Christine by Stephen King

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    And goddammit, was I jealous? Was that what it was?
    When the seventh inning came along I got up and started to go out.
    "Where are you going?" my dad asked.
    Yeah, just where was I going? Down there? To watch him, cluck over him, listen to Will Darnell get on his case? Heading for another dose of misery? Fuck it. Arnie was a big boy now.
    "Noplace," I said. I found a Twinkie tucked carefully away in the back of the breadbox and took it with a certain doleful glee, knowing how pissed Elaine was going to be when she shlepped out during one of the commercials on Saturday Night Live and found it gone. "Noplace at all."
    I came back into the living room and sat down and cadged another beer off my dad and ate Elaine's Twinkie and even lapped the cardboard it had been on. We watched Philly finish the job of ruining Atlanta ("They roont 'em, Denny," I could hear my grandfather, now five years dead, saying in his cackly old man's voice, "they roont 'em good!") and didn't think about Arnie Cunningham at all.
    Hardly at all.
    He came over on his tacky old three-speed the next afternoon while Elaine and I were playing croquet on the back lawn. Elaine kept accusing me of cheating. She was on one of her rips. Elaine always went on "rips" when she was "getting her period". Elaine was very proud of her period. She had been having one regularly all of fourteen months.
    "Hey," Arnie said, ambling round the corner of the house, "it's either the Creature from the Black Lagoon and the Bride of Frankenstein or Dennis and Ellie."
    "What do you say, man?" I asked. "Grab a mallet."
    "I'm not playing," Elaine said, throwing her mallet down. "He cheats even worse than you do. Men!"
    As she stalked off, Arnie said in a trembling affected voice, "That's the first time she ever called me a man, Dennis."
    He fell to his knees, a look of exalted adoration on his face. I started laughing. He could do it good when he wanted to, Arnie could. That was one of the reasons I liked him as well as I did. And it was a kind of secret thing, you know. I don't think anyone really saw that wit except me. I once heard about some millionaire who had a stolen Rembrandt in his basement where no one but him could see it. I could understand that guy. I don't mean that Arnie was a Rembrandt, or even a world-class wit, but I could understand the attraction of knowing about something good… something that was good… but still a secret.
    We goofed around the croquet course for a while, not really playing, just whopping the Jesus out of each other's balls. Finally, one went through the hedge into the Blackfords' yard, and after I crawled through to get it, neither of us wanted to play anymore. We sat down in the lawn chairs. Pretty soon our cat, Screaming Jay Hawkins, Captain Beefheart's replacement, came creeping out from under the porch, probably hoping to find some cute little chipmunk to murder slowly and nastily. His amber-green eyes glinted in the afternoon light, which was overcast and muted.
    "Thought you'd be over for the game yesterday," I said. "It was a good one."
    "I was at Darnell's," he said. "Heard it on the radio, though." His voice went up three octaves and he did a very good imitation of my grandad. "They roont 'em! They roont 'em, Denny!"
    I laughed and nodded. There was something about him that day—perhaps it was only the light, which was bright enough but still somehow gloomy and spare—something that looked different. He looked tired, for one thing there were circles under his eyes—but at the same time his complexion seemed a trifle better than it had been lately. He had been drinking a lot of Cokes on the job, knowing he shouldn't, of course, but unable to help succumbing to temptation from time to time. His skin problems tended to go in cycles, as most teenagers' do, depending on their moods—except in Arnie's case, the cycles were usually from bad to worse and back to bad again.
    Or maybe it was just the light.
    "What'd you do on it?" I