"What's going on?"
Mark, Roger, Maureen, and Joanne were huddled around the loft's small phone, waiting for a reply to soothe their worries.
Mimi took a deep breath, "I'm not sure…I don't think it's good…"
The waiting group hung their heads, each gripping a different part of the phone. "And how's Collins?" Maureen asked. She was trying to pretend that Mark wasn't sitting so close to her.
"He's…no better than can be expected…but he hasn't said anything in a while. They won't let him in the room, so I said that I was Angel's sister."
"They believed you?" Mark asked.
"Why not? It's all the same to them…anyway, I'd better go. I'll call you guys later, okay?"
There was a murmur of goodbyes and each party put down the phone. Maureen sighed and turned away, feeling Roger's eyes on her. There hadn't been enough time for anyone to react to her news, but Roger definitely hadn't forgotten. He'd been staring at her, namely her stomach, for the past half hour. Maureen was quite tired of it.
"Yes, Roger, there is a child inside of there. It's more of a fetus now, but still, it's there. Are done imagining now, or would you like a play-by-play on how it got there?" Her replies were snappy, haughty, as she was getting tired and cranky. Joanne soothed her tensed shoulders, whispering for Maureen to calm down. Under normal circumstances that would just push Maureen further into an argument, but now she just sank into the chair, massaging her temples.
It had been a whirlwind of a morning. Lets see…a pregnancy confession and an AIDS-induced faint, not to mention all of get the couple drama in-between. Couldn't people just wear condoms, take medicine, and along? Maybe if they could then Maureen would be eating her extra runny eggs right now, which she'd begun to crave.
"What are you doing?" Roger spoke again, wondering aloud why Maureen was heading towards the makeshift kitchenette.
"Making eggs," she replied cheerily, all of her earlier tension relieved.
"Why?"
"Why do you think?" she scoffed. Roger could be so empty-headed.
"Because eggs help control mood swings."
"Congrats, you get an F in Pregnancy 101," she said, clapping her hands together. It was a little surprising that she was throwing words like pregnancy around so casually. For Mark it was almost too much to take and he excused himself to his bedroom.
Maureen flipped the eggs, humming happily as Joanne, awkward next to Roger on the couch, watched her carefully. Roger would rather perform acupuncture on himself than watch Maureen cook, and so he picked up his guitar and headed into his own room.
"Maureen?"
She turned, egg poised for flippage, and cocked her head. "Pookie?"
"Are you going to stay with Mark?"
It was the silent, unspoken question of death. Until now. Now it was the noisy, spoken question of death.
"No."
Neither said anything; Maureen just continued flipping her egg, as Joanne calmed her nerves and the anticipated tears that she'd almost cried.
0--0
"I'm writing one great song…one great song…one shitty song!" Roger slammed his guitar on the bed (so old that it was almost as hard as the floor, which is why he spent so much time at Mimi's) with an exasperated UMMPH! Mumbling about his girlfriend got him nothing but calmer, and he proceeded to do so. Nothing was audible, and he had no idea what he was saying (he realized this after hearing what sounded like 'fishtaco' thrown in there somewhere) but it still made him feel better.
Outside he could hear Maureen's inevitable drop of an egg on the floor, its oozing yolk running between the wooden planks, and her cursing afterwards. Poor kid was going to grow up with a potty mouth that you'd never believe.
Roger briefly wondered about Angel, in some nasty hospital. They all knew the drill, and so none were too worried (save Collins maybe), even though it seemed like a big deal. But it happened to all of them (the infected ones, at least) and nothing ever happened. People died of AIDS all the time on the streets, but not people like them, not people like Angel. Angel, who was good, and sweet, and kind, and made him feel like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar at times. Angel wasn't the kind of person who died of AIDS.
He was.
0--0
"We should play a game," Mimi suggested, nonchalantly. Her hair curled around her finger at the sweep of her wrist. "Like twenty questions or something like that. Except not twenty questions, because I'm horrible at that game."
Collins stared at her, wondering how she could be this calm.
"There's always one of those A-Z games, but for some reason I always forget 'l'…" her voice trailed off in a confused manner.
"Do I look like I'm in the mood for games?"
"Upset and angst-filled, just the mood for games," Mimi replied.
"Fine. What game do you want to play?"
"Ummm…hangman! Got a pen?"
Collins shook his head and she began digging in the seat until she pulled on an old, almost dead, cap less pen. When her scrounge for paper proved fruitless, Mimi began doodling the noose contraption up her arm. That got a chuckle out of Collins, especially when she messed up, scribbled over it, and had to redraw it higher up.
They actually laughed, something he would have thought impossible. But there was still that nagging at the back of his mind, telling him that Angel was alone in a bed, without him beside her for the first time in ages.
0FIN0
This took so long because eleven puppies are hard to care for and tweenagers are annoying. They'd be the only things to survive a nuke war, you know.
Now for my angry reprimand.
Are we still here? I feel like everyone got bored of this thing since no one reviews, except for my beta (who gets a nice big e-hug)! She's already read this, and yet she still reviews! Please, people, don't let me think that she's the only one reading or I might not post any more at all.
Sorry if I sound annoying and demanding, but I'm really proud of this and I don't want it to die.