Chapter Text
It's been a few months since I wrote about the Pigman with John. A lot of things have changed since I wrote that. For example, John and I haven't been talking as much, but all I know is that John has been smoking like crazy since then, it's just awful to see him smoke a pack a day. It was like he was trying to kill himself. I always felt like that was what he was trying to do, but I never had the guts to outright ask him.
Ever since the Pigman died, it's felt awfully depressing. I knew I was going through grief or some form of depression after his death. It made sense; now that I think about it, Mr. Pignati was like a father to me. Once, when I was waiting during a dentist's appointment, I picked up a psychology magazine, and it was talking all about how, when someone dies, people who were attached to them still felt like they were still there with them. I feel that way sometimes with Mr. Pignati. I really do. Sometimes I delude myself into believing Mr. Pignati is still there and just didn't want us home for a while since he was so upset about the party. He was still alive; I knew he had to be. If I didn't have Mr. Pignati, who could I go to?
When I came back from a stroll around the block, my mother was sitting at the table, going over some paperwork.
She hardly looked up when she saw me, a cup of tea in her hand and a paper in the other.
"Lorraine, where were you?" my mother asked. For some reason, I felt the inexplicable urge to lie to her. But I didn't. I didn't want to get into any more trouble. She was still a bit mad at me for the whole party and the talking-to-an-old-man-behind-her-back thing. "I was just going for a walk," I muttered and went to the kitchen quietly. I hardly spoke to my mother anymore. Anything I said, and she'd snap at me for something almost completely irrelevant. I felt so, so sad for no reason at all. I believe that was another symptom of depression: feeling sad without a reason, especially in adolescents like me. I would have to look it up later.
Oh, but if it weren't for John and his stupid idea...
Stupid, stupid John Conlan! For even being friends with a delinquent like him!
But I was even stupider for letting him have a party in the first place! This really only happens to me, doesn't it?
"Lorraine, did you remember to..." but my mother's voice faded into the hum of our refrigerator, as I continued to think about John. John. God, I hated him, but that kiss. When his lips suddenly just smashed against mine like a train. I really liked that. I would do it again. Now I can't. After everything, we stopped talking out of...awkwardness, maybe. It just felt too scary to walk up to him and strike up a conversation all of a sudden. Maybe he wouldn't mind, though. Maybe he has just as many questions as me.
Like I said, I don't talk or hang out with John as much, especially since we are in different classes this year. He could be talking to Norton or some terrible person like that. Even another girl. I would be crushed by that, even though I wasn't dating him or anything; I just didn't like the idea of someone else taking my place. It wasn't jealousy; "Jealousy would only make you uglier, Lorraine," my mother would probably say.
As I reheated our dinner, I couldn't help but think about what it would be like to ring up John and shoot the bull for a while about everything and nothing.
So, that's just what I did after dinner and called up John in my bedroom. It rang for quite a while until he picked up.
"Yeah?" his voice was all slurred and soft, the way he spoke when he was wasted.
"John?" I asked nervously, my index finger twiddling with the telephone's curly wire.
"Lorraine.... Oh, Lorraine!" John said it the second time like he finally got it through his skull that it was me. I couldn't help giggle.
My giggle died down quickly, and I said a little more seriously, "Uhm, it's been a while. Can we talk?"
"Sure, whaddya wanna talk about anyway?"
"Nothing serious, but we could meet up if you want. Catch up on things, you know." I didn't understand why I suddenly felt so nervous. I'll bet it was because talking to John felt like some foreign concept now; the last time that I spoke to him, like I said before, was a few months ago, and I've gotten lucky seeing that he's drunk and docile right now.
"Cool...meet me up when I'm not as drunk, though, yeah? I'm busy all the damn-"
Then I heard an indistinct yell, probably coming from John's father. "I gotta go, see you around."
"But we-" He had hung up by then. I didn't even know where to meet up and when, or if we would at all.