"Man, I can't believe the Patriots won again!" I groaned, flopping back on the overstuffed, leather couch. Christine grinned triumphantly, downing half a glass of Gingerale. "Do you realize that's the third time? In a row?" I exclaimed, looking over with disgust at the oh-so-hot Tom Brady waving the trophy around. I glowered at one of the Eagles boys, and then fixed my gaze on my best friend, who was messing with her dark hair, which has a tendency to fall out of its clip.
"I told you they would win," she said, matter-of-factly, clipping the black butterfly clip onto her lower lip. "The Patriots always win!" Christine added, her voice muffled by the clip. She took it off her lip and slid it through her hair. I folded my eyes, pouting jokingly.
"So? They still suck. Massachusetts, home of John Kerry. Well, Boston is, anyway," I replied, glancing back at the TV, where Brady was being tackled into a tight hug, giving me a full-blown view of his butt in those way-too-tight pants. I groaned and slapped a hand over my eyes.
"What?" Christine asked in her Do-I-Really-Want-To-Know voice. I grinned innocently, standing up to retrieve my glass of water from her kitchen.
"I just twisted the entire game of football," I said, shoving a chip in my mouth and washing it down with a mouthful of water, I turned around just in time to see Christine roll her eyes.
"Get out of my house," she said exasperatedly, shoving me into the hall. I laughed, spinning around to hug her.
"Oh, hold on!" I stepped to the left, into their living room, and grabbed the Titanic sheet music off of Christine's piano. I tipped my Yankees baseball cap to her. "I'll bring it back tomorrow," I said. "Promise."
"You'd better! If you forget, I'll have to cry," she joked, pretending to cry. "Bye!" I waved, then stepped out of her house and onto her porch.
"Au revoir!" I replied, as was my custom.
She shut the blue door, and I stood there for a moment, yawning. I had had hardly any sleep for two weeks, and I was dead tired. Mid-yawn, I turned around.
…and nearly had a heart attack.
What used to be Christine's perfectly manicured lawn, leading down to a cul-de-sac, was now a badly paved street lined with square, brick buildings. Confused, I looked around and saw the classic green and white street sign pronouncing that I was on Duane Street. Slowly, I turned back around and stared at Christine's house.
It was square and brick, nearly identical to the ones around it, and seemed to be normal, save for the fact that it was most certainly not Christine's house. And, oh yeah.
The dark green sign above the door proclaimed Newsboy Lodging House.