the chance to tell her, "Thank you for caring."

I swear I saw her smile as she closed the door.

I dipped into the bowl again. As I prepared to savor another spoonful, I wondered which I'd taste first: the chicken or the egg?

"Hey, sickie, you still awake?"

About an hour later, as I still felt the warmth of the soup in my stomach, I heard Roxy bang on my door. "Yeah, come in!"

She had changed from her tennis togs into her blue crop top and black pants. I hadn't seen her wear that outfit in a while, and the sudden sight of her tight midriff made me woozy in ways that had nothing to do with my NyQuil. For a moment, I was keenly aware of the secret part of myself I'd slowly come to understand, but wasn't yet able to tell the others about. Not yet.

"You feelin' any better?" Roxy plopped herself down on the foot of the bed. "Ooh, you got the soft mattress!"

"Yeah, I'm feelin' a little bit better." I pointed out the bowl next on my nightstand. "Pizzazz brought me some soup."

Roxy tossed backwards and stretched out on the bed. She looked comfortable, even though my feet, through the comforter, were pressing into her back. She yawned and replied, "Yeah, I thought Pizzazz might change her tune after I talked to her."

I sat up. "You did? What'd you say to her?"

Roxy grinned as she stared at my ceiling fan. "Just told her to quit hasslin' you while you're sick, that's all. Reminded her that something happened to us in the Himalayas, and it was hell for you."

I smiled. "Thank you."

"Eh," was her only reply.

I fluffed my pillows and stretched my arms. "It was hell for Jetta too, you know."

"Pfft, so what?"

I smiled, knowing how surprised Roxy was about to be. "When you were sick, she spent almost all that time by your side, nursing you. She wouldn't speak at all—she just kept a vigil next to you." When Roxy turned her head to look at me, I added, "She was terrified of losing you."

Roxy sat up, and was silent for a moment. Then a grin crept across her lips, before she exploded into laughter. "You're shittin' me, right? Poor Brit was worried sick over me?"

She wrapped her arms across her front and pretended to make out with herself, complete with kissing noises. She added, in an awful British accent, "Oh, Roxy, I love you so much, and I would have been ever so sad if something happened to you!"

I laughed along with her, even as part of me cringed inside at mockery that hit a little too close to home.

Roxy dangled her legs over the side of the bed. "Well, if Jetta thought she could butter me up by bein' nice to me when I was sick, she can forget it! What a phony!"

I wasn't in the mood for an argument, so I lay back again and told her, "I think I've got that last spot on the album covered now."

She raised her eyebrow. "Oh yeah? You wrote something new?"

I motioned to the box of tapes. "I found a song we can use: 'I'm Gonna Hunt You Down.'"

Roxy turned away and shook her head. "Nah, that one's no good."

"No, I really liked it! I think it's got real potential."

She turned back to me, a look of confusion on her face. "You really think it's good?"

I grinned, "The melody's great. And it's got a hard edge, and the album needs a little more of that."

Roxy bit her bottom lip. "I don't know; didn't seem like anything special to me."

"But it is—you did a great job on the tune."

She chuckled. "How'd you know it was me?"

I shrugged. "Cause I know you. I knew the lyrics were Pizzazz's, but I could spot you in the melody right away. And it's good." I started to hack and cough after a little too much talking.

Roxy stood and paced over to the tapes. "Nothing sounded right at all while you were gone." She tapped the box with her foot. "We're nothing without you."

I thought to Roxy's own brief departure from the band, not long after mine. "We were nothing without you, either."

She grinned. "Likely story." She gave the box another kick and walked back over to my bedside. "Anyway, you better get well. Eric called earlier to tell us about some new gadget Hairboy's working on. Kept telling us we need to come see it when it's done, 'cause it'll 'make history.'" She rolled her eyes and snickered.

I sighed. The prospect of a visit to the dump Techrat called a home didn't exactly give me any incentive to get well.

Roxy bent over and picked up one of the photographs I keep on my nightstand. "How old were you here?"

I craned my neck to see. She held a picture of me, sitting on my mother's lap. "I was about four."

"And this was your mom? The one that died?"

I chuckled. "Only one I ever had. Being sick's made me think about her, a lot."

She put the photo back in its place. "Really?"

"Well, when I was little, and I felt sick, she'd sing to me, and that always seemed to make me feel better."

Roxy drummed her fingers along my headboard. "That must've been nice."

For a moment, I thought of what little I knew about her fraught relationship with her own mother, and considered changing the subject. But I couldn't deny my own heart. "It was. I miss her every day."

The next thing I knew, Roxy flopped into the bed, and put her arm around me. "All right, Stormer. You tell anyone I did this, and you're dead!"

"Huh?"

She gave me a smirk. "What do you want me to sing?"

I blushed. "Roxy, you don't have to-"

"Not one of our own songs. That'd be kinda weird, wouldn't it?"

I shook my head as I blew my nose into a tissue. "Uh, I guess so?"

We both fell quiet for a moment, before Roxy began to sing in a soft, clear voice:

"Risin' up, back on the street

Did my time, took my chances

Went the distance

Now I'm back on my feet

Just a man and his will to survive-"

I couldn't hold in my laughter any longer. "'Eye of the Tiger'?"

Roxy flicked her tongue out at me. "Hey, I'm an Italian girl from Philly: I've seen every Rocky movie, like, twenty times each. It's pretty much the law where I'm from! Trust me, this is the song you're gettin'!"

"Fine, fine," I wheezed. I pulled the covers up to my neck and snuggled up close to her. "Thank you, Roxy."

"Yeah, whatever. Where was I?" She wrapped her arm around me and began to sing again:

"It's the eye of the tiger,

It's the thrill of the fight…"

I drifted off to sleep in Roxy's arms, only waking for a moment to hear her extolling the virtues of Mr. T.

(Special thanks to my friend and beta tester, AllieGee).