Life and Death

I take an ugly mustard-yellow camp t-shirt from the clothes basket and reel away in disgust. I don't get it. Aren't washing machines supposed to get sweat stains OUT?! Mine only SPREADS them around the whole shirt. Pshh.

I throw it on the top shelf in my closet, amidst encrusted Cheerios and God knows what else.

Then I pack away my pajamas and socks, and drag the now empty basket down two flights of stairs to the basement. I fling it across the room, where it thuds against the carpet near the guest room.

As I go upstairs for a snack, I feel something...strange on the back of my neck. It feels warm, hot almost. And tingly.

All concerns diminish as the feeling does the same.

"How weird was that," I muse, heading into the kitchen.

"Aw, Twinks, NO!" I shout, running to the table. My year-old retriever is eagerly lapping up cold leftover chicken soup.

Twinks is just a nickname for Twinkie, and true to his name, has golden fur with a white splotch on his haunches. He got that from when he sat on a Twinkie, and it took us forever to wash it off.

Also, whenever we're done with the trademark treats and throw away the box, Twinks always manages to drag them out of the trash can and stashes them under a table in the basement.

He looks up at me with those big sapphire eyes of his, and wags his little stubby tail with an excited yap.

I dip my head in defeat, then drain the contents of the bowl and place it in the sink. Twinks sits down on the table and licks his paws.

"Oh, cut it out, you're not a cat," I grumble, but he only glances up at me and resumes.

I look at the bowl in the sink and bite back an exasperated 'sheesh!'. Twinks eats everything in sight. Like one time I dropped a nickel and—

My thoughts are interrupted by the squeaky sound of the front door opening.

"God, you really need to oil this door," my roommate mutters audibly.

"Well, I don't have the time," I say.

"Well, you should. Tomorrow we're going to Ace." She sets her overflowing leather messenger bag on the dining room table, picking up a trail of papers from the garage.

"Well, why don't YOU clean that out?" I chide. "What's even in there?"

"Oh, you know, drawings, pie charts, photographs, reports...that sort of junk."

"Ugh, I'll help you organize that tonight."

"Neat freak." She takes off her lavender trench coat and drapes it over a dining room chair.

"Whatever, Katie." I lower Twinks from the kitchen table and proceed to the living room. I flop on the couch.

Katie turns to the pantry. It's not in the kitchen as you would think; it's to the right of the front door. The left is where the downstairs bathroom is. "You should move the snacks into the kitchen," Katie had once said, "so the chips don't smell like poop."

"Let's see," she says in a sigh, signaling she had a rough day. Katie opens the pantry door, scanning the junk food, dog biscuits, and the fancy trays and stuff we use for parties.

"Mmm, tasty," she coos, pulling out the doggy treats.

We both crack up. I have no idea why I find that so funny, and frankly, neither does Katie.

"I still don't get why the junk food has to be here and not in the cabinets above the microwave," Katie complains, pulling out a bag of Lays.

"Because," I answer for like the fiftieth time, "Twink's dog food is up there."

"Well, yeah, but that doesn't mean you can't make room for some Oreos." She munches loudly.

I roll my eyes.

Katie puts the chips back, securing it with a clip. Shutting the door, she collapses against it with a groan.

"Work?" I guess. She nods.

"Neighborhood Newspapers isn't that simple, you know," she mumbles.

Neighborhood Newspapers is a tiny company simply where newspapers are passed around in our neighborhood of Wildberry. One member of each house gathers in a building to report anything interesting happening in their homes. It's like a school newspaper, almost.

"That ditch Miranda stole my lunch again," Katie says, "then she threw a plum at the manager and blamed it on me." I know what she means when she says "ditch". As preteens, we can't exactly swear.

You're probably wondering what the heck Katie is doing working for N.N. with all those people older than her. Well, considering we live alone, and Katie is, ah heh, a bit more responsible than I am, it's not really an easy life.

"Did you tell him?" I want to know.

"Of course. He only reached into his desk file organizer and pulled out a folder stuffed with papers. Then he said, 'Oh, yes, we have quite a file on our friend Miranda.'"

"Well, that's good! So why do you look so beat up?"

Katie slumps a bit. "Because when Miranda found out I snitched on her, she hacked into the company's computer and pasted a picture of my head onto the body of Valeria Levitin and sent it to every email address in the neighborhood."

I suck in my cheeks. "God, Katie, that's cruel."

"She got kicked out for that." She cracks a small smile. "Then the manager explained to everyone to delete the emails Miranda sent out. And boy, was everyone mad at her!" Her smile expands into a grin. "They all ran up to the free salad bar and pelted her with cherry tomatoes."

I guffaw. "Serves her right."

Katie coughs and clears her throat. I spring up from the sofa. "I'll get you some soup!"

"But isn't there some on the kitchen table?" She asks, her voice hoarse.

I shoot Twinks a look. "Yeah, uh..." I walk over to the swivel cabinet in the kitchen. "Cream of Mushroom, Chicken Noodle, or Tomato?"