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How many best friends with new girlfriends does it take to screw up a Saturday evening?   Just one – and screwing is probably the key word there.   Kane was out with Carly.   Again.

Plus – no sign of Py.   It’s the fucking waiting that would kill me if I wasn’t already… you know.

Meanwhile the Cat is pissed off at me because I objected to the wanton destruction of my copy of Bret Easton Ellis’ Lunar Park.   It was lying on the coffee table because I was only halfway through the bloody thing, and the Cat felt it could be put to much better use as confetti for decorating the entire upstairs landing.   I came home to little shreds of excessively violent contemporary fiction raining down from the stair rails.   The Cat and I consequently had a heated debate about the merits of Ellis’ recent novels, and are currently not on speaking terms.   Everyone’s a fucking literary critic.

Plus – there’s the problem of Jenna.  

Oh Jenna, you are, like, the proverbial pain in the , like, neck.   Knowing she, of all the people I actually know, knows what I am.   For fuck’s sake: after years of subterfuge, to be found out by a twelve-year old airhead who can’t string a sentence together.   Shit – it’s just too humiliating.   She had to go.

So last night Jonathon8 turned off his iphone to his best friend’s pseudo-apologies and left his cranky Cat home alone, and wandered two blocks over to Pam’s apartment.   She lives in this little unit on the second-floor, and Jenna’s is the corner room.   And I now know if you climb the fence onto the entrance way roof, you can walk along the ledge to any of the windows.   Jonathon8 AKA the Amazing Spiderman.   Or death-dealing Cat burglar.   One of the two.

A light breaks from Jenna’s window.   And my housekeeper is fussing about the room, talking at her daughter.   Can I just point out? – Pam is pathologically unable to keep still, and that means both her limbs and her mouth.   So she’s there, picking up clothes and closing drawers, and reminding Jenna about doing her homework, and calling her Gran tomorrow, and tying back her hair more often so people can see her face, and not watching so many trashy DVDs.   Now everyone’s a bloody film critic.  

Jenna sits cross-legged on the bed under her lank hair and picks at a hole in the side of her sneaker.   Then Pam kisses her goodnight on the head, and bustles out.


It’s an impulse.

I tap on the window.

Jenna looks up.   And over.   And opens the window for me.   And asks:

“Do I need to, like, invite you in?”

I snort derisively, and tell her she shouldn’t believe everything she watches on TV and that I’m not coming in anyway.   I’m here to ask what she meant the other day before school.

She blinks.   “What – like, about you being a vampire?”

Yes, like that.   What the fuck makes her think that?

“At your house, all the, like, snap-lock bags of, like…”

Cat food?

“And you, like, do most stuff at night, and wear, like, the darkest glasses ever during the day, and you’re all pale and, like, angry.”

I’m not a morning person, I have a drinking problem, and I’m a fucking teenager, okay?

“And then, like, that time I came over, and you know, you, like, answered the door with blood still around your mouth.   Duh.”



She wipes her nose and pushes her hair behind her ear.   “I won’t tell, you know.   It’s not like anyone is going to, like, believe me or anything anyway.   I’m a kid.”

So there I am, like some messed-up homicidal Romeo, and Jenna’s performing the balcony scene just like the ditsy pre-teen heroine Shakespeare wanted.   This is so fucking wrong in so many ways, not least of which is this much ado about plenty and from my side there’s sure as hell no love being lost.   Yeah, I know.   Shit – everyone’s a theater critic.


But ideas are dawning on me fast now.   The ground isn’t that far, but if I threw her hard enough…   Or – I’m not hungry, but I could just grab her now and do it later.   Still – noise.   Mess.   Trouble.   And the two houses being so close together.   Then too, Pam will be all upset, and I’ll have the inconvenience of looking for a new housekeeper…

Finally I speak, and point out to Jenna that she’s a psycho.   Because either I am what she says, and telling me is stupid and dangerous; or I’m not, and telling me is stupid and dangerous because word will get around that she’s a fucking looney child.

She itches her arm and leans to look down out the window.   “It’s, like, really high up here.   How did you, like, get up here?”

I grimace and ask the little idiot if she’s even listening to me.

She looks me in the face.   For once.   “Sure.   But, like, no-one going to , like, listen to me.   So, you know – like, what does it matter?”


“Jenna?   Who are you talking to?”   Pam opens the door, and star-crossed I edge away into the dark as I hear Jenna say, “No-one, mom.   Duh.”





  1. I’m sorry Jonathon, but this post is like Twilight… window, girl, you (the vampire)…

    • I know, right? Romeo and Juliet, like, totally plagiarised Twilight…

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