A/N: Sorry this is a bit late guys. . . as a Christmas gift my cousin Jay took me, my mom, and by brother camping in New Hampshire for a few days. There was a lot of really cool stuff up there, unfortunately a computor wasn't on the list so I couldn't post this. :( . Oh well, better late than never, right? But I've decided to make it up to you guys by adding a special preview of the sequel "St. Jimmy" just for you guys! THANKS TO EVERYONE WHO READS THIS! ALL THREE OR FOUR OF YOU, PLUS JESS IMONDI WHO READS MY UPDATES IN SCHOOL!

This is the conversation between Whatsername and Jesus a few weeks after Jimmy died. You might want to back-track and reread a bit of chapter seventeen.

CHAPTER 18

FINAL CHAPTER

"Honey?" A light tap resounded on my bedroom door with my mother's cautious voice. "Honey, there's a girl here to see you."

"Who is it?" I asked dully, still staring blankly at the ceiling.

"She says you'll know her as Whatsername..." Mom sounded confused.

I sat up lazily and stumbled out of bed. I made my way across my horribly clean room to my door and opened it to reveal Mom looking worried and Whatsername with her arms crossed across her chest and a slight scowl on her face.

"May I talk to him alone?" Whatsername asked Mom.

"Um... I suppose." Mom left, not really sure that she should have been leaving her traumatized son alone with this freakish teenager that reminded her of a female version of that 'St. Jimmy' character that was responsible for her son's current state. Whatsername nudged me back into my room and shut the door behind us.

"Well, don't I get a surprised, yet ecstatic, hello?" Whatsername asked.

I shrugged and stared at the floor, not certain of what to say or do.

"So what's this I've heard about Jimmy?" She demanded bluntly, reclining on my bed.

"He's dead." I murmured dully.

She nodded, obviously impatient."And?" She prompted, making a motion with her hands for me to go on.

I shrugged again. "He's dead."

"Ugh! I know! How, you dipstick!"

I wanted to slap her, but I loved her too much. "Jimmy's dead! He shot himself last week!"

"Shot himself, why? Where? When?" She bolted up to a sitting position and stared at me critically.

She was really pissing me off. Though I had been longing for her to return, it really wasn't like I had wanted. "What do you care!" I suddenly cried. "You left! You should have been there, but you weren't! You're half the reason Jimmy is gone! Jimmy died the other day, he blew his brains out into the Bay! He's dead and gone and nothing's going to change that!" I fell to my knees, tears in my eyes. This was the first time I admitted even to myself that Jimmy really was gone.

Whatsername's face fell; she wasn't glaring at me anymore. She was crestfallen for a brief moment, and then contorted with fury.

"Well, you're the other half! You could've stopped him, and you just stood there and watched him! You know what?" She leapt to her feet in a towering rage. "I'm sorry I came!" She yanked open my door and was gone before I'd even registered her words.

I never saw her after that. For most of my life, I'd tried to convince myself it was all just a life-like dream, and sometimes it worked. I mean, I'd gown up, found a wife, had kids, and lived rather happily. I'd made myself a success, despite my past. I figure because of my past I was driven to make myself something, I saw Jimmy go one way-- suicide-- and I didn't want that path.

But sometimes I did think of Whatsername, and wonder if she'd lived past twenty, and what she'd done with herself, like getting married and whatnot. Just a mutual interest, since we'd been so close for so brief a time.

It was a few years after Jimmy's death that I realized I needed closure; I really needed to do something for him in return for everything he'd done for me. I felt that I owed him. The city had long since put up a tiny plaque on the bridge commemorating Officer Dunlop, and I thought it unfair, that Jimmy deserved one too. So I waited for a bit, and then used my influence to get a plaque for my best friend. It was nothing much, just the words 'In Memory of St. Jimmy. The son of rage and love.' and a picture of his beloved pistol below it and was set into the pillar closest to here he'd died, which was unnervingly redder-tinged than the others. And whenever I felt depressed, I hopped in the car and went to look at the plaque. But then, he had been my best friend.

All these thoughts were running through my head in the dark. I probably hadn't thought this much about my childhood for a decade! And it was so much like a novel... A Bible of the Suburbs, I guess. And before I knew it, I'd thrown the covers off toward my wife, jumped out of bed, and went in search of my notebook and a pen. This was exactly the story I wanted! I wrote in frenzy, and finally dropped my pen in exhaust and relief. To this day, I don't know why it appealed to so many people, but it does, and millions know everything, from being an American Idiot, to Whatsername. And though I've almost forgotten her, I'll never forget the time.

WATCH FOR THE SEQUEL TO THIS STORY IN A WEEK OR SO TITLED: "St. Jimmy"

Here's a sneak peak of what's to come:

Come to think of it, I don't really know what happened to her. She could have moved on, but living her life like she did she had probably been murdered by now.

Wait, murdered?

"Gah," Jimmy muttered, checking his side mirror. "I hate cops!"
"Stop stop stop stop," my wife snapped harshly. "Go to your bed and take a nap." She pointed to our bedroom- had I been less distraught I would have realized she was treating me exactly how she treats our sons when they misbehave.
"They've been killed."
There was this one day when all of us sat around on the couch because it was a boring day when I was actually home, we must have watched thirty "Scooby-Doo" reruns and gone through at least four gallons of chocolate milk. For a man who drinks every night of his life and has consumed more alcohol than there is in Amsterdam, I got surprisingly sick that night from all that chocolate milk. My kids had thought it really funny, so when we watched the thirty reruns of "Dora the Explorer" the next day they tried to make me drink more.

"A perk of what?" I asked.

"Being dead." He said.

Okay, okay, that's more than enough to encourage you to read "St. Jimmy". As of right now, I have the first four chapters written, so expect the first chapter of it in a week or two.