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The F- It List

Julie Halpern

(2013)

Uncorrected Digital Galley

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the f- it list

Julie halpern

THE

F

i t

l i s t

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FEIWEL AND FRIENDS • New York

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A FE I W E L AN D F RI E NDS Boo k

An Imprint of Macmillan

the f- it list. Copyright © 2013 by Julie Halpern. All rights reserved. Printed in

the United States of America by R. R. Donnelley & Sons Company, Harrisonburg, Virginia.

For information, address Feiwel and Friends, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

Feiwel and Friends books may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at

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Library of Congress Cataloging- in- Publication Data Available

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First Edition: 2013

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CHAPTER

1

The only thing worse than having my best friend sleep with

my boyfriend the night of my father’s funeral would be if she killed

my dad herself. Becca didn’t, which was the one thing that redeemed

her. Still, I allowed myself the entire summer after the trampful event

to be mad at her.

It’s not as though I haven’t done shitty things to Becca. In third

grade, I announced in front of our whole class that she would never

make the lead in the school play because she had boy hair. Which she

did. Kind of forward- thinking of her for a third grader, although it

was probably her mom’s choice after the Lice Crisis of Room 143. In

ju nior high I managed to leak the fact that she stuff ed her bra when a

tuft of tissues fell out of her shirt, and I yelled down the hall, “Becca!

I think one of your boobs fell out!” And just last year, even though I

swore everyone already knew, I let slip that she lost her virginity to her

second cousin the night of her Bat Mitzvah. All of the above seemed

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unforgivable at the times of occurrence, and yet she forgave me.

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Just like I forgave her for stealing my thunder as Mary Todd Lin-

coln in the fourth- grade play by accepting the lead male role of Hon-

est Abe. After that, the entire play went drag, and Becca was hailed

the class comedian. I quickly learned I preferred being behind the

scenes, anyway. I also forgave the time she announced I had my period

in sixth grade by asking in front of the alpha girls if that’s why I took

so long in the bathroom. And the time freshman year when she acci-

dentally shredded my twelve- page En glish essay because she thought

they were pages of my pathetic attempt at a vampire novel she needed

to rid the world of.

Best friends forgive each other. And I knew I’d forgive her for

screwing Davis. Eventually. It’s not like he was my one true love or

anything. We had only gone out for a month before my dad was killed

in a cab on his way home from the airport. Davis and I didn’t talk

until two days after the news of my dad went around. I had to call him

to get some sympathy. Maybe if I’d had sex with him, he would have

called sooner. But there was something about him that turned me off .

He was always listening to misogynistic rap songs with ridiculous

lyrics, like, “With my nuts on your tonsils.”

“Sick.” I reacted to the lyrics.

“What?” he asked incredulously. He was always incredulous.

“Dude, that’s like me saying, ‘With my ovaries on your uvula.’ ”

“Is my uvula near my johnson?”

It wasn’t worth an answer. It was just one of those lazy boyfriend

situations because I was bored while Becca was off starring in the

school musical, and Davis was always around. Plus, he had a car. At

fi rst, his long, wavy hair and busted- up knuckles from working his

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dad’s deck- sanding business were a turn- on. But the thought of his

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nuts on my tonsils? Not so much.

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And it’s not like Becca slept with guys all the time, although los-

ing her virginity to her second cousin at the ripe old age of thirteen

made it sound like she did. He wasn’t a blood relative; there were

divorces and remarriages. And he was older and super hot, plus there

was Manischewitz wine involved. It was stupid, she was mortifi ed,

and lucky for her the only consequence was the agonizing guilt and

residual slut label that hung around for a couple of years. That wore

off once we hit high school and other people really started sleeping

around.

It’s also not like Becca didn’t give me a good reason for the sex-

ual mishap with Davis. Becca loved my dad. I did, too, of course, but

Becca had never had a real dad in her life, so she idolized mine. Her

parents divorced when she was one, and all Becca knew from men

were her mom’s grotesque attempts at fi nding fatherly replacements.

Becca preferred my dad, a constant and caring male authority fi gure.

Since we were little, he sort of became my designated parent while

Mom attempted to wrangle my younger twin brothers, AJ and CJ.

(Our family likes to shorten names as much as possible, so Andrew

Jacob and Charles Joshua became AJ and CJ, and I went from Alex-

andra Judith to Alex, occasionally Al.) Dad took me and Becca to

parks, zoos, museums, and restaurants throughout our childhood.

As we got older and the twins became more outdoorsy, Dad broke

out the camping equipment and fi shing poles. I preferred camping in

front of the TV, but Dad was still the go- to parent for talks. Becca

even somehow managed to share in my fi rst big sex talk from Dad,

which went something like this, “You go near a boy’s penis, it better

be wearing a condom.” Dad was frank and realistic about things,

which is where I got it. He wasn’t afraid of his daughter going out and

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experiencing things. At least, he never showed it. Like when I told

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him I really wanted to study fi lm when I head off to college, he didn’t

try to convince me to go into something more practical, like Mom.

“You’re so good with numbers, Alex. You could be a math

teacher. Or an accountant.” Mom was sweet, but way serious about

life. Dad always said life was too short to be serious.

I wish he wasn’t right about that.

While I huddled with my mom and the twins at the funeral, Becca

was in Davis’s backseat drowning her sorrows between her legs.

She told me about it, which was something. When the funeral

ended, and we went back to our house for shivah, Becca busted in the

door bawling her eyes out. It wasn’t beyond Becca to milk any situa-

tion for drama (she was well known for her crying- on- cue abilities),

but this was over the top. She dragged me by my black- sleeved arm

up the stairs of our house, so I grabbed for a tissue and thrust it at

her. Instead of taking the tissue, she dove into me and cried between

gulps and heaves, “I’m so sorry, Alex. So so sorry.”

“I know. It’s horrible. But you didn’t kill him. Stop. You’re cry-

ing more than I am.”

That drove her into another crying jag that lasted a good fi ve

minutes, complete with hiccups. I was all cried out from hospital

visits and coffi

n choosing, so I lay down on my bed and stared at the

green- tinted, glow- in- the- dark stars on my ceiling. Becca, of course,

helped me affi

x those back in sixth grade.

When she managed to calm herself and fi nally took advantage

of the tissue, she whispered with a look of wide- eyed horror, “I slept

with Davis.”

I didn’t say anything, unsure whether she meant they just took

-1—

a nap together. Like, how the word “ridiculous” can be good or bad.

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“In the back of his car,” she continued, and the meaning cleared up.

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“What? Why?” My empty stomach tensed into an even larger

knot than had already rested there from my dad’s death.

“I’m sorry, Alex, it just hurts so much, and I felt so alone because

I’m not really part of your family and Davis drove me to the funeral

and we smoked some pot in his car—”

“What?” Becca and I were anti, so that was a double “what?”

One of our favorite party pastimes was insulting people who drank

or smoked because they were too insecure to show their real selves.

Unlike us, we thought superiorly.

“I didn’t know what to do. He off ered, and I thought it would

make things feel not so bad, and then I just felt sleepy and he was so

close and I was wearing a skirt with no tights because it was too hot—”

“TMI, Becca. Stop before he inserts his penis.”

She laughed because it did sound absurd. But she wasn’t allowed

to laugh. She was my best friend. My dad just died. And she slept with

my boyfriend. Who I had planned to break up with anyway, but still.

“I can’t deal with this now.” I stood up. “There are people down-

stairs waiting for me.”

“I’m really sorry.” The tears tumbled out of her eyes again, but

all I could do was give her an exhausted glare.

“Don’t call me, okay? Don’t text or email or message or anything.

I need some space right now.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” she choked.

“I just need us to take a break. I don’t need something else to deal

with.” I stood up without another look at Becca and walked back

downstairs to accept the trays of deli food and hugs of sympathy from

everyone who knew and loved my dad.

That was the beginning of June and the end of our ju nior year.

—-1

Becca called, texted, emailed, messaged, left notes in my mailbox,

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and sent a muffi

n basket. It was all duly noted in my mind, but I

meant what I said. I needed some space and time to pro cess the sum-

mer of shit I had ahead of me. Mourning the loss of my dad, helping

my mom with two middle- school brothers, and working at Cellar

Subs was all I could handle. I steered clear of social situations, unless

they involved family, and I dove deeper into watching horror fi lms as

inspiration for a movie I planned to make someday.

The fi rst day of se nior year, the plan was to head straight to

Becca’s locker and tell her, “Okay, I’m over it.” Then hug her and

never look back.

Only it didn’t happen that way. Because Jenna Brown, a periph-

eral friend who was fun because of her song- parody- writing abilities

but also lame because of her obsession with weight loss, waited for me by

my locker. When she saw me, she off ered her arms in a sympathetic hug.

I assumed the gesture was about my dad, which I had hoped was already

so last year, when she said, “Oh, Alex, I’m so sorry about Becca.”

“It was just a fi ght. I’m over it. What’s to be sorry about?”

“You don’t know?” She backed off the hug and looked at me with

concern.

“Know what? What happened to Becca?” My heart leaped. Was

she dead, too?

“I thought you’d know, since you guys are best friends—”

“Yes, yes, and she fucked my boyfriend. The end. What the hell

is wrong with her?”

The problem with being friends with so many people from the

drama department was that there was always drama. I had no

patience for games of communication. Jenna looked around, fraz-

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zled, so I grabbed her shoulders and shook. “What. The. Fuck. Hap-

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pened. To. Becca?”

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She looked genuinely terrifi ed, like I was going to bite off her

ear. Which I actually felt like doing. She managed to eke out the

worst string of words I’d heard since my dad died. And all of them

before that day, too.

“Becca has cancer.”

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CHAPTER

2

I’d gone deaf. I couldn’t hear anything around me after Jenna

uttered those three little words. That’s not true. I could hear those

three little words over and over in my head. Becca has cancer Becca has

cancer Becca has cancer Becca has cancer. Did deaf people hear words in

their heads, too? All around me I watched in frenetic motion as

people hugged their tanned, post- summer hellos, and all I wanted to

do was fold my body up and stuff myself into my narrow locker.

“You didn’t know?” I made out Jenna’s muffl

ed reply, and I

responded with a wobbly head shake. She enveloped me in her newly

thin arms, my own arms pinned to my side. I didn’t have the ability to

move them even if I wanted to hug her back. Which I didn’t.

The bell rang, and students scattered. The fi rst day of school was

the only day everyone seemed to want to be on time to fi rst period.

“I gotta go. You gonna be okay?” I’m sure Jenna’s concern was

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sincere, but it felt hollow. Another nod from me to her, and Jenna was

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off down the hall. I managed to stuff my empty backpack into my

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locker and remembered to grab a pen and notebook before I zombie-

walked to advisory.

While everyone around me chattered about vacations, parties,

hookups, and breakups, I doodled on the cover of my pristine red

notebook. Cancer, I scratched. What did I know about cancer? I

knew one of my mom’s best friends died from it. I also knew a couple

of my mom’s friends who lived through it. So that was encouraging:

Not everyone with cancer dies.

Then why did it equal death in my head? Why did it hit me in my

stomach and make me cave in on myself when I heard Becca had it?

I didn’t even know what kind of cancer she had. Were some

kinds better than others? Would she lose a boob? Her hair?

Becca loved her hair.

I was never one to fawn over my straight, dark brown hair, and

the second my mom allowed me to choose my own hairstyle I lobbed

it off into a bob. I’d been through short and spiky, asymmetrical and

edgy, shaggy, up through my latest look: blunt bangs and a nub of a

ponytail, inspired by my favorite character, Kelly, from the brilliant

British zombie miniseries, Dead Set.

But Becca was attached to her hair beyond its roots. She only

allowed her mom to trim it after the fourth- grade gender- bending

play. What wasn’t to love about Becca’s hair? It was dirty blond,

almost waist- length, wavy most days, curly when she curled it,

straight when she straightened it. She felt it gave her another prop

with which to act. If she parted it on one side, it meant she was fl irty.

Down the middle: serious. High ponytail: fun. Low ponytail: som-

ber. All of this I knew because I helped take her head shots for her

resume. Not that she had done any acting beyond school productions,

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but she wanted to be prepared.

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What if she already lost her hair? What if I was so busy mourn-

ing the loss of my dad and the absence of an assnut boyfriend that I

wasn’t there for her when she needed me? What if all those times she

tried to get in touch with me, she was asking for help? What if I was

too late?

The bell signaling fi rst period rang, and I let the push of the

hallway crowds propel me to my next class. The bubbliness of my

Spanish teacher, Senorita Goodwin, and the fi esta- themed decor of

the room brought me out of my question- stalled brain for a short

while.

I opened my notebook while people passed around this year’s

textbook and wrote:

THINGS I KNOW:

1) People don’t always die from cancer

2) Becca is not dead, which I know because

a) Her mom would have cal ed me

b) Jenna would not have spoken about

her in the present tense

I was interrupted by the delivery of my new textbook, which I wrote

my name in:

Alex Buckley

I always added the upside- down crosses, not because I was a Satanist

but because I liked to imagine the next person to get my textbook

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wondering if somehow the book itself was evil. My legacy, if you

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will.

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Thinking about my legacy made me think about death, which

made me think about Becca.

I added one more item to my list

3) Becca cannot die because my dad just died,

and that would be much too shitty.

But was it enough to make it true?

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CHAPTER

3

I managed to sit through my fi rst three classes before com-

pletely losing my shit. Instead of wading through the inanity of gym

class the fi rst week of school (it’s always painful to watch the gym

teacher try to locate her students among the fi ve other classes sharing

the gym, only to assign tiny lockers and reinforce uniform and deodor-

ant rules), I walked to Becca’s locker. Her full- sized one, not the gym-

class one, where she forgot about a pair of socks last year and discovered

that the locker room smell had, indeed, been her fault.

The administration at our high school was too lazy to reassign

lockers each year, thus we retained the same locker, combination and

all, the entire four years of high school. Perhaps that’s why our school

was rife with locker crime, although I blamed the idiots for leaving

iPads and Kindles in their lockers. Becca and I had lockers nowhere

near each other for alphabetical reasons. My locker section was fi lled

-1—

with benign classmates (“benign” meant so much more than it used

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to) with whom I had shared three years of birthdays, breakups,

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breakdowns, and break- ins. Jenna Brown, of cancer announcement

and weight loss fame, was particularly entertaining. If only I had

thought to take a picture of her every day since freshman year. It would

have made for a viral sensation, watching her shrink down.

Becca’s locker section was a tangled pit of pompoms and tennis

rackets, and I nearly missed thrusting my foot through the strings of

Sean Shelby’s. He sneered at me, and I sneered right back. Nothing

like an unpredictable, fi ve- foot- two- inch chick to scare the sneer off

a jackass jock’s face. Maybe Sean remembered the time at Beth Sidell’s

Bat Mitzvah when I smacked him across the face after he tried to kiss

me during the snowball dance.

He wasn’t my type.

The electronic beep of the school bell cleared Becca’s locker sec-

tion relatively quickly, and I sunk down on the fl oor next to locker

353. I reached up and spun Becca’s locker combination, then yanked

open the locker to fi nd it empty. Even though we kept the same lock-

ers, the powers that be insisted we cleaned them out before we left for

the summer. In case we moved.

Or died.

I hooked my fi nger through the lock hole and dangled my arm

above my head, leaning against it as support.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she didn’t even have cancer. Maybe

it was just some ploy to get me to call her. She did love drama in all

forms.

I yanked myself up by my fi nger and slunk through the quiet

hallways to my own locker. The hall monitors were usually busy at

major intersections on the fi rst day of school, ushering frazzled fresh-

men to and from their big kid classes. The combination on my locker

—-1

wasn’t even a series of numbers in my head at this point, just

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a memorized, mea sured distance between spins. I could do it with my

eyes closed and had. Inside my sagging, empty, fi rst day of school

backpack was my phone, off - limits during school hours or guaran-

teed confi scation, a rule solidifi ed by last year’s infamous Trig Tex-

ting Scandal. Even if I got caught, what could I possibly be texting the

answers to on the fi rst day of school? My gym locker combination?

Someone’s What I Did Over the Summer essay?

As I dialed Becca’s cell, my entire body tensed at the prospect of

speaking to her after two months of silence. And not just speaking to

her, but speaking to her about having cancer.

To my sort- of relief, she didn’t answer. I hung up, having too

much to say in a message. I thought about calling her home line, but

the possibility of talking to her mom about her daughter having can-

cer felt too meltdown- inducing for a hallway on the fi rst day of school.

Footsteps from somewhere down the hall forced me to toss my

phone back into my locker. I was jumpy as hell, with no answers and

no inspiration for an excuse on why I wasn’t in class. When the feet

that were stepping fi nally made their physical appearance, I saw the

worn, black Chucks of Leo Dietz, a se nior with rusty red hair who

wore the same tattered tan army jacket come sun or snow. Leo intrigued

me ever since I saw him leaving a midnight showing of Evil Dead 2.

Horror movies were my one thing, my grotesque passion and pas-

time, especially classically gory yet hilarious ones like Evil Dead 2. I

spent the entire summer pouring through online collections of bril-

liantly titled movies like Rabid Grannies and Frankenhooker. They

were the things that helped keep me sane when everything was so

in sane. Leo and I made eye contact that night, but I was with Doug

-1—

Dunhill, another ex, tongue permanently affi

xed to my ear. It pissed

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me off that Leo thought that was the company I kept. If he thought

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about me at all. I dumped Doug later that eve ning (morning, really)

after he touched my boob one too many times without my blessing.

When Leo passed by me at my locker, I caught a hint of his green

eyes. I couldn’t tell if they were looking at me. Then he walked com-

pletely out of sight, and I sagged a little at my inappropriate hope.

What had I hoped for anyway? Thinking about Leo and horror movies

was wrong at a time when I was supposed to be consoling or assisting

or mourning my best friend who may or may not have cancer.

The footsteps that should have been getting fainter became

louder again. And then Leo reappeared, looking at me with that

intense, serious look he always had. As many scary movies as I watched,

Leo’s gaze made my heart beat harder than any of them. He must have

been at least six foot three, maybe four. At fi ve two, I was petite but

not dainty, at least I liked to think. Still, it helped his imposing pres-

ence. He stuck his left hand into his jacket pocket and with two fi n-

gers pulled out a cigarette. “Smoke?” he asked, and I almost looked

around me to see who he was talking to. Since it had never been me.

My brain Jell- O, all I managed to say was, “No. I don’t smoke.”

He shrugged, tucked the cigarette behind his ear, and walked

away. For good that time.

If things were diff erent, would I have thought more clearly to

accept his off er? Not that I smoked. Or liked when other people smoked.

Or normally ditched class.

I wasn’t going to allow myself to think any further about Leo.

Not until I could get to Becca. Wherever or however she was.

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CHAPTER

4

After school I caught Jenna in the hall. She wasn’t easy

to fi nd, with her dwindling size and her always abuzz social persona.

I discovered her in a locker section one over from mine, regaling

with woe what I assumed was Becca’s story— my story to hear, and

certainly not hers to tell. When she saw me, she actually let out a

“Ssshhh!” to the gathered crowd, and the people sea- parted to allow

me by. “Jenna.” I glanced around at the group she had amassed,

mostly drama club folk who I only knew from visits to Becca back-

stage. Freshman year I joined stage crew, but when I learned about

the long hours required I quit. I already had my time- sucker of hor-

ror movies, whether it was watching or attempting to write my own.

Spending my weeknights in the catwalk with a bunch of people

dressed in all black versus splayed across my bed watching Basket Case

was a no- brainer.

-1—

I never knocked Becca for her acting aspirations, nor did she

0—

knock me for my fi lmmaking dreams. It actually worked out perfectly,

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seeing as I always had an actress for my movies and she then had

experience for her college applications. Or her resume. Sometimes

Becca spoke grandiosely about her dream to skip college altogether

and make it straight to Hollywood, do not pass go, do not even wait

tables until her big break. Becca strictly believed in becoming famous

instantly, and I never for a moment doubted she could manage it.

If she made it that long.

“Can we talk away from your mob scene, please?” I looked

directly at Jenna, not wanting to inadvertently make eye contact with

any of her gang. Looks of pity weren’t helpful. I needed facts, of which

I had approximately none. She excused her entourage with a fl ick of

her wrist. It made me smile. Two years ago and six jean sizes, Jenna was

the chubby girl who only landed the supporting cast roles of mother,

grandmother, or, once, uncle. Here she was, thirty pounds lighter, lead-

ing a group of underclassmen around like baby pull toys.

When we were relatively alone, aside from the people whose actual

lockers were housed in that section, Jenna placed her hand on my

shoulder and assured me, “Anything you need, Alex, I’m here for you.”

Gag. “What I don’t need is this bullshit pity party you’re throw-

ing me. I need details, Jenna. What do you actually know?”

She straightened herself up, a little insulted, but still the Keeper

of Information. Then she transitioned into gossip mode, complete

with hand held next to her mouth as if she were hiding the news from

those only on one side of her. Drama divas. “My mom takes pilates

with Becca’s mom, and she told her that at the beginning of the sum-

mer Becca started to get sick. Like, sick all the time. They thought it

was all sorts of things, like a pulled muscle and the fl u and asthma,

and fi nally she was in so much pain and they ended up in the hospital,

—-1

draining fl uid from her chest.”

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“Jesus fuck.” My stomach turned. “Is she going through chemo?

Is that what she has to do?” My knowledge of cancer was limited

to what I read in books, watched on TV, and remembered from my

mom’s friends. But, really, it wasn’t much. All I knew was wigs and

death and probably a whole lot of awful in between.

“She started her fi rst round this week. That’s why she’s not at

school. Do you want me to give a message to my mom to give to her

mom?”

That pissed me off . Just because I didn’t know anything didn’t

mean that Jenna’s mom had some sort of one- up on me when it came

to Becca. “No. I’m going over there now.”

“You sure? I don’t know if Becca wants visitors.”

“That’ll do, Donkey,” I warned Jenna. She meekly accepted

defeat, and I walked away and out of the school. I knew she meant

well, but this was my best friend she was talking about. Estranged,

maybe, but that would be over once I saw her.

Would she be bald? Hooked up to a machine? Gorier than the

goriest of my horror movies? I felt utterly clueless.

I found my dad’s station wagon in the parking lot, bequeathed to

me by my mom after his death. She said that my having a car would

help alleviate some of the stress of trying to get everyone every-

where. It may have alleviated that stress, but the idea of me driving

after my dad was killed in a car accident had my mom shaken and

stirred. I tried to quell some of the anxiety by reminding her that

he wasn’t wearing a seat belt, and he was in a taxi, being driven by

someone we didn’t know. Mom trained me as a road warrior herself,

and I wouldn’t dare leave the garage, or anywhere else, without a seat

-1—

belt. That I promised her. She made me ditch my nicely aged Ford

0—

Escort for the upgrade to the safety- sealed Volvo. It was fi ne for

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driving to school, work, the video store, and the library, pretty much

all I did. My brothers took almost everything Mom had, which wasn’t

entirely bad. At least she was forced to focus on something other than

my dead dad. Too bad they were mutant turds with skateboards.

The traffi

c gods were kind, and I made it to Becca’s house quickly.

I parked my car on the street outside Becca’s house, just in case some-

one needed to get in or out of the garage in a hurry. Becca lived on a

quiet cul- de- sac in one of the nicer subdivisions that fed into our high

school. I lived in a one- step- down subdivision, which meant that the

houses were a little older and a little smaller. Becca had the good for-

tune of having her own bathroom, being the only child. Did good

fortune matter if you were the one with cancer?

Instead of sitting dazed in my car, I decided on the rip- the- Band-

Aid- off approach and forced myself to get out. The doorbell, a classic

dingdong edition versus the bleepy, robotic one my dad installed at our

house, rang in the pit of my stomach. The anticipation of are they home

or not hung in the air, until the telltale shuffl

e of Becca’s mom’s slippers

(it was a take- your- shoes- off - when- you- enter house) approached the

door. Upon seeing me, her tired face brightened, and she opened the

screen door and ushered me in. Before I could say “sorry,” or, “Is Becca

home?” or what ever the appropriate thing that wasn’t coming out of

my mouth, Mrs. Mason enveloped me in her lean arms and said, “Alex,

so good to see you. Becca missed you. I knew you’d fi x what ever it was

that you were fi ghting about this time.”

Not surprising that Becca didn’t tell her mom this par tic u lar fi ght

had her sleeping with my boyfriend, so I said, “Yeah. I just needed

some time.”

“Of course. Becca is upstairs. She might be sleeping, but I’m sure

—-1

she’ll want to see you. Go right up.”

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Maybe I had wanted Mrs. Mason to detain me for longer, tell me

all that I’d missed or ask me how my family was doing or even repri-

mand me for staying away so long. I didn’t expect heading up to my

best friend’s room so soon to be so diffi

cult. My best friend, Becca,

who had cancer.

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CHAPTER

5

I imagined Becca in the center of a giant, four- poster canopy

bed, so tiny and sickly that the bed practically engulfed her. None

of that made sense, since Becca neither had a four- poster bed nor a

canopy. In fact, she constantly bitched about the fact that her bed was

merely a twin on a metal bed frame. It was a hilarious argument I wit-

nessed between her and her mother.

“Mom, I’m getting close to adulthood now. Don’t you think that

warrants a queen? Or at least a double?”

“My dear,” her mom pronounced, “you are no queen, and

giving you a bigger bed just gives you license to share it with some-

one else.”

Touché.

“Knock knock,” I said and did. My heart beat behind my eyes,

and my stomach hovered around the middle of my chest. I hoped what-

ever I saw behind that door wasn’t like something out of The Exorcist.

—-1

Pea soup grossed me out.

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“Come in,” said a familiar voice. Becca’s voice. Who else would

it be?

I opened the door with a jerk, not purposely, but my hands also

seemed not quite in working order. The back of the door slammed

into the wall as it fl ew open. A picture hanging behind the door jumped

off the wall and landed with a smash.

“Shit. Sorry,” I said, trying to pick up the pieces.

“Does that mean you’re still mad at me?” Becca asked from the

corner of her room, where she sat in her big blue comfy chair, hidden

under a blanket her grandma had knitted. The only parts of her exposed

were her arms, which held a PS3 controller, and her head, which

looked surprisingly the same as the last time I saw her.

“Are you kidding?” I asked, gingerly closing the door behind me

and stepping over the broken frame, a picture of the two of us from

eighth- grade graduation. “How can I still be mad at you?”

“So cancer absolved me of everything? Shit, I should have got-

ten cancer a long time ago.”

“Ha ha.” I wasn’t ready to joke about Becca having cancer, and I

was a bit put off that she was. I sat on the edge of her bed and dangled

my feet. “I was all ready to forgive you when I came to school today,

but apparently you had to go all drama department on me.” That was

me attempting to be light, but it was a stretch. “What’s going on,

Becca?”

“What don’t you know?” She assessed how far the rumor mill

had gotten.

“All I know is what Jenna told me, which wasn’t enough. She said

you had cancer and that you started chemo today. I don’t even really

-1—

know what that means. And you look okay.” I looked at Becca’s face

0—

and recognized a tiredness and an unfamiliar fear in her eyes that I

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hadn’t noticed a second ago. I averted my glance to the tele vi sion

screen where she had her game paused. Two medieval- looking

people were frozen, blurred but obviously intertwined in mid- screw.

“Lovely, Becca. Are you just faking cancer so you can watch digitized

people get it on?”

“If only,” she sighed, threw down her controller, and began to

cough an extended, pained cough. When it subsided, she said, “It is

pretty sick that I can do this while you’re in school, though, isn’t it?

My mom walked in on me today mid- sex scene, and she said, ‘You

have as much computer- animated sex as you like, honey.’ ”

I laughed, but switched gears quickly. “So was Jenna right about

the chemo?”

“No, of course she wasn’t. I mean, yes, I’m having chemo, but

not until tomorrow. So you can tell her know- it- all ass that she got

something wrong. Fuck. She’s probably planning her audition scene

for the fall play.”

“Who cares about that, Becca?” It felt like the two of us were

avoiding the actual cancer discussion no matter how many times we

brought it up or got close. But my stomach, heart, and hands wouldn’t

get back to normal without knowing what the hell was going on. “Tell

me what happened.”

“The long or short version?”

“Long, if you want to tell it.”

“It involves someone and some events that I probably shouldn’t

bring up.”

“Davis, I’m assuming? He’s bagged and tagged to me. Speak

about him freely.”

“If you’re sure,” she checked. I nodded the okay. “After we, you

—-1

know, after your dad’s, you know, he kept calling me. And at fi rst, I

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told him to leave me alone. But when you wouldn’t talk to me, I don’t

know, I guess I was pissed at you, so Davis and I sort of hung out

a bunch over the summer. Not really hung out in an intellectually

stimulating way. More of an …” Becca pointed to the computerized

sex on her TV. “That kind of way.”

I shuddered and grimaced, but I couldn’t fault her. Davis repulsed

me at that point, and, well, Becca had cancer.

“I know this must suck to hear, and believe me it gets grosser.”

“I can’t imagine how, but go ahead. ‘It gets grosser’ is such an

intriguing setup.”

“He was visiting down south”— she gestured to the crotchy

portion of her body—“and he found some lumps. All very sexy, of

course. I checked them out in the mirror later on, mortifi ed I had

some disgusting zit infestation or something. But they weren’t zitty,

really, and then I realized I had them in other places, too. So my mom

made an appointment for me at the doctor.”

“You told your mom Davis found lumps while deep- sea diving?”

“God no! I didn’t tell her how I found them, and she didn’t ask.

After that it was like a shitstorm of doctor appointments and tests.

The biopsy was fucking horrifi c. They seemed to want to rule every-

thing else out before they went with the capital- C cancer diagnosis.

Do you want more gory details about my summer?”

Gore, as in horror- movie blood- and- guts- made- of- corn- syrup,

I could handle. But after Dad’s death and the real- life gore of that, I

could do without. “Why don’t you skip to what they said,” I told her.

“They said I have Hodgkin’s lymphoma, which they claimed is

very treatable. So, yay me, I guess.” She didn’t look “yay me.” She

-1—

looked petrifi ed.

0—

“That sounds promising,” I prodded.

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“I guess, except that I still have to go through chemo, which, if

everything I read about it online is true—”

“Which it never is,” I unhelpfully interjected.

“—is going to suck oversized donkey balls,” Becca continued.

“You have been hanging around Davis.” I rolled my eyes.

“Sorry,” she said.

“No. It’s okay. If Davis’s donkey balls help you get through can-

cer, then suck them all you like.” Becca threw a pillow at me.

“You know he stopped calling after I fi gured out it was cancer.

Something like his next- door neighbor died of cancer, and he couldn’t

handle it.”

“Sorry,” I told her. “He bailed on me, too, obviously.”

“He’s gone now. Joined the army.”

“What? When? We both dated a guy that’s in the army? That’s

so weird. I’m a pacifi st, for fuck’s sake.”

Our eyes fl oated over to two sexing computer creations on her

TV. “Dude, you need to turn that off . It’s so wrong.”

“Says you,” she uttered, but turned off the screen.

“So you go for chemo tomorrow? What exactly is chemo?”

“They explained it to me, but I only hear every sixteenth word

when the doctors are talking. It’s so surreal. Like a TV show moment.

You have cancer. And then I’m supposed to listen to someone explain a

million billion things to me? What I got was that they inject me with

a bunch of diff erent drugs for a week that attack the cancer. Then I

get at least a two- week break so my body doesn’t completely break

down, which sounds delightful because I’ll probably be puking and

gross the entire time. And then I go back and go through it all again.

And again. They said I need at least four rounds. I’m pretty freaked

—-1

out.”

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“Is there anything I can do?” I asked. A stupid question that too

many people asked me after my dad died. I would have taken the

chemo for her if I could.

“No, I don’t think so. But if I don’t call or text you this week,

don’t be upset, okay? I have no idea what I’ll be like.”

“I could bring you stuff . Crappy magazines and chicken soup?”

It was all I could realistically think to off er.

“Maybe. I’ll let you know. I’ve heard it can really get ugly.”

“You’ll never be ugly, Becca,” I assured her.

“I said it can get ugly, not I could.” She laughed a little, then

choked on the laugh and coughed some more. Her eyes welled with

tears. “I’m going to lose my hair, Alex.”

I defl ated for Becca. That hair. If I had cancer, I could do without

my hair. I had gone pretty close to no hair a couple of times. But

Becca’s hair was too beautiful and perfect. “Alex?” She looked at me

for help. “I want you to shave my head.”

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CHAPTER

6

“You want to shave your head? Why? Is your hair defi nitely

going to fall out?” Cancer had so many preconceptions, so many

things that I’ve heard about through passing Yahoo! articles I never

bothered to read, movies I didn’t want to watch. Why depress myself?

And here I was, living it. Or, not living it. Instead, watching it pos-

sibly devour my best friend.

“My hair will fall out. Fact. I don’t want to wake up with chunks

of hair stuck to my pillow. This way, I control things.”

I understood that. Control in any situation is important; in one

where you pretty much have none: imperative. “But maybe it won’t

fall out,” I tried to reason, with no logic behind it.

“It will, and it will suck.” She stood up slowly off her chair. She

moved more cautiously than I was used to. “What ever they inject

in me during chemo is attacking my cells, including the cells that do

this.” She fl ipped the bottom of her bouncy, thick, nearly waist- length

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hair. A vacant and glassy expression let me know that as cool as she

was being, she was not entirely one with the cucumber.

“Do you have a razor? Not, like, the leg kind, but for your head?”

“My mom bought one for me yesterday. She was totally crying

because my soul lives in my hair, apparently. I’ll go get it.” Was that

supposed to be funny? Was there a manual for this somewhere, How

to Respond to People with Cancer, because I didn’t know what was

appropriate and what was just plain off . Like when my dad died, and

every person said they were sorry. I get that that’s the polite thing

to say, but after a while it sounded so insincere. Just once I wanted

someone to be honest, tell me that they couldn’t imagine what it felt

like to one second have a dad, and the next second have a pile of body

parts and insurance money that’ll pay for the college of my dreams.

Would Dad even know if I went to college now?

I almost said something to Becca then about my dad, how I

missed him or felt confused or even hated him sometimes for leaving

just when I really needed him to lean on, but how did that make sense

when the reasons I needed him all had to do with the cancer suff erer

standing in front of me with a brand- new electric razor in her hands?

“Where should we do this?” she asked. I noticed a twitch in her

hand, and I didn’t know if it was nerves or something to do with the

cancer. I guessed nerves were technically something to do with the

cancer. “Seeing as you’re the expert and all.”

That made me feel guilty. The fact that I’d shaved my head

before, just to change things up, made me feel like a dick, as if it was

insensitive of me. Did Becca see it that way? That only people who

have to shave their head should be allowed to do so, otherwise it was

-1—

just belittling the magnitude of losing one’s hair?

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Or was I overthinking?

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I chose to believe the latter and that, of the two of us, I techni-

cally was closer to being a professional head shaver than Becca was.

“Do you have any garbage bags? The big black kind?”

“In the kitchen.” She sat down heavily on a rolling desk chair.

“Would you mind getting them?”

“No, of course not. Need anything else?” She shook her head.

“Why don’t you check in on your humping game pals, and I’ll be

right back.” That got a smile out of her.

Becca’s mom stood in the kitchen cradling a steaming mug in her

hands and staring out the window. In days BC (before cancer) I wouldn’t

have hesitated to barge into the room, ask were the garbage bags were,

and go on my merry way. But what if she was crying? And all I could

off er her was a “sorry”? Thankfully, Mrs. Mason turned around and

saw me, a drooped but tearless look on her face. “Hi, Alex, does she

need something?” Obviously, Becca was at the forefront of her brain.

“We’re about to shave her head, and I came to get some black

garbage bags for the mess. Under the sink, right?” I let myself into

the cabinet and pulled out several bags. When I stood up, Becca’s

mom was close by with a gallon Ziploc bag in her hands.

“Save some of it, please. In here.” If this were a horror movie,

the moment could have been so creepy: the obsessive mom wanting

to save lost locks of her daughter’s hair. Instead, it forced a lump to

my throat.

“Thanks.” I grabbed the bag before the two of us lost our shit and

ran back upstairs. Becca was in the same hunched position in her

desk chair, no romping computer people to be seen.

“Got the bags. And your mom wants me to save your hair in

this.” I held up the Ziploc.

—-1

“Weird. She better not give it away. I know they make wigs out

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of hair for cancer patients, but, shit, it’s my hair. And I’m already a

cancer fucking patient.” She seemed angry for the fi rst time today.

If it were me, anger would have been my fi rst, second, and third

response to every step of this. Becca was still so composed.

“It is your hair. You should make a coat out of it or something,”

I suggested as I cut a hole in one of the garbage bags. I pulled the

bag down over her head to keep the hair off her clothes. I ripped two

other bags down their seams and spread them under the chair.

“Get that mirror, will you?” She pointed to a fl imsy, full- length

mirror that she used in various locales around her room to practice

monologues. “I want to watch this.” Her expression was resolute. When

the mirror was in place in front of her, she said, “I don’t think I have

enough for a coat. Maybe a vest.” It could have been funny, if she

smiled the tiniest bit when she said it.

“I’m going to use scissors before I hit the clippers, if that’s okay.

Then they won’t get clogged.” I pulled a pair of red- handled scissors

out of a drama camp mug on her desk.

“Give me a bob fi rst, will you? I’ve always wanted to try one.

Haven’t had the guts to go that short since that awful haircut in ele-

mentary school.”

“I’ll do my best.” I pulled all of Becca’s hair behind her head into

a low ponytail, then started cutting with the scissors. “Damn. Do

you have any sharper scissors? These are weak.”

“Just keep going, okay?” Becca’s eyes were wide as some of the

newly shorn strands escaped the hold of my hands and dangled around

her face. Eventually, I hacked my way through the dense ponytail

and held it up.

-1—

“We got one, Pa,” I drawled as if I just cut the tail off a raccoon.

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Becca said nothing, just turned her head side to side to look at her

drastically shorter hair. “Kind of cute, right? I can rock this. When

my hair grows back,” she convinced herself, as I bagged the ponytail

in her mom’s commemorative Ziploc.

“Now for the buzzing,” I announced. “These razors have diff er-

ent length attachments. Which do you want?”

“The shortest one but not totally bald. I’d like to be fuzzy for as

long as possible,” Becca told me.

I plugged in the razor and fl icked on the switch. The razor jumped

to life in my hand. I approached Becca’s head. “Ready?” I asked.

She inhaled deeply, in her actorly way, and then stuck out her

hand. “I’ll do it.”

I didn’t ask if she needed help, just handed her the vibrating

razor. Without hesitation, she attacked her hair on the right side of

her head. Clumps fell off onto the garbage bags with a puff . When she

approached the center, she changed sides and buzzed the left. Eventu-

ally, only a Mohawk remained.

“I almost look tough, don’t I?” She looked at me in the mirror.

“Badass,” I agreed.

Then down came the Mohawk.

In the end, a short fuzz remained of Becca’s once lustrous, long

hair.

“I don’t know why,” I said, “but I just envisioned myself swal-

lowing all the hair on the ground and choking to death.”

“Time to lay off the horror movies, Alex.” I actually pulled a tiny

smile from her. She looked really pretty, hair be damned.

“Want me to shave mine now? In solidarity?” I asked. “ ’Cause I

don’t mind.”

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She turned in her chair to look at me instead of my refl ection. “It

doesn’t mean anything if you shave your head, Alex, because you

would shave your head even if I didn’t have cancer.”

“True.” I looked down at the hairy mess.

“Instead, you should wear a really long, glamorous wig.” I wid-

ened my eyes in a horrifi ed manner. “I’m just kidding. God. You’d

think I asked you to have sex with my boyfriend and then get cancer

or something.”

We both laughed. Maybe it wasn’t funny, but standing next to

heaps of Becca’s hair while barely any was on her head, it felt a lot

better than crying.

“I have one more thing I need you to do.” Becca was serious as

I gathered the garbage bags from the fl oor.

“Sure. What? Anything.”

“Put down my hair, and sit. This is important.”

I dropped the garbage bags, and fl uff s of hair exploded from the

mess.

“What? You’re not going to put me in your will, are you? Because

you’re not going to die,” I told her.

“Maybe. Maybe not. But I don’t have a will. I wrote something

else. And I need you to help me with it.”

“What? Do you want me to kill someone?” I asked ner vous ly.

“Alex, shut up. Although, I’ll keep that in mind. No, I wrote a

bucket list. And I need you to help me do it.”

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CHAPTER

7

“A bucket list? Like something an old man writes when he

retires? Bungee jumping and shit?”

“Not only old men write bucket lists, Alex. And I already went

bungee jumping when my family went to Acapulco.”

“So what are you talking about?”

“Stuff I want to do before I die. Not only old people die, you

know.”

“I’m thoroughly aware of that, thank you.” I pursed my lips at

the thought that my dad, while parently old, would never have been

considered an old man.

“All the more reason to do a bucket list. We have no idea how

much time any of us have left, and what if we don’t get to do all of the

things we dreamed we’d do?”

“Big fucking deal. Then we’ll be dead in a box, in the ground,

not knowing any better. Actually, I’m thinking cremation and having

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my ashes sprinkled on the Peter Pan ride at Disneyland. But don’t tell

anyone.”

“I’ll take it to the grave.” Becca smirked.

“Why are we even talking about this? You are not going to die.

You are not. Going. To. Die.” I stood up and started to pace, kicking

at broken pieces of frame glass along the way.

“Let’s say I’m not, for the sheer joy of being not dead, but that

doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be doing amazing things.”

“Amazing things? You want me to build a well in a third world

country?” I stopped pacing long enough to give her my patented

you’ve got to be kidding look.

“Your kindness shines through your blackened exterior, Alex.” I

fl ipped Becca off . “Maybe not amazing, but we have to do what we

want and not let conventional fear get in the way. Like when we were

freshmen, remember when Ryan Gosling was at an appearance at a

bookstore because he wrote a page or something in a book on eti-

quette for teens, and you totally wanted to go …”

“I thought we promised not to talk about that.”

“I’m playing the cancer card and bringing it back.”

“How gloriously thoughtful of you,” I drolled.

“I know, right? Anyway, you had that box with all of those pic-

tures of him in the secret hole in your closet, but you refused to go see

him. And you cried, remember? Because you regretted not going.”

“I did not cry.” I sat down again at the degrading memory.

“Two tears, but for you that’s extreme.” I shrugged because I

knew she was right. “We should never have any regrets, not when

we’re dying and not when we’re alive. Like Ke$ha so wisely puts it,

-1—

‘Let’s make the most of the night like we’re gonna die young.’ ” Becca

0—

looked so determined, I couldn’t fault her for quoting Ke$ha.

+1—

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“Does this mean you want me to write a bucket list, and we’ll

drop out of school together and travel the world pursuing our sick

and twisted fantasies and then drive off a cliff holding hands?”

“Take it down a notch, Alex. Your bucket list can wait. I’m the

one dying here.”

“I’ll only help you if you stop fucking saying that.”

“I like saying it. The more I say it, the less real it sounds.”

“Fair enough. What do I have to do?”

Becca waved me over to her bed with a fl oppy hand, and I

scrunched in next to her. Even without hair, I could smell her sham-

poo, citrusy and fresh, almost good enough to eat.

She reached underneath her mattress and pulled out a crinkled

piece of Hello Kitty stationery I vaguely remembered giving her for

her birthday in elementary school.

“This is my bucket list. I’ve been writing it since I was nine,”

Becca shared.

“And I’m the morbid one?” I raised my eyebrows.

“Yes. I’m not the one who used a needle and pen to tattoo their

thigh with a smiley face.”

“It’s not a smiley face. It’s a dead guy smiley face. That’s what

the ‘X’s instead of eyes mean.”

“Yeah, like I said, morbid. The point was—”

“There was a point?” I laughed a little.

“Alex, we’re running out of time. I’m running out of time. Tomor-

row is it. What ever happens, I have no idea what it’s going to be like

or how long or what I’ll look like or when I’ll see you again, so we

need to do this now.” Becca had worked herself up, or I had, and she

started coughing. When she didn’t stop after a few hacks, her mom’s

—-1

feet pounded up the stairs.

—0

—+1

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“Here, honey.” Becca’s mom reached for a small pitcher on her

nightstand, and, with shaking hands, poured a glass of water. Becca

drank it slowly, deliberately, until the glass was emptied and her

mom fi lled it again.

“Thanks, Mom.” Becca sounded younger and sweeter, like a lit-

tle kid version of Becca I remembered from when she had a broken

arm and she worked the pity factor to get a massive Polly Pockets yacht.

But this didn’t feel like working it. She was already becoming a smaller,

frightened version of herself.

“Alex, Becca needs to get her rest for tomorrow. I hate to ask, but

I think you should probably go.”

Becca snapped out of her weakness for a moment. “Mom, I need

to keep talking to Alex. I might not see her for a while.” She looked at

me. “The doctors said I’d be really out of it. And I can’t risk bringing

germs into the house because of my weakened immune system. You

won’t want to see me all gross and gnarly anyway,” she assumed, turn-

ing to me.

“Gross and gnarly is my business, Becca. But what ever you need

me to do.”

“Fifteen minutes more, Mom?” Becca opened her eyes wide in

their most manipulative, manga- like expression.

“Your hair—” It was as though Becca’s mom just noticed the

mass of missing locks. Tears and shudders erupted from her, the abso-

lute worst thing to watch. I knew parents were supposed to be human

and all, but I wish she could have pulled it together for Becca’s sake.

And mine.

“I saved some in a bag for you.” I tried to cheer Becca’s mom up

-1—

and held the bag out for her to see. Apparently, that wasn’t the correct

0—

thing to do. The sobs and shudders turned even more extreme.

+1—

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“Mom, you’re freaking Alex out, and I just got her back. Can

you please give us fi fteen minutes alone? I’m fi ne without the hair.

Just pretend it’s for a big role starring opposite Hugh Jackman.”

Becca always knew the right thing to say, and I saw the smile I had

hoped for spread across her mom’s face. She loved Hugh Jackman.

“Fifteen minutes,” she agreed, and grabbed a handful of tissues

on her way out.

“And you wonder why I’m in drama,” Becca sighed after her

mom closed the door.

“The list?” I had to know where she was going with this.

“Yeah, so I’ve been doing this since I was nine. Not, like, as an I’m

going to die list but more like a list of things I need to do someday.”

“Before you die,” I pushed.

“Well, I sure as fuck can’t do them after I die.”

“Says you. What if I learn the art of taxidermy, stuff you, and

take you with me everywhere I go until we complete the list?”

“You’re totally going to turn that into a movie someday, aren’t

you?”

“Probably.”

“You can use my dead body as the dead body,” Becca volunteered.

“You’ll be too busy starring as the gorgeous, living friend. Who

is alive. And not dead at all.”

“Okay, good, because that’s on my list.” She pointed to number

67: Star in one of Alex’s movies and have it seen by actual people

instead of just me and Alex. “Sorry,” she noticed. “My bucket list isn’t

very well- worded.”

“Can we stop calling it a bucket list? Again: implied death,” I

noted.

—-1

“I thought it meant all the things you can fi t into a bucket to do.”

—0

—+1

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“Um, no, I think it means all the things you can do before you

kick the bucket. Which, actually, I think is an allusion to suicide, right?

Like, kicking the bucket out from under your feet while you hang.

Or maybe someone else is kicking out the bucket.”

“Yuck and gross and eeww.”

“So no more bucket. How about the Fuck- It list? Like, fuck it, I

might die, but let me look like an idiot doing all sorts of ridiculous

things?”

“The Fuck- It List. Noble, but with a hint of edge to it.”

“Think they’d ever let me name a movie The Fuck- It List?”

“Probably not. They’d be all, ‘How about The Stuff - It List? That’s

how kids these days really talk, right?’ ” Becca perfectly adopted

a hilariously oblivious male executive’s voice.

From downstairs we heard Becca’s mom yell, “Ten minutes!”

“Damn, Woman. She’s probably got her stopwatch ticking.

Okay, we need to focus. I don’t know how much of the list I can do by

myself in a short amount of time, so I had the idea that maybe you

could help me out with some things on it and I could live vicariously

through you.”

I grabbed the list and skimmed through the scribbles written

over every possible inch of the worn paper. “No way in hell am I send-

ing my bra to Zac Efron.” I gagged.

“Shut up. I was like twelve when I wrote that.”

“Did you even have boobs?”

“I had a training bra. I think SpongeBob was on it. Anyway, you

don’t have to do everything, but, like, here, number thirteen.” She

pointed to a line written in pink pen. “Sleep on a beach to watch the

-1—

sunset and sunrise. You could defi nitely manage that.”

0—

“So could you! Come on!” I prodded. It was hard for me to

+1—

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imagine Becca being so sick, or maybe not even here to do something

so simple.

“Alex, humor me. Things on this list need to start getting done,

so I can feel like I accomplished something just in case I do die. And

don’t give me that shit that I’ll be dead so I won’t know whether or

not I accomplished anything because now you will know and you’ll

have to live with it weighing on your lightly existing conscience.”

“Geez, fi ne. No need to bring my conscience into this. I’ll sleep

on a beach. I’ll be a regular beach bum. I’ll bring you back a grain of

sand and everything.”

“This is serious, Alex. You can’t just do it half- assed. Do every-

thing like it’s your last night on Earth.”

“Are you going to quote Ke$ha again? Fine. Two grains of sand.”

Becca smacked my shoulder. “Isn’t there anything on here we could

take care of now? So you can do some of it?” I scanned the page. Num-

bers and sentences in various colored pens and markers were strewn

every which way. “Here! I found one. Number 8: Crank call Adam

Levitz.”

“That’s on the list? God, I was such a douchey nine- year- old.”

Adam Levitz was a crush gone wrong in fourth grade. He invited

Becca to the Fun Fair at our elementary school, but when he didn’t

pick her up at her house she and I went to the school in hopes of meet-

ing him there. Turned out it was all a trick masterminded by Queen

Bitch Mara Radnor. Apparently, Becca hadn’t gotten over it.

“It’s on the list. Let’s do it.” I reached for Becca’s phone and

punched in *67, so her number would show up as private.

“Give me that.” Becca grabbed the phone out of my hands and

dialed some numbers.

—-1

“Why do you still know his phone number?” I was incredulous.

—0

—+1

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“I tried calling him so many times that night he ditched me, it

stayed in my head. Ssshhh—” Becca help up a fi nger to quiet me. In

a hilariously sexy, breathy voice, Becca asked, “Is Adam there? No?

Well, can you tell him Cassandra called, and I just wanted to let him

know he gave me chlamydia. Thanks.”

We both started giggling when she hung up. “That was weird,”

I told her.

“I know. Cassandra’s such a tramp.”

“Cross it off .” I pushed the list at her along with a pen from her

nightstand. “Let’s do one more,” I suggested. “We have fi ve minutes.

Is there a quick one? Like where we make out or something?” I asked.

“What? That’s not on there, is it?” Becca scanned the list. “How

about this one?” Number fi fteen: Flash the homeschooled guy next

door.”

Becca lived next to a family with six girls and one boy, all home-

schooled. We knew nothing about them except that the boy was our

age, ridiculously hot, and his bedroom window lined up perfectly

with Becca’s.

“You little whore. You have to do this one.” I nudged her.

“I don’t know. Is it too skanky?”

“It’s not like your list said to give the homeschool boy a handjob.

Unless that’s further down. Ha. Get it? Further down?”

“Alex! Time to go!” Becca’s mom called once again from

downstairs.

“Your mom is insane, by the way,” I told her.

Becca wasted no time answering me. Before I fi nished my sen-

tence, she was on her feet and heading to her window.

-1—

“Oh my god. He’s there. At his little homeschool desk facing his

0—

little homeschool window. He looked up. He sees me.”

+1—

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“No time like the present for a nip slip,” I advised.

“I’m going to do it. I’m going to do it,” Becca chanted. She threw

her t-shirt to the fl oor. “I’m totally doing it. He’s looking! I’m going

to take off my bra. I’m going to do it. I’m going to do it.”

“This play- by- play is really sexy, Becca,” I teased.

Becca reached around her back and unhooked her bra. “Here

I go. I’m taking off my bra. One. Two. Three.” Becca fl ung her bra

across her room and threw her arms up in the air. “He’s smiling!”

“Yeah. I’d imagine so.”

“I’m going to blow him a kiss.” Becca did just that. Then her

bedroom door opened, and her mom barged in. Becca spun around

instantly, arms crossed over her chest. “Mom! Get out!” Becca

screamed. “Alex is leaving! Give us a minute, damnit!”

I don’t know if Becca’s mom left because of what Becca said or

because she didn’t want to know what Becca was actually doing. We

busted out laughing the second the door closed. Becca threw her shirt

back on and climbed into bed.

“That was so excellent. See how good it’s going to feel when you

do these things for me?” She was really serious about me doing her list.

“I’m not showing my tits to your neighbor, Becca.”

“You don’t have to. I already did!” she squealed. “Calm thyself,

Becca,” she breathed, something she often did before a show to cen-

ter herself. “You don’t have to do all of them. I know it’s a lot. Just

some of them so you can report back to me. Really live while I can’t.”

“When you put it that way, I’m pretty much obligated to say yes,

aren’t I?”

“That’s the idea.”

“I better go, or your mom might try to smoke me out. Should we

—-1

hug?” Hugging now felt too infi nite.

—0

—+1

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“Yes, we should, and we will.” Becca worked herself out of the

bed and wrapped her arms around me. That did it. My hard candy

shell melted into a puddle of chocolate in her arms. “I always knew

you were a softy.”

“Careful what you say. I’ve got a shiv in my pocket.” I sniff ed.

“I love you, Alex. You and your shiv.”

“Love you, too, Becca. Even if I have to sleep on a beach to

prove it.”

“I hope you get sand in your undies,” Becca whispered in my ear.

-1—

0—

+1—

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CHAPTER

8

When I parked my dad’s car in our empty garage, I knew I’d be

home alone. But I didn’t want to be. A note on the kitchen table read,

“The boys have soccer. Be home by 8. Pizza in the freezer. Hope you

had a good fi rst day. Love you, Mom.” The thought crossed my mind

to actually watch my brothers’ soccer game, but that momentary

lapse of sport dementia quickly passed. I could’ve studied Becca’s

list, started my game plan, created a schedule. But maybe I didn’t

want to think about it, about anything. Instead, I opted for a pint of

Cherry Garcia and a viewing of my comfort fi lm Dead Alive. Most

people know Peter Jackson as the director of the Lord of the Rings

trilogy and The Hobbit, and rightly so because they’re brilliant. I would

argue even more brilliant is his fi rst, and fi nest, fi lm about a man in

New Zealand whose mom gets bitten by a plague- infested monkey at

the zoo. As a result, she turns into a festering, hungry horndog along

with other not- so- upstanding members of town, and her son does his

—-1

best to take care of them. Possibly one of the goriest fi lms ever made,

—0

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there is even a sweet love story, a hilarious running zombie baby, and

a priest who yells, “I kick ass for the lord!” Could there be anything

better?

As much ice cream as I consumed from the too- tiny pint, and as

mind- bogglingly sublime as Dead Alive was, I couldn’t kick Becca

out of my head. What was she doing at that moment? Was there any

way to stop her from remembering that she had cancer? Was it com-

pletely unfair that I was using food and fi lm to try to forget? How

could I let myself forget when she had no choice?

I stirred the last of the ice cream into a nice soup, then tipped the

cup back and chugged it. I had to get out of my quiet house. With the

Fuck- It List folded in my back pocket, I got into my car.

I found some extreme metal on my MP3 player, someone scream-

ing punishingly into my ears. I felt I deserved it, that here I was in

my dad’s car, alive when he was dead, healthy when my best friend

had cancer. Who was I to be alive? Who decided? I cranked the music

even louder to drown my thoughts. Admittedly, my head hurt, but

I enjoyed the annoyed looks from the people pulled up next to me at

stoplights. What did they know? Their lives were probably so simple.

I glared at the back of a bald man’s head in the car in front of me. You

deserve to be bald, bastard. Becca does not.

My car led me to the parking lot of my old elementary school,

Irving. The same school Becca and I attended together, where our

friendship grew. Maybe if I sat there long enough, time would move

backward and none of this cancer stuff would exist. Maybe even my

dad would still be here. I closed my eyes and let the music consume

me. My lips pursed tightly, willing my eyes not to cry.

-1—

BAM!

0—

A loud pound on the glass shocked my eyes open, and I squinted

+1—

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at a fi gure hovering around my car window. The glare of the sun

made him diffi

cult to see, but I knew that military jacket from one

too many hallway stares at Leo Dietz. He tried speaking to me, his

straight lips moving but the sound drowned by my music. I switched

off the ignition, and he tried again.

“Rough day?” he asked, as he leaned slightly into my window.

“Why would you ask that? Do I look like shit or something?” I

don’t know why I said that, except that I was worried I did look like

shit. Then I felt guilty for worrying about how I looked when Becca

was awaiting her fate. I wondered if I’d ever have a guiltless thought

again.

“Nah. You don’t look like shit. I only listen to Lamb of God

when I hate someone. Or myself.” That’s when I noticed a basketball

tucked under his arm.

“You play basketball?” I asked with a hint of disgust in my voice.

There was nothing less appealing to me than an ass- smacking mem-

ber of a high school sports team.

“If you mean I know how to manipulate a basketball, then yes.

But I’m not on a team or anything.” His jacket smelled stale of

cigarettes.

“Well, that’s good. ’Cause I was about to ask you to leave if you

said yes.”

He smiled at me, a smile I’d never been that close to. His teeth

weren’t perfect. They weren’t snaggletooth or stained, but his canine

teeth stuck out a little farther than his front two. I chuckled to myself

at the notion of him being a vampire, something Becca and I would

have had a fi eld day with.

“You want to shoot with me?” For a quick second I thought he

—-1

meant guns, but he held the basketball up with the invite.

—0

—+1

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“Really?” I didn’t know if my apprehension was because I hated

sports or I didn’t want to look stupid in front of him.

“Yeah. It’s fun to play here because the baskets are so low. It

makes me feel like a giant.”

“You are a giant,” I noted.

“Get out of the car already,” he commanded. I obeyed.

This close, our height diff erence was noticeable. I had to look up

to talk to him. I was glad it wasn’t the other way around because that

would make me on constant booger alert.

We walked together to the nearby basketball court, and he was

right: It was knid of fun to feel superior to the baskets.

“This almost makes me want to join a basketball team,” I told

him as we lay down on a grassy berm for a rest. “Like, one for

six- year- olds.”

Leo laughed a small, inward laugh and pulled out a pack of ciga-

rettes from his jacket pocket. He held the pack out to me as an off er.

I hesitated. “When in Rome.” I shrugged. “Or an elementary school

parking lot.”

He put both cigarettes in his mouth, lighting them at the same

time. He passed one over to me, and I held it between my fi ngers. I

never imagined a cigarette would feel so light and insignifi cant. It

seemed like such a constant crutch in so many lives, I thought it would

have more substance to it. I gingerly held the cigarette up to my lips,

as it had been to Leo’s, and took a tentative inhale. Then I coughed

like the inexperienced asshole I was. “Damn. Why do you bother with

this? My mouth tastes like I just sucked on a turd.”

He laughed his quiet laugh again and said, “It gets better once

-1—

you get used to it.”

0—

“That’s stupid. That’s like when someone tells you, ‘He seems

+1—

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like a prick at fi rst, but he’s really nice once you get to know him.’

Why bother?”

“I guess because it also gets addictive once you get used to it.”

“What about”— I wished I didn’t say it—“cancer?”

“It’s just death, man. Cancer or not, I’ll die.” He lay back into

the grass and puff ed smoke into the sky.

I lay down next to him, my arm touching his jacket sleeve. I won-

dered if he could feel it. “I don’t want to talk about death right now,”

I told him.

“What do you want to talk about?”

I kept the cigarette in my hand and tried fl icking off the ashes as

they burned in the wind. I didn’t smoke any more of it.

“Did you go to school here?” I asked Leo.

“No. We moved away before and after grade school. My older

brother, Jason, went here, though.”

“He’s in Af ghan i stan, right?” I asked, the not- so- subtle stalker.

“How’d you know?” he asked. When I paused to answer, he

continued, “I don’t want to talk about him right now.”

“So what do you want to talk about?”

“You like horror movies, right?” Smoke wafted out of Leo’s

mouth as he spoke.

“Yeah. How’d you know?” Welcome to the mutual stalkers society.

I tried not to sound giddy at the thought of Leo knowing something

about me.

“I saw you last year at the midnight showing of Evil Dead 2.”

“You did?” I wanted to tell him that I saw him, too, but that felt

too eager.

“Yep” was all he said.

—-1

“What’s your favorite?” I asked.

—0

—+1

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“Horror movie?” he checked.

“Yeah. Your absolute favorite. Which one?”

“Is it too obvious to say Evil Dead 2?” He seemed less confi dent

when I talked to him than when he stood around looking menacing

and mysterious. I didn’t know if I liked the vulnerability on him. Just

like I hated it on me.

“Not boring, but maybe a little predictable. Still, a noble choice.

Did you hear Bruce Campbell—”

“Is going to be at the Orpheum for Army of Darkness. I know. I’m

stoked. Do you want to go?” I thought it was kind of a date until he

added, “My friend Brian was supposed to go with me, but he’s going

out of town now. So I’ve got an extra ticket.”

This wasn’t quite how my fantasies went, but I’d take it. Horror

movies were always more fun with someone else. And I didn’t think

Becca would make it. Would she be bummed that I was going out and

she wasn’t? Or would she want every detail of what it was like being

near Leo? I wondered if there was a horror movie out there where

someone gets killed by their own guilt.

“When is it?” I asked as if I didn’t already know.

“Friday at seven. It’s okay if you’re busy. Just thought I’d ask.”

Aren’t we casual?

“I planned on going, so sure. Yeah.”

“Good,” he replied.

We lay on our backs quietly for a couple of silent minutes, until

Leo asked, “So what’s yours?”

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“Your favorite.”

-1—

“Oh yeah. I like Dead Alive. I think it’s funnier than Evil Dead

0—

without trying as hard. Maybe it’s the New Zealand accents.”

+1—

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“That’s a good one. The lawn mower scene is killer.”

“So good,” I agreed.

Several more minutes of silence rolled by with the clouds. I didn’t

mind. Leo’s presence, the outdoor air, even the cigarette smoke was

calming. I found a whale in the clouds, a sailboat, an evil clown.

The grass rustled, and I saw Leo rolled over on his side. I did the

same and faced him. I marveled at being this close to him, fi nding

freckles on his nose, watching the way the sunlight made his red eye-

lashes almost transparent. Then out of nowhere he kissed me. It was

a hard kiss, a quick one. Then he pulled back and took a drag off his

cigarette, turning his head to blow the smoke away from my face.

“Why’d you do that?” I asked, hiding the smile and desire that

seeped from every pore in my body.

“You looked like you wanted me to,” he explained, then took

another drag.

“What does that mean?” I asked, annoyed. “Was I pursing my

lips? Were my tits glowing? What?” He actually laughed loudly at

that one. “I’m glad my glowing tits amuse you,” I told him.

“They sound very amusing. Mind if I take a look?” he joked. I

think.

“Only if you show me your balls of fi re,” I deadpanned.

He fell onto his back again and looked up at the passing clouds.

The sun was starting to set. Summer was defi nitely over. My dad was

gone. My best friend had cancer. And there I was, sharing cigarettes

with the boy of my sick and twisted dreams.

That kiss made me feel lit up like his cigarette. Did he want me to

kiss him again? Or was that a pity kiss? Was I someone worth pity?

How would he even know if I was or not?

—-1

I was tired of thinking, so I propped myself up on my elbow and

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looked down at his mouth. Did it want to be kissed, too? There was

only one way to fi nd out, and I went for it. That time the kiss was

longer, stronger, and wetter. I fell onto him, not worried at all about

my insignifi cant weight on his substantial chest. He wrapped his hands

around my back, then moved down until he squeezed my butt. It felt

so good and comforting, I would have been willing to take all of my

clothes off right then and there. In that moment, I understood every

reason Becca did what she did last summer with Davis.

And then my phone rang. My mom’s ringtone. Quite possibly

the least sexy ringtone I could have asked for, not that I would have

asked for any.

I jerked away from Leo to answer. “Hi, Mom. Just driving

around. Yeah, I can come home now. See you soon.

“I have to go.” I turned to Leo, who perched himself up on his

elbow.

“Yeah, okay.”

I looked around to fi nd my car key and stood up. Leo remained

in his reclined position while he pulled his cigarettes out of his jacket

again.

“So, I guess I’ll see you in school,” I said. My mind had moved on

to what would transpire when I got home, having to tell my mom

about Becca.

“Yep.” He lit his next cigarette and returned to his back.

Confused but preoccupied, I left him in the grass and drove

toward home as though what had just happened was as imaginary as

a clown in the clouds.

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CHAPTER

9

When I arrived home, the house was in a much more chaotic

condition than when I had left. AJ and CJ marked their presence

everywhere, from their cleats strewn across the doormat to the clots

of dirt that made a trail to the basement, where they played an incred-

ibly loud video game. Their stench was also noticeable.

My mom was in the kitchen unpacking some Target bags. “Hi,

Mom,” I greeted her.

“Hi, honey. How was your day?” she asked as she added to her

collection of overpriced hand soaps under the sink.

“It was okay. I guess.” Since my dad’s death, I hated to burden

my mom with anything heavy. But if I didn’t tell her about Becca and

she somehow found out, then we’d have a blow- up argument about

how I don’t confi de in her anymore. That already happened over the

summer when I hadn’t told her about me and Becca’s friendship hia-

tus. “Not really, actually. Can I tell you something?”

—-1

My mom was still distracted by her unpacking, so I emphasized

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my need for undivided attention by taking a soap pump out of her

hands.

“Honey, what is it?” She sounded concerned, if not exhausted.

Mom was a few inches taller than me, which I appreciated for its

momness. I looked up at her eyes, dark brown like mine, and said, “I

found out today that Becca has cancer.”

“Oh, sweetheart. Oh.” Mom engulfed me in her arms. I wished

she hadn’t. I choked, and tears started streaming down my face. By

the time I was fi nished, my mom’s shoulder was covered in tears and

snot. She put her hands on my shoulders after subtly wiping tears from

her own eyes. “Do you know anything more? What kind? What

stage?”

It seemed ironic, using the word “stage” for cancer and Becca. I

knew it wasn’t the same meaning, but Becca loved the stage. What-

ever stage of cancer she had, I hoped it was a good one. “Hodgkin’s

lymphoma. I don’t know what stage.”

“Hodgkin’s. That’s a good one to have, if there is a good one.

Your uncle Alan had it and beat it. Becca’s strong like you. She’ll beat

it, too.”

“I hope,” I sniff ed. “We cut her hair off today.”

“That glorious hair. It’ll grow back. You know that already. You

know so much already.” Mom looked at me sadly, and I knew she was

referring to my dad.

I didn’t want her to get on that morose path, so I said, “She starts

chemo tomorrow. I’m going to send her a message to wish her luck.”

“You’re a good friend.” She tried to smile. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

“Don’t make me cry again, Mom, or I’ll rub my boogers all over

-1—

your other shoulder.”

0—

“Then I’ll have a matching set.” She tried to laugh.

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I walked upstairs to my bedroom and shut the door. My over-

head light was too bright for my mood, so I turned on my three pop-

can lamps from ju nior high shop class. Each one illuminated a diff erent

color: a red bulb from the Strawberry Crush, a green bulb from the

Mountain Dew, and a purple bulb from the Shasta. I walked over and

drew my shades, then smiled at the memory of Becca fl ashing her

neighbor. I thought about doing it myself, but my bedroom window

opened to our backyard and the people in the house behind us were an

el der ly couple with three ratty poodles. Even if I did fl ash them, I

didn’t know if they would still be awake at eight o’clock to see me.

While my computer booted up, I looked at the poster above my

head: a Portuguese Dead Alive movie poster that read, Mi Madre se

ha comida su perro, that I bought at the Dead of Winter horror movie

convention last year. Would Becca be able to go again when it came

to town this winter?

I planned on sending Becca an email, in case she was sleeping

and the buzz from a text woke her, but I saw her name in my messag-

ing list.

You awake? I typed

I waited for an answer, but got none. I typed on anyway.

Maybe you’re asleep. I hope you’re dreaming aboard

Battlestar Galactica.

Weird true story: I saw Leo at the park. Tried a cigarette!

Tasted like ass. Then, no shit, we made out. I think I may

have imagined it. Wish you were there. Not to watch us,

just to verify it happened.

I waited again for a reply. Nothing. She must have left her mes-

—-1

senger on.

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Well, good night then. Don’t let the bed bugs bite. Good

luck tomorrow.

I stepped away from the computer to put on my nightshirt, which

was really just a T-shirt that had become too holey and yellowed in

the armpits to wear in public.

The familiar chime of a message alerted from the computer. On

my screen was a message from Becca:

You just did something off my Fuck- It List! I forgot which

number. So the question is: Did his mouth taste like ass,

too?

I fi shed the Fuck- It List out of my crumpled jeans on the fl oor.

There at number 12: Kiss a boy who smokes.

I typed back, Not like ass. Like a burnt hamburger. But a

sexy burnt hamburger.

Goodnight, Alex.

Goodnight, Becca.

I got into bed with the Fuck- It List and crossed out number 12.

Something about that action, the dragging of the pen over Becca’s

words, made me feel like I was helping her. I couldn’t cure her cancer,

but there were things I could do. And if they happened to be with a

guy who I kind of liked, I shouldn’t feel guilty about it. After all, it’s

what Becca wanted.

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CHAPTER

1 0

That night I spent over an hour reading over Becca’s Fuck- It

List. It was like a window into her tween- through- present- day soul.

I had no idea about some of her dreams, like number 7: Eat a hot pep-

per. How tiny. How insignifi cant. And yet, it must have seemed like

a big enough deal to put it on her list. Was that one I would complete

for her? Or did she want the easy ones left for her?

Number 4: Write Rupert Grint a love letter.

I remembered Becca’s Rupert Grint phase, after we fi rst saw

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire on DVD. “He looks so diff erent.

So kind of manly.” I was a Seamus Finnigan gal myself, but I could

understand the appeal of Rupe. I mean, the guy’s last name was Grint,

and I was no stranger to the admiration of a redhead.

Did Becca actually want me to write him a letter? I wished we

had gone over some ground rules. Which ones were more important

to her, which she wanted to do herself, and which were so outdated

—-1

that they could be taken off the list altogether?

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What about number 1: Have a Kool- Aid stand with every color

Kool- Aid invented.

How did that make it to her Fuck- It List? Was it a dying- of-

cancer priority? And what kind of asshole would I look like if I did

set up a rainbow- fl avored Kool- Aid stand?

As the list grew, it also matured in content, hence the neighbor

fl ashing and the smoker kissing. Toward the end, practically every item

was about sex or drugs: number 16: Smoke pot with a burnout behind

the school. And number 17: Make out with a burnout who smokes pot

behind the school.

I knew which burnout she had in mind, too. Chad Dominguez,

her lust- from- a-distance delinquent that fulfi lled her badboy movie

requirements (remedial classes, multiple suspensions, held back at least

one grade, and completely edible). Did that mean I had to smoke pot

and make out with Chad Dominguez? Would Becca appreciate that I

fulfi lled items like that or be livid with betrayal? Did Becca have her

own copy of the list for reference? What if I lost the list? I vowed to

scan the paper fi rst thing in the morning, email Becca a copy, and save

one to my hard drive. The paper was already in slightly disintegrated

condition; I would hate to fail Becca by accidentally getting it wet or

leaving it somewhere. During sleep, I decided to store it under a tall

stack of books on my nightstand. I have always kept a stack of library

books next to my bed as a lifeline. If I ever woke up in the middle of

the night too scared to move or too sad to roll over, the books were

my saviors. I picked up an aged copy of Stephen King’s Thinner. Not

his best, but I liked it enough to read it for the third or fourth time.

Three pages in, I fell asleep.

-1—

The next morning, a half hour before my alarm was set to begin

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the monotony of the day, and half asleep to where I was still dreamy,

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I remembered my time with Leo on the grass. Even if he was only

kissing me back because he thought I wanted to kiss him, I could feel

he enjoyed it. Both from the hand on my ass and the stiff ness in his

pants. In my bed, I inched my hand down my stomach and into the

band of my underwear. I relived the feeling of my body on top of Leo’s,

and I rubbed my fi ngers between my legs, gently at fi rst, just one

fi nger in a circle. As Leo kissed me deeper, pressed against me harder,

I added more fi ngers, my whole palm, faster, urgently until my entire

body shuddered.

I lay still, my hand still in my undies, my heart beating heavily.

Then my eyes popped open, and my hand ejected itself from the hot seat.

Becca had cancer, and I just fucked myself.

Guilt consumed me, as it had since the moment I learned of her

fate just the day before. The day before. Was that how long it had

been? Not even really a day? And it was just the beginning. Today

was Becca’s fi rst day of treatment. She could be in the hospital for

days. She could feel sick for weeks. She could even …

No. What’s that bullshit people love to spout? The power of

positive thinking. It couldn’t hurt, could it? Not as much as the pain

Becca was about to go through, was probably going through already.

If she can endure having every cell in her body attacked, then I could

make the eff ort to be a more positive person.

Fuck.

I rolled over and looked at my alarm clock. Two minutes until the

radio turned on to the only station that came in with the weak, dangly

antenna: Lite FM. It always ensured I got my ass out of bed pronto lest

I had to listen to Maroon 5 torment me with their mediocrity.

Underneath the library book stack, I spied the crinkly edge of

—-1

Becca’s list. I gingerly pulled it out so as not to knock over the tower

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of books or rip the delicate paper. I grabbed a pen from the night-

stand, skimmed the list, and found what I was looking for: number

11: Masturbate.

Even though she wanted to do it, which now meant for me to do

it, I still felt guilty. Reluctantly, I crossed it off just as the dulcet vocals

of a recently tattooed male assaulted my ears. “Why?” I yelled at my

alarm clock, and shut it off . I whipped off my covers and headed

straight to my computer.

While the computer booted up, I placed the list into my scanner,

a birthday present last year when I was experimenting with Photo-

Shopping old family photos. My personal favorite was one where I

airbrushed my parents to look young and added wrinkles, jowls, and

hunched backs to me and my brothers. I called it “Ye Olde Family

Portrait.” It won second place in the county’s high school art compe-

tition. What I really hoped for someday was to win an award for my

fi lms. If I could ever actually fi nish one. I was really close at the end of

last school year. I thought I might have a shot at this local fi lm contest

hosted by a teen center two towns over. But then my dad died, and

I couldn’t look at the movie again. Deleted the whole thing from my

hard drive. Which was fucking stupid, since it starred Becca and now

Becca might not be around forever and I could have had all that foot-

age to remember her and …

My mind spiraled to a dark place until I realized my computer

was ready for me. I scanned the list, saved it as F-IT LIST, which I

thought looked kind of funny. I took out the hyphen. The FIT LIST.

As if I were creating some sort of exercise goals list and sharing them

with my friends. I opened my email account and saw I had one new

-1—

message from something called CaringBridge. I thought it might be

0—

junk, but I clicked anyway. Completely unjunk, it turned out to be

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a link to an online cancer journal set up by Becca’s mom. I clicked the

link, which required me to set up a password, and I read the fi rst

entry. It was short, just a few sentences, and read, “We begin treat-

ment today. Becca, newly bald, looks beautiful with or without hair.

She is in decent sprits, saying this is perfect research for a future

movie role. If only that’s all it were.”

I pictured Becca’s mom typing in a hospital seat, the same kind I

had sat in while awaiting the verdict on my dad’s life. So kind of hos-

pitals to provide Wi- Fi. I meant that, too. Nothing like the inanity of

the web to take one’s mind off the stench of pain and death that

resides in hospitals.

Positive thinking, Alex.

I opened a new email, subject: The FIT LIST.

Becca,

I hope your morning isn’t sucking so far. I’m sure it is, and I

hope it’s not annoying that I’m wishing it wasn’t. What the

hell am I saying?

Note the attached list. I hope you enjoy the exercise-

motivated abbreviation. I also hope you don’t leave it open by

accident on your computer. You, my dear, are a perv. I hope

you will be happy to know I completed number 11 for you this

morning. I will gladly complete it for you multiple times a

week and whenever I manage to take a bath. I have to ask:

Was that an old item that you never bothered to cross off, or

have you seriously never diddled yourself? Ew. I just grossed

myself out a little with the word “diddle.” I hope it’s not some

—-1

weird Jewish guilt thing. Does that exist? Anyway, the deed is

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done and done well. Have you really never masturbated? I’ll

tell you a secret, but only because you have cancer (thought

I’d remind you in case you forgot): I have only had an orgasm

by myself. I don’t know why. Maybe I haven’t been attracted

enough to the guys I’ve screwed around with. Or maybe they

all sucked in the sexual abilities department. (Don’t even try

to convince me otherwise of Davis. That douche needed to

cut his nails.) So maybe I need to start my own Fuck- It List.

Number 1: Have an orgasm with an actual guy. Or I could just

add it to your list, right after number 20: Go to school

dressed like a prostitute. Seriously, Becca, you are a genuine

grade- A perv. Only one of the million reasons I love you. Stay

strong, my friend.

Time to go to school and pretend I give a shit.

Love,

Alex

After my shower, I dressed myself in my Dead Set uniform of

black t-shirt, jeans rolled up once, black high- top Chucks, and my

low ponytail, and got in my dad’s car. Just as I was about to pull out

of my driveway, I remembered the list resting in my scanner. It was

cleaning- lady day, and who knew how nosy Paulina was when she

cleaned my room? I shut off my engine, pounded up the stairs, and

pulled out the note. Not wanting to leave it behind, I folded and stuff ed

it in my front pocket for safe keeping. A quick good- bye to my mom

and brothers, who could barely manage a word through shovels of

-1—

cereal, and I was on my way to school, the lump of the list a constant

0—

reminder of my best friend and her lumps.

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CHAPTER

1 1

The school day passed in a muddy blur. The only class that

was interesting enough to help me forget about what I wished I didn’t

have to forget about was En glish. My teacher, Ms. Norton, was a spark

plug fi lled with energy and information. She loved the shit out of books,

which I couldn’t say for all of my En glish teachers. Some of them

liked to analyze a book to death— suck all the truth and light out of a

character until they were just inanimate, dissected letters on a page. We

went over the year’s reading list, and I vaguely listened.

The only interaction I had with Leo that day was through the tiny

glass window of the heavy metal hallway doors. We made eye contact,

but I lost him in the shuffl

e of the passing period. Fine with me. Now

that we’d actually talked, and then some, I didn’t even know what I

wanted to say, or do, with him.

At lunch I checked my email in the library. Nothing new from

—-1

Becca or her mom’s journal. I dug around online to see if I could

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learn anything specifi c about Becca’s treatment, but Google gave me

billions of hits and I didn’t know what I was looking for anyway.

According to Becca, treatments and drugs are tailored to each patient,

so even if I did read something it might have nothing to do with what

Becca was going through.

All my searching really did was make me puddle- on- the- fl oor

depressed. Not only was my best friend going through this, but mil-

lions of other people’s best friends, moms, dads, sisters, brothers,

fuck, even dogs were going through it. I looked up at the ceiling and

asked, “WHY?” I didn’t know who I was talking to. After my dad

was killed, I pretty much gave up all belief in God. People loved

to say “comforting” things to me, like, “It’s part of God’s plan” or

“God only gives you what you can handle.” Um, fuck you? And fuck

God. Seriously, if the god they believed in was giving out dead dads

and cancer, I wanted nothing to do with him. And yeah, of course I

can handle what was doled out to me. Because I was forced to. What

were my options? Not handling it? Even that would be a choice and,

therefore, the way I handled the situation.

It’s pretty damn hard to believe in God when you’ve lost so

much. I know some people go the opposite way. God can be a great

being to lean on, like a falling star to make all your superstitious wishes

come true. But no matter how long or hard I prayed, I knew my dad

would never come back. So why bother?

Still, as I stood up from my chair in the library, I mumbled, “Not

her, too.” If there was a god, an all- seeing, all- hearing and- knowing

superpower of a god, then he’d hear me and know what I was talking

about.

-1—

After school, I drove to my job at Cellar Subs, a local institution

0—

loved by college students and the monetarily impaired. I was the only

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high school student who worked there, and I got the job after recom-

mending Dead Alive to the own er. He went home and watched it the

night of the interview, obviously wowed by my taste, and hired me

the next day. The college students I worked with were a mix of art

majors, lesbians, and frat boys. As much as I loved living here, what

with the excellent public library system and the selection of old-

timey movie theaters, I would never stay here to go to college. Or, at

least, I wouldn’t have before my dad died. Now I couldn’t even think

about college, about leaving. Mom needed me here, and I didn’t want

to spend my year writing sob- story college applications. The new plan

was to save up some money, maybe travel, and fi gure it out when I

was ready. Becca’s cancer solidifi ed my idea. Mom didn’t push. Maybe

she wanted me around, too.

Being at work, where the college students always got to choose

the music (that day was a totally weird band called Ween) and the

business was always steady, turned out not to be so bad. The rhythmic

slap of meat on bread put me at ease, so much so that it took several

times of Leo calling, “Alex!” for me to recognize someone was talking

to me. I wiped my meaty hands on the rag tucked into my shorts and

old t-shirt, rotated from my sleepshirt collection, and walked out of

the kitchen. The restaurant was or ga nized with the front counter at

the bottom of the entrance stairway (because, naturally, the restaurant

was in a cellar). Above the counter was a menu sloppily written in

chalk. When people ordered they were given a number, and their hand-

written ticket was passed back to me and my cohort, Doug, a kind of

cute, defi nitely annoying sculpture major with a minor in astronomy.

After one of us made the subs, usually me unless we were busy enough

to warrant Doug to stop sketching and start sandwich making, we

—-1

placed it in a basket, left the small, narrow kitchen behind the counter,

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and yelled out the customer’s number. Sometimes I liked to do it in an

accent. Today, I just did it as loudly as I could.

Leo waited by the counter, ready to pick up an order.

“Hey,” I greeted him with confusion. “How did you know I

worked here?”

“I didn’t. I always come here on Wednesdays after my tuba

lesson.”

“You play the tuba?”

“No. I just thought it sounded funny.”

“So you’re stalking me?” I checked.

“Sorry, no. I actually come here after I pick up my comic

subscriptions.”

“For real this time?”

“For real.”

“The tuba was cooler.”

“Says you.”

I ignored the annoyed looks of the college students around me,

pretending I was oblivious to the fact that they wanted to eat.

“What number are you?” I nodded toward Leo’s order ticket.

“Forty- two.”

“The meaning of life, no less. I’ll be right back.”

I went into the kitchen and fi xed Leo’s order, a veggie deluxe

with cheddar and muenster cheeses heated up. I popped the sub into

the micro wave above my head and prepared myself the Alex Special:

turkey and Muenster, topped with a pile of pickles. When the micro-

wave beeped, most defi nitely emitting heaps of radiation so near my

brain, I informed Doug, “I’m taking my dinner. You have orders to

-1—

make.” I didn’t wait around to see if he heard me, tossed my rag onto

0—

an empty counter, and carried out the two baskets to Leo.

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“Lead the way,” he directed. I took him to my favorite spot next

to a fake fi replace. Cellar Subs’ walls were covered in graffi

ti, one of

those places that encourages it. I left my mark one night after closing,

high on the wall so as not to be written over, standing on a ladder from

the back room: “Belial was here,” a nod to the Basket Case Trilogy.

When we began eating, Leo said, “My compliments to the chef.”

“Mine, too,” I agreed. “So you really didn’t know I worked

here?” I asked.

“Did you know I played basketball over at Irving?”

“Nope.”

“Then I didn’t know you worked here.”

“That kind of makes it sound like you did know I worked here,

but that I was lying about knowing you played basketball at Irving.

Which I wasn’t.”

“Pickles?” he questioned.

“Want one?” I off ered.

“I’m good.”

We ate our subs, not breaking for more confusing chat until Leo,

wiping his mouth on a tiny, useless napkin, asked, “Should I try a

conversation starter?”

I liked the way Leo talked. It wasn’t as matter of fact as the way I

spoke, but it wasn’t as forced as most people would be when getting

to know someone. “Do you have one?” I asked.

“That was pretty much it.”

“And look at the conversation it started.” He shrugged. “I’ve got

one,” I said. “My dad made it up. It’s called half and half. Like, half

empty, half full. You’re supposed to say something that happened

today that was half empty, you know, shitty? And then something

—-1

half full, the good.” I waited for him to make fun of the quaintness,

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but he took a thoughtful pause and asked, “Can you go fi rst? I need

a minute to think.”

“Don’t think while I’m talking because then you’re not listening.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

I fl ipped him off pleasantly and said, “I’m getting drinks. You

think about your half and half while I get us pop. What do you want?”

“Coke.”

I walked behind the counter to the drink fountain. Ila, a gor-

geous women’s studies major with waist- length strawberry- blond hair,

worked the register. “Who’s that?” She waggled her eyebrows at me.

I could’ve been jealous at the thought of not only a college girl, but a

beautiful one at that, ogling Leo, but Ila was a lesbian with the cutest

girlfriend who, when not going to school full- time, worked as a

carpenter.

“That’s Leo. From my school.”

“Is he your boyfriend?” she asked, completely ignoring the backup

of customers. Part of the charm of Cellar.

“No. I don’t think so. I don’t know what he is. I barely know

him, really.” I pumped the pop out of the fountain into two worn,

plastic tumblers.

“But you want to know him, right?” Ila was overdoing the innu-

endo, but I liked the big- sisterly vibe.

“Yes. But I don’t know. We’ll see. Shit doesn’t seem to work out

very well for me lately. Or ever.”

“Hopefully this isn’t shit then.” Ila started taking orders again,

and I delivered our drinks.

“Thanks,” Leo said. “I thought of my halves, unless you want to

-1—

go fi rst.”

0—

“After you.”

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“My half empty is that my brother is still in Sangin, and my par-

ents are constantly terrifi ed. We don’t know when he’s coming home.

And my mom has these screaming nightmares about it.”

“That is half empty. Are you close with your brother?”

“Yeah. I mean, he’s kind of the favorite in the family. My parents

worship him. He’s annoyingly perfect. And I’m the family fuckup.”

“You don’t seem like such a fuckup.” I sipped my Coke through

the straw.

“You must have heard some things.”

“Yeah, but not from you.”

“Probably everything you heard was true.”

“So you slept with Mrs. Johansen, the chorus teacher with the

lazy eye?” I asked agape.

“No,” he blurted.

“You’ve been to jail?”

“No.”

“You have a tattoo on your ass that reads, ‘Kiss this’?”

“Are you kidding me? Who said that?”

“I just made that up. But that would’ve been awesome if you did.”

“Maybe you can give it to me.”

“What do you mean?” I smiled over the straw at the insinuation

that I could give him a tattoo.

“Don’t you have a homemade one?”

“How did you know that?” I could barely contain the rush of

Leo Dietz knowing a private factoid about me.

“I saw it once during gym class.”

The fact that Leo had watched my thigh at some point during

gym class almost made me blush. “Anyway, so what rumors about

—-1

you are true? Have you really been suspended?”

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“I was suspended last year for busting out Daniel Lum’s teeth.

Even though I didn’t really mean to do it. What ever, the guy’s dad’s

a dentist,” Leo mumbled.

“What else?” I pulsed the Coke through the straw in anticipation.

“I was also suspended for having a ‘weapon’ ”—

he fi nger

quoted—“in my locker, which was bullshit because it was a pocket-

knife. Boy Scouts are allowed to have them.”

“Are you a Boy Scout?” I asked.

“What do you think?”

“How old are you?” I prodded. The rumor was that he was really

twenty after being held back twice.

“Twenty- six,” he answered. I coughed on my Coke, until he

said, “Really? You believed that?”

“What? I don’t know you. I mean, for all you know about me,

I could be a serial killer.”

“I’m counting on it.” He smirked. Melt. “And I’m only

seventeen.”

“So you weren’t held back?”

“I was, actually, after we moved. Behavior crap. But I had skipped

kindergarten because I was so ahead of everyone. So it all balanced

out.” We both nodded, and he said, “What about you?”

“I’m seventeen. No skipping or going back.”

“I meant your half empty.”

“Oh yeah.” I wasn’t sure what to say, if I wanted to get into

Becca’s cancer. But he was honest with me, and I didn’t have to go

into great detail. Not that I had many details. “My half empty is that

my best friend has cancer. And she started treatment today, and I don’t

-1—

know what’s going to happen or if she’ll live or die or when I get to see

0—

her or talk to her or if she’ll live or die and I know I just said that—”

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I ner vous ly lifted my straw in and out of my cup, willing myself to

hold it together.

“Jesus, Alex, I had no idea. That sucks. That’s like glass almost

completely empty. Shit. I thought you were going to say something

about your dad, but, damn. I don’t really know what to say. Sorry is

such a loaded word.”

“Thank you for not saying that.”

“Alex!” Doug yelled from the kitchen. “Get your ass back in

here! I have to take a piss!”

“Fine dining, it is not,” I noted to Leo.

We stood up and took our baskets to the garbage. “I guess it’s

just half empty today.” I frowned.

“I’ll do my half full really quickly. I got to have dinner with you.

And I got a free drink, too.”

“You can pay me when I give you your ass tattoo,” I told him

dryly. I dumped the contents of my basket into the garbage and gave

a little wave to Leo. “Have a good night,” I said, feeling awkward

that I didn’t know quite how to say good- bye. I didn’t have to know.

Leo held my face in his oversize hands and pressed his lips to mine.

He was such a good, powerful kisser, I involuntarily hummed with

plea sure as I kissed him back, standing on tiptoe as he leaned down to

meet me. I gripped the front of his t-shirt with a tight fi st to steady

myself. The kiss wasn’t long, but it was enough to make me wobble

back to my spot in the kitchen after Leo uttered, “Good- bye, pickle

breath.”

I think I found my half full.

—-1

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CHAPTER

12

I arrived home from work around nine thirty. Cellar Subs closed

at nine, and it was my job to mop the fl oor with a seventy- fi ve- year

old mop that weighed 600 pounds. I don’t know if the fl oor ever actu-

ally got clean because the lighting was so bad at the restaurant, and

the mop was so decrepit. Strings of meat and vegetables slid between

the dreadlocks of the mop, long past the expiration of the fi ve- second

rule. It was also my job to clean the bathrooms, but nobody actually

did that. Cellar had infamously nasty bathrooms, which somehow

made the place cooler. Unless you had to use them.

When I walked into my house, AJ and CJ were watching Wipe-

out and laughing uncontrollably at the big balls. I wished I had the

ability to be as ridiculously airheady as they did. Not that they were

stupid, but as seventh- grade boys they didn’t yet feel the weight of the

world on their shoulders. Or in my case, my pocket. The only thing I

-1—

had to show for Becca’s list was self- pleasuring before breakfast, and

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I didn’t even know if she knew about that yet. We hadn’t talked about

due dates or expectations of numbers. The list was as vague and

overwhelming as the cancer itself.

“You smell like a sandwich,” AJ told me without looking away

from the watery carnage on the TV screen.

“OOOH!” AJ and CJ practiced synchronized cringing at the TV.

“Here.” I threw a bag containing two subs to CJ, who dexter-

ously caught it without turning his head.

“Thanks, sis.”

“No prob, bros.”

I walked into the kitchen for a glass of water. I did smell very

sandwichy. It wasn’t so bad compared to my fi rst job as an ice- cream

scooper. Ice cream may be delicious when you eat it, but it rots when

stuck to your shirt. Washing it never got the rank smell out either. The

sandwich smell did come out of my clothes, but sometimes it took for-

ever to excrete from my nose.

I pulled the blue Brita pitcher out of the fridge and poured myself

a tall glass of water. I placed the pitcher back, and my eyes focused

on a jar that I never paid much attention to: jalapeño peppers, which

my brothers ate for sport. They never appealed to me. Food and pain

together seemed like a weird combo.

“AJ. CJ. Come here,” I called into the other room. I pulled out

the Fuck- It List from my pocket, and as I remembered, #7, an early

one, read: Eat a hot pepper. Great. Couldn’t I just have sex with

a member of the chess team or something?

“We’re watching Wipeout!” they chimed in unison.

“Pause your big balls and get in here!” I demanded.

The clumsy shuffl

ing of my twin brothers arrived in the kitchen.

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“What?” CJ held his sandwich in the brown paper bag like some

drunk on the street. He took a sandwich swig and chewed lazily.

“What’s it like to eat a hot pepper?”

“What do you mean? You just stick it in your mouth and bite it,”

AJ explained helpfully.

“That’s what she said,” CJ chuckled.

“Are you guys really this corroded?” I glared.

“No, sorry. You did bring us sandwiches,” AJ conceded.

“I wanted to try an experiment.” There was no way I’d tell my

brothers about the Fuck- It List. “But I’m a little scared.”

“You can watch The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, but you can’t eat

a pepper?” CJ asked. He couldn’t stand horror fi lms, especially after

Dad died. It was kind of sad and sweet at the same time. One of the

traits that made him slightly human. Plus, it was fun watching him

run away from the TV when I had a movie on in the family room.

“Those movies aren’t real. Well, actually, The Texas Chainsaw

Massacre was based on a true story,” I explained.

“Don’t tell me that!” CJ covered his ears, one with a hand and

the other with the sandwich in a bag.

“Dudes, help me here. I have to eat one, and I just want to pre-

pare myself.”

AJ walked over to the jar I pulled from the fridge. “This one’s for

pussies. You have to try ghost chiles instead. They’ll burn your but-

thole for days.”

“I don’t eat with my butthole.” I eyed them.

“Yeah, but they have to come out after you digest them. They’re

the gift that keeps on giving. Burn you in, burn you out.” AJ nodded

-1—

in a sick way.

0—

“You guys are freaks,” I told them.

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“We’ll eat one if you do,” CJ volunteered. “For twenty bucks,”

he added.

“You’ll do it because I’m your sister, and you love me and if you

don’t I’ll put my Chuckie doll in your bed in the middle of the night.”

Chuckie was an evilly- stitched doll from the movie Child’s Play. Not

the best movie, but I found the doll at a horror con in great condition

and couldn’t pass it up. “Plus: sandwiches.”

“Fine. But you get to apologize to my butthole in the morning.”

“I’ll write a letter and everything. Let’s do this.”

CJ unscrewed the jar lid and a tangy smell tickled my nose. “You

don’t have any cuts on your fi ngers, do you?” I examined my hands

and shook my head no. “Good.” He carefully pinched his thumb and

forefi nger around a bright green pepper and pulled it out of the jar.

He slid the jar over to me, and I did the same. Juice dripped off the

pepper onto the kitchen table, and I half expected a hole to sizzle into

the wood.

“On the count of three?” I asked. CJ nodded. “One. Two. Three.”

I closed my eyes and bit the pepper from its stem. It didn’t immedi-

ately hurt, but a slow sting emanated throughout my mouth. My eyes

watered, and so did my nose. My lips felt about six sizes bigger than

usual. When I fi nally managed to swallow, I coughed and sneezed

simultaneously.

“Water!” I choked and chugged my entire glass. That didn’t

help. AJ and CJ were in hysterics, leaning on each other for support.

“You didn’t eat it, did you?” I guessed.

“No. But thanks for the kind off er,” CJ said.

I rubbed tears from my eyes. “No problem. And Chuckie can’t

wait to see you.”

—-1

“No! I’ll eat it! Watch!” He stuff ed it into his gaping mouth.

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“Too late.” I poured myself a second glass of water, not waiting

to see CJ’s reaction before I walked up the stairs to my room.

“I ate it! Al, I ate it!” He sputtered after me.

“Chuckie can’t hear you anymore,” I cackled, and shut my bed-

room door.

While my computer revved up, I crossed off number 7. “Only for

you, Becca,” I said to the paper. A hot pepper, as painful as it was,

was still an easy item. If I were to accomplish any of the big- ticket

numbers, like taking a bath at someone else’s house, that would take some

planning. Same with number 10: Hop a train like a hobo. I laughed

out loud at that one, not only because the word “hobo” was hilarious,

but that Becca would consider such an act worthy of a life- defi ning

list. And what about the last item on the list, number 23: Have sex

with someone I’m in love with and is in love with me. It’s not some-

thing I’d ever accomplished before, so how easy could it be now that

it was with a time limit? I’d only actually had sex with one person,

but I didn’t even believe I was in love with him at the time. His name

was Aleks, pronounced the same as my name and short for Alek-

sander, an exchange student from Norway who stayed with our next-

door neighbors. It was last fall, after Thanksgiving but before winter

break. There were fi fteen Norwegians in total imported to our

school, and Aleks didn’t look much diff erent from the rest of them:

tall, sandy blond hair, solid, round head. They traveled in packs,

laughed loudly, and spoke a language that sounded both fl uid and

funny. Before I had a car, I took the bus to school. So did Aleks, along

with Katie Cartwright, the neighbor he stayed with who was a grade

younger and a zombie cheerleader. Katie and Aleks never sat near

-1—

each other on the bus, nor did I ever see them exchange words. Aleks

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sat by himself near the front, until the other Norwegians boarded a

few stops later. Then he lit up and became animated. I liked to watch

them, imagining someday that I might become an exchange student

or live in another country. It was a dream that I tried not to hang on

to anymore for fear that an unrealized dream would make me realize

just how stranded I was now that my dad was dead.

One afternoon, when Aleks and I got off the bus alone, Katie at

a game or something, he asked in a lightly clipped accent, “Want to

come over?”

I had no reason to say no, and I was curious. “Sure.” I shrugged.

We ended up hanging out in his adopted room, not talking much but

watching The Big Bang Theory reruns from his bed. Nothing happened

the fi rst day, but I sensed he wanted it to.

A week later, sans Katie, he invited me over again. I went more as

a spy for Becca, who seemed to think that Norwegians were the sexi-

est human beings alive and vowed to catch at least a glimpse of one of

their uncircumcised penises. Besides, Aleks smelled nice. I had never

been one for perfume or cologne and felt downright revulsion for Axe

body spray, but Aleks smelled like he cared about his appearance. It

was a little salty and minty, as I imagined the water around Norway

smelled.

As we lay on his bed, again watching The Big Bang Theory, I asked

him to teach me some swears in Norwegian.

“Dritsak,” he explained, meant “sack of shit.” “Hestekuk” meant

“horse cock.” I laughed that he would think to teach me “horse cock”

as a swear, and I swooned a little at the cultural diff erence. Yes, I

swooned at “horse cock.”

I wore a button- down shirt that day, and after we laughed about

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horse cock, Aleks began to unbutton it. We hadn’t yet kissed, but he

was already taking off my shirt. I let him, curious what this Norwegian

would do next. He watched my expression, maybe waiting to see if

what he was doing was okay. I assisted him with the many buttons,

letting him know it was. When my shirt was completely undone, he

kissed me, a little too wet and tonguey. I guided his face down to my

chest, and he lightly kissed above, then under my bra. He worked off

my shirt, and I sat up enough for him to unhook the back of my bra,

which he did adeptly. I guess bra hooks were international. I tugged

his gray sweater over his head and ran my fi ngers up his torso and

chest. He was lean and not very muscular. His chest was bare of hair.

I remember kissing on the lips very little. He kept his mouth on my

breasts most of the time, and I didn’t mind. His strong jaw tickled me

as he nibbled.

That was as far as it went that day. Katie’s pom- poms charged up

the stairs about a half hour after we started, and I got dressed and left.

Becca was disappointed I hadn’t seen his penis yet and handed me

a condom the next time I saw her.

Two days later, armed with the Trojan, I followed Aleks back

to his house once again. This time the TV stayed off and we immedi-

ately began removing each other’s clothes when we entered his room.

He was qualifi ed at clothing removal but not as much with fi nger

placement. I had to fi sh his pokey fi ngers out of my undies twice before

he got the hint to give that up.

Me in my underwear, him in his blue boxers, we moved over to

the bed. “Wait—” I told him, the fi rst word spoken that afternoon. I

found Becca’s condom in my backpack and brought it up to the bed.

-1—

He yanked off his underwear in an overly excited manner, then got

0—

on his knees to help me work off mine. I looked at his penis, studying

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it to get the details for Becca before he slapped on the condom. I lay

down on the bed, and he lay on top of me. The initial pain wasn’t

excruciating, although I never got much plea sure out of it. It was over

quickly, and Aleks rolled off me and promptly fell asleep. Hestekuk.

I got dressed and immediately called Becca from my cell

on the way out of the house. “His penis was wearing a saggy hat,” I

reported.

“Really? That’s so depressing. Did it at least feel good?”

“It felt fi ne.” I shrugged to the phone.

“Well, that’s not how sex should feel. Go back in there and do it

again!”

“Um, no thank you. Not today at least.”

“They go back to Norway next week, you know.”

“Well, then we better hurry and have as much bad sex as we can

before he leaves.”

“Was it really bad?” She pouted over the phone.

“No. Don’t worry. It just wasn’t really good. I’ll try again, maybe.

Just for you.”

“You’re the best.”

“Tell that to my vagina.”

“You’re the best, Alex’s vagina.”

“My vagina thanks you.”

Aleks and I had sex once more before he fl ew back to Norway. It

was better the second time around, with some added foreplay and

a near climax. But near isn’t the same as the real deal, which was why

I wasn’t in a hurry to try again when I started dating Davis.

Would the Fuck- It List magically help me fall in love and have

sex in a way that I couldn’t before Becca got cancer? Was it fair for

—-1

either of us to live or die with that kind of pressure?

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No email from Becca waited on my computer. Her mom sent

another report:

The news (not in order of importance):

We will be home Saturday.

Becca will have seven days of chemo in a row, then a two and a half

week break, then three to ﬁ ve more treatments followed by a short

radiation treatment to zap any remaining tumor cells.

Morphine seems to be working for pain management, and Becca is

able to sleep a little, thank God.

After God, she thanked everyone else for being so supportive,

but I skimmed that part. It sounded like Becca was in hell, and would

be in hell, for a very long time.

I typed Becca an email:

You will be happy to learn that masturbating wasn’t the only

thing I did on your list. I ate a hot pepper for you. You’re

welcome. You can thank my burning butt tomorrow morning.

Leo stopped by Cellar. We kissed again. I have no idea what’s

going on, but he’s a really good kisser. Far better than that

Norwegian.

Sweet, circumcised dreams, my friend.

-1—

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CHAPTER

13

Jenna Brown caught my eye during the morning hallway

rush and gave me a sympathetic actorly smile. I threw up a middle

fi nger and scratched my cheek with it, but she was already off and

running with her audience. At lunch I decided to join the living and

ate with some of my old stage- crew friends. Damien West had shoulder-

length black hair and was a practicing Wiccan. He had been hospital-

ized for depression three times since I’d known him. I think he was

just too smart for his parents, and they had no idea what to do with

him. His girlfriend, Eliza Klise, was wafer thin and white- out pale

with light blond hair she dyed in various colors as it washed out. Cur-

rently it was a pukey shade of green. Not her best. Lastly was Brandon

Hathaway, tall and thin, with olive skin and rich brown eyes. I was

madly in love with him freshman year, even kissed him once, until he

came out. I was pissed at him for a while, going far enough to kiss me,

but he said he did it because he felt bad for me. Apparently I really

—-1

looked like I wanted him to kiss me. I wish someone would take a

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picture of that face so I’d stop making it. Once I got over the humili-

ation, he was still fun to be around. And he was an excellent judge of

character. He advised me heavily against dating Davis, but I didn’t

listen. Obviously.

“How’s our little dev il child?” Brandon patted my head as I sat

down at the table with a Coke and vending machine packs of cheese

and peanut butter crackers. He liked to pretend I was satanic because

of my love for horror movies.

“Okay. I guess. You guys heard about Becca?”

“Yeah. How is she?” Damien asked, concerned.

“I don’t know yet. I mean, she offi

cially has cancer and is going

through chemo and all that. That’s pretty much it.” I bit into my cheese

crackers, while Eliza stared at me. “What?” Bright orange crumbles

sprayed from my mouth.

“It’s just, how can you eat? At a time like this?”

“Some of us need food to survive,” I reminded her.

“Sha, but I don’t know, I’d be crying all the time if Damien had

cancer. I don’t know how I’d make it through the day.”

“Alex doesn’t cry,” Brandon explained. “She’s on the spectrum.”

I sneered at Brandon, and he added, “Maybe just a little bit?”

“I don’t know. But why do I have to cry all the time? To prove to

you that I’m upset? Fuck that noise. Becca likes to be the dramatic

one anyway.”

“That’s why you guys make such good friends. She’s the actress,

and you’re on the spectrum.” Brandon stuck to his brilliant theory.

“I’ll shove a spectrum up your ass if you don’t stop talking

about it.”

-1—

“Duly noted.”

0—

“Is there anything we can do for her?” Damien off ered.

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“Not that I know of yet. I can ask her.”

Changing the subject all too easily, Eliza cattily asked, “Did you

hear that Lottie McDaniels is back?”

“The bitch is back,” Brandon sang.

Lottie McDaniels was Becca’s major competition when she fi rst

started in freshman drama, but last year she opted for a boarding

school with a stellar acting program. Good riddance. Having her back

the same year Becca would be MIA from productions would ensure

her superstar status and enlarge her already infamously ginormous

head.

“Oh—” I started, remembering something from Becca’s list. I

unfolded the soft paper from my pocket. “Aha!” I exclaimed.

“What is it, Dr. Watson?” Brandon asked.

“Becca asked me to do some things for her—”

“I thought you said there wasn’t anything we could do for her,”

Eliza whined.

“Simmer down, Doolittle. This is stuff I can do for her. Only me.

When your best friend gets cancer, then it’s your turn.” Dramatic sigh

from Eliza. I always thought she would have been better on stage

than behind it.

Number 14: Tell off Lottie McDaniels.

That should be interesting. I never really spoke to Lottie; she just

yelled commandments at me during my minuscule stint in stagecraft.

Becca told me tales of sabotage, like when Lottie threw out Becca’s

base makeup because she claimed it smelled weird. I never liked the

look of Lottie. There was something messed up about a high school

student who wore stiletto heels. How would she fare in a zombie attack?

The lunch bell rang, and I went on my mission. My lunch friends

—-1

attempted to push and prod me to tell them what I was reading off of,

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what Becca wanted me to do. But that list belonged to me and Becca.

Plus, they didn’t need to see the items I had already checked off . Not

that I felt ashamed of any of them, but I didn’t need to give out expla-

nations either.

Eliza had gym with Lottie next period, and I found Lottie in the

new girls’ bathroom outside the small gym. The administration was

slowly redoing areas of the school, and a new bathroom meant auto-

matic handles, toilets, and sinks. Soon they’d be pissing and shitting

for us, too.

Lottie watched herself in the mirror as she applied a thick layer

of refl ective gloss to her plump lips. She smacked them together and

then, as though I weren’t in there to berate her, winked at herself in

the mirror. She had almost a foot on me in her heels, but I didn’t care.

I don’t know if I would’ve cared much before Becca’s list, but having

a mission and someone to answer to made me even bolder.

“Hey,” I said to gain Lottie’s attention.

“He- ey,” she sang to her own image in the mirror.

“You’re Lottie McDaniels, right?” I was 99 percent sure, but

revenge was only best served if it was at the right dinner party.

“Of course.” She had yet to look at me. I had yet to actually fi g-

ure out what I wanted to say. Was I supposed to tell her off in the

name of Becca? As Becca herself? As just some random Lottie hater?

A second bell rang, indicating we were both late for class. I didn’t

care, since I had art next and for all Mr. Bowles knew, I was working

in the darkroom.

“Shit,” Lottie said to herself, and stuff ed her makeup into her

purse. I never understood purses at high school either. Just carry a

-1—

frakkin’ backpack. She brushed past me, as if we hadn’t been having

0—

a meaningful, “hey”- fi lled conversation.

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“Hey!” I called to her loudly. This time she turned to look at me.

Her expression read no recognition. “I have a message from Becca

Mason.”

“Oh yeah?” She put her hands on her hips and waggled her head

like a bobblehead version of herself. “What?”

Obviously, she hadn’t been informed of Becca’s cancer. Or maybe

she was that cold of a skag. Either way, it was my job to tell her off .

I said the fi rst thing that came to my mind. “You’re a scene- chewing,

talentless tart who needs to pull the jeggings out of your camel- toe.”

I looked pointedly at her too- defi ned crotch area, then whipped around

on my gym- shoed heels and walked out. She clacked after me.

“Becca told you to tell me that?” Her mouth was agape. I saw

a gray pile of gum dangling on her tongue.

“Not in those words exactly. I put my own gentle touch on them.

Becca would have been more eloquent, but, alas, she’s not here right

now to talk to you. I hope I made a suitable replacement.”

Lottie sputtered and sighed, a look of disgust on her face. “You

tell that bitch she’ll never make the lead roles this year now that I’m

back.”

“You can tell her. When she gets done with chemo.”

“What?” Lottie’s head shrunk back, her eyes opened wide.

“Becca has cancer. She wanted me to tell you you suck, in case

she dies and doesn’t have the chance to do it herself.”

“You’re kidding. That’s horrible. She said that?”

Sometimes I don’t realize how awful I can sound until I see the

person’s face react to my words. Becca would never have the nerve to

say what I did, and even if she did, would she have wanted to?

“You know what? Forget it. I just, like, went off my meds or

—-1

something.”

—0

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I began walking away, cursing my social ineptitude. Lottie

clacked after me and yanked me around by my arm.

“Does Becca really have cancer?” Her look was genuine con-

cern, not actorly fakeness topped with perfect lip gloss. I shook away

her gripping hand, met her eyes, and blankly answered, “Yes.”

“Tell her I hope she gets better soon. Tell her”— she considered

her words—“there won’t be any competition without her.”

I gulped. “I will.” We stood looking at each other for a minute,

until I’d had enough and turned away. “I gotta go,” I mumbled, and

tripped over my feet, not getting away fast enough.

Apparently I was moving too fast, looking back over my stupid,

insensitive, cold- as- ice shoulder, because I slammed right into the

chest of Leo Dietz.

-1—

0—

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CHAPTER

14

I looked up at Leo, a tad out of breath.

“Running from some zombies?” he questioned.

“Something like that.” I looked down at his shoes, identical to

my ratty black Chucks, except for the massive size diff erence. My

expression must have been somewhat telling. Why was it that I never

said the appropriate thing, but my face betrayed me and showed off

every emotion?

“You okay?” He gently held his knuckle under my chin to raise

my head. It was so strangely comforting and annoyingly masculine, I

wanted to suck on his fi ngertips in the middle of the hallway.

“Just put my foot in my mouth. Maybe two feet. I can’t do any-

thing right even when I’m trying to do right by someone.”

“I don’t know what that means. But I’m guessing you probably

do a lot of things right.” He let go of my chin and stuff ed his hand

into his army jacket pocket.

—-1

“Sometimes it feels like if I really did things right, my dad

—0

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wouldn’t be dead and Becca wouldn’t have cancer. I know that’s

fucking stupid.” I cut myself off . I had a lot more to say on the matter,

but I’d done enough talking earlier to fi ll my asshole quotient for the

month.

“I don’t think it’s fucking stupid. I think shit like that all the time.

Wrong place, wrong time, wrong person. What if. All that bullshit.”

We stood in the hallway, the cloud of my idiocracy hovering

over us. “Come with me.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me along.

“I can’t leave school. I have a quiz in AP History this afternoon,”

I told Leo.

“So do I. And we’re not leaving.” He spoke as he dragged me

along. I didn’t know he took AP History.

“Can you slow down? My stride is about half the length of yours.”

“Sorry. I’m trying to get us out of the hallway before a monitor

asks us where we’re supposed to be.”

“Where are you supposed to be?”

“Auto shop,” he answered, glancing around a corner stealthily,

then pulling me along again.

“Hey!” I whisper- yelled. “I’m not a cavegirl.”

“Then good thing I didn’t club you over the head.” He stopped

in front of a metal door in the back of a locker section in a yet- to- be-

redone part of the school.

“Are you about to take me into a janitor’s closet?” I asked.

“Better.” He fi shed a key ring from out of his pocket and fl ipped

through it until he found the one he was looking for.

“Is it the boiler room? Is this the part where we both fall asleep

and Freddy comes after us? ’Cause I could so kick his ass.”

-1—

His key clicked open the lock, and he held open the door. “After

0—

you.”

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I stepped into a small room, maybe ten feet square, piled fl oor to

ceiling with books. A few old student desks balanced precariously in

a corner. One naked lightbulb dangled from the ceiling.

“What is this? And why do you have the key?” I asked, sliding

into a lone desk chair.

“It’s one of the En glish department storage closets. These are old

class sets of books that never get used anymore. I took the key last

year out of a teacher’s drawer and spent study hall trying doors until

I found this place. No one ever comes in here.”

I stood up and ran my fi ngers across the book towers. Classics

like Moby Dick and Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and an array of

Shakespeare titles in tiny, hardbound books quivered at my touch.

“So do you want to tell me what you were running from?” Leo

leaned against the closed door. He looked almost sinister in the weak,

shadowed light, like a man in a dream you’re not supposed to talk to

but desperately want to touch.

I wondered what my face was saying now.

“Becca gave me something.” I cleared my throat, asking myself

if I wanted to tell him about the list. He didn’t prod, which made me

trust him. And he didn’t know Becca, which made me feel less guilty

about sharing her secrets. Because now they were my secrets, too. “It’s a

list of things she wants to do before she dies. We call it the Fuck- It List.”

I laughed ner vous ly, but his stoic expression remained unchanged.

“And because she might, maybe, actually die, and she doesn’t know if

she’ll get to do everything on the list, I said I’d help her.”

Leo asked, “So, what, like bungee jumping and dropping acid

and going on an African safari?”

“Are those things on your bucket list?” I cringed a little. They

—-1

sounded so unoriginal, and I hoped he was beyond that.

—0

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“I don’t have a bucket list. Nor do I feel the need to pay someone

to drop me off a bridge. If I wanted to, I’d do it myself.”

“I hear that,” I concurred.

“So what, then?” he pressed.

“Just sort of random things that she wanted to do. Some are

small, like eating a hot pepper.”

“Quite a goal,” he said, not exactly sarcastically but defi nitely

unimpressed.

“Fuck you. She started the list when she was twelve. And eating

a hot pepper isn’t that easy.”

“Sorry,” he said. “What are some of the bigger ones?”

I didn’t want to get into it, all of the sexual requests and how Leo

helped fulfi ll more than one of them, with him and by myself. “Well,

like today, I was helping her with number fourteen— telling off Lottie

McDaniels. Only I fucked it up and was a total cunt and said some-

thing about her camel toe.” I shook the memory loose from my head.

Leo laughed, a hearty laugh, which pissed me off . “What?” I

demanded.

“I just like how you used the words ‘cunt’ and ‘camel toe’ in a

sentence.”

“Oh.” We were both quiet, so I pulled a Tempest from atop a pile

and fl ipped through the pages. A dried crumble of a page withered in

my hands. I returned the book to its deathbed.

“Come here,” Leo beckoned. Maybe I was making the face again,

or maybe it was the romantic nature of locked rooms and interroga-

tion lighting, but I suspected what came next. At least the fi rst part.

I obeyed Leo and walked up to him at the door. He wrapped his

-1—

lithe arms around my waist and pulled me against him, leaning for-

0—

ward to meet my lips. We kissed urgently, tongues reaching for each

+1—

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other’s, nibbling at one another’s lips. I rubbed my hand along the

back of his hair, the short pieces tickling my palms and making them

tingle. He took his hands off my back, and I felt them wrangling with

the button on the front of my jeans.

Were we about to have sex in a book closet? My body would

have said yes to anything with Leo at that moment, probably most

moments, but my head did the talking. I pulled away from his lips.

He switched to kissing my neck, my cheek, my ear. I could hardly

speak. “I don’t want to have sex right now.” When I heard the words,

they sounded so unsexy, such a complete passion killer. But they were

true. He didn’t seem to mind.

Breathing in my ear, he whispered, “We don’t have to,” and gen-

tly bit my earlobe. My legs could barely stand anymore.

We continued to kiss each other anywhere we could reach while

he unzipped my jeans. I believed him when he said we didn’t have to

have sex, so I didn’t stop him when he slid his hand into the top of my

undies and moved a skilled fi nger in circles in exactly the right spot. I

stopped my kisses and leaned into his soft t-shirt, inhaling his deodor-

ant smell as I tried to command my legs to remain upright. With his

free hand, he willed my face toward his again, and we kissed in rhythm

with his fi ngers. I gripped the back of his neck to hold myself up, and

his fi ngers moved faster. This was nothing like the poking of Davis,

and I tensed my body as I had done uncountable times alone in my

bed. I lost the ability to kiss, to control anything, and I bit his shirt to

stop myself from screaming and calling attention to the book closet.

We stood against each other once it was over, still but breathless.

The faint sound of the school bell rang outside the metal door. Qui-

etly, Leo said in my ear, “AP History. I have to go.” He held me by

—-1

the side of my arms and gently pressed me away from him. I steadied

—0

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myself against a small spot of cinderblock wall, zipped and buttoned

my jeans.

Before Leo opened the door, he walked over to me and gave me

a last gentle kiss on the lips. “Feel better?” All I could manage was a

nod.

-1—

0—

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CHAPTER

15

Becca was nowhere to be found online, and my texts weren’t

returned until Friday morning. According to Becca’s mom’s report

she was home after three days in the hospital and would get oral che-

motherapy at home for several days. She wrote that nausea was her

worst side eff ect. I emailed Becca a lite version of the Lottie McDan-

iels story, focusing more on the nice things Lottie said about Becca

rather than the assayed things I managed to say. As I was leaving for

school, my phone buzzed. A text from Becca read, “I’m sorry. Just

hoarked on Mr. Toad.”

Mr. Toad was a stuff ed animal I bought for Becca when my fam-

ily visited Disneyland a few years ago. She had told me how Mr. Toad’s

Wild Ride terrifi ed her as a kid, so naturally I had to buy the toy.

S’OK. U can borrow my Chuckie doll

LOL

—-1

How r u?

—0

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B thankful you cant smell over the phone

When can I c u?

Dunno. Call me after school.

\m/

I left for school with a spring in my step, or at least more springy

than my normally springless body was. Becca was alive and well

enough to joke- text, and that would get me through the day. I man-

aged to nicely avoid running into Lottie McDaniels when I saw her

striking fi gure in the hallway and turned around, only to knock into

Leo again. I smiled at him, and he looked leery.

“Did you poison someone?” he questioned.

“Why? Because I’m smiling? Give me some credit. My assassi-

nations would be much more subtle than that. No, just kind of having

a good morning. Are you stalking me again, by the way?”

“Yes. Want to tell me about your morning while you escort me

to gym?”

“Wish I could, you know, be your hired escort and all, but I have

to get to physics. I need to be awake during attendance so I can nod

off during the movie. What about my lunch, your creative writing?”

It turned out Leo’s creative writing in de pen dent study, which only

required a check- in before he could head off to “write,” was at the

same time as my lunch hour.

“Fridays I actually have to talk to my IS sponsor, so I can’t do it.

Can you miss art?” We talked as we navigated through the shrieking

hallway crowd.

“Not today. Critique day.”

-1—

“Then I guess I’ll just see you to night.” We stopped in front of

0—

the gym hallway.

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“To night?” I asked.

“Bruce Campbell. Army of Darkness screening? I had an extra

ticket.” He looked a mixture of annoyed and disappointed that I didn’t

remember.

“I totally forgot. A lot on my brain, I guess. I can still go.” I

drummed up some enthusiasm. Not that I wasn’t excited, it was just

that now Becca was home maybe I should stay by my computer in

case she wanted to chat. There was always my cell phone, though.

“If you’re not too busy,” he mumbled. Now I could tell he was

annoyed.

“Dude. I said I wasn’t busy. It just slipped my mind. There’s a lot

of shit going on, and I just forgot. No big.”

“If you say so. Can you drive?” The bell rang.

“Shit. I have to go. I’ve been late every day since school started.”

“People appreciate consistency.”

“Teachers aren’t people!” I called to him as I sprinted down the

hall. “I’ll come get you at seven!”

“Make it six. I want to get good seats!”

Ms. Less didn’t seem to notice I was late, and I managed to ask

her a question before the movie began to ensure I was accounted for.

When the lights dimmed, I texted Becca.

U still puking?

Ten minutes later, still no answer.

Is it ok if I go to movie with Leo Dietz 2nite?

This time, I got a response:

—-1

Only if you two sleep on a beach after.

—0

—+1

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Skype l8r?

\m/

My mom and the twins sat at the kitchen table when I got home from

school. “What’s everyone doing?” I asked, and joined them.

“We were just looking through this box of old photos. Remem-

ber how your dad was so into Halloween?” Mom smiled sadly at the

memory.

“Remember? He was still around last Halloween,” I said.

My mom’s smile drooped, as did her hand holding the picture.

She rose from her chair and left the room.

CJ stood up and shoved my head.

“What the fuck?” I yelled.

“You don’t say something like that to Mom.”

“Like what? What kind of shitty memory would I have if I

couldn’t even remember less than a year ago?” I argued.

“It’s not about how long ago; it’s about the fact that he’s not here

for this Halloween,” AJ explained.

There goes my foot- in- mouth disease. I walked out of the kitchen

to fi nd Mom slumped on the couch. She wasn’t crying, but her

expression and eyes were glassy. I sat down next to her, close but not

touching.

“Sorry, Mom. I didn’t realize what I was saying.”

“I know. You never do.” She shook her head.

“Um, ouch?” I said.

“Sometimes it would be nice for you to think before you speak.

-1—

Just in case what you’re thinking isn’t what everyone else is think-

0—

ing.” Mom looked at me, exhausted.

+1—

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“I know. It would be easier if everyone was thinking what I was

thinking, though.”

“You’d hate that, Alex,” she sniff ed with a laugh.

“With a fi ery passion from hell,” I agreed.

“So what do you have going on to night? Is Becca home?”

“She is home. I got a couple of texts from her. She said she was

really nauseous. I don’t know when I’m going to be able to go over

there.”

“Maybe we can send her a cookie basket.”

Mom loved cookie baskets from this place where they make and

frost cookies in all diff erent shapes with sappy messages like, “Bee

Mine,” and “Get Whale Soon.” They were pretty tasty, though.

“I bet she’d like that,” I said because it felt like what I was sup-

posed to say. What I was actually thinking was: Would Becca even

want cookies if she was throwing up all the time? “I’m going to see if

she’s on Skype. Maybe we can talk before I go out.” I pushed myself

off the couch.

“I thought you weren’t going out,” Mom said.

“Oh yeah. Is it okay if I go see Bruce Campbell talk about Army

of Darkness at the Orpheum? They’re showing the movie, too.”

“Not by yourself, I hope.”

“No, just with someone from school. A guy. Leo Dietz.” I paused

at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for my mom’s reaction.

“Leo? A new boyfriend?” Since Dad’s death, Mom wavered

between her old, uptight self and trying to fi ll in for the missing, laid-

back parent.

“Not really. Just a guy who likes horror movies.” And, you know,

other things we can do together. “I’m driving.”

—-1

I thought maybe my driving would put Mom’s mind at ease; the

—0

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unknown of other kids’ driving rec ords sent her into hysterics if I

was even a minute late. She seemed to trust me in the driver’s seat,

since she helped train me. And she knew my seat belt worked.

“What time will you be home?” she asked instead of told me, her

attempt at cool.

“The movie starts at eight, so maybe eleven? Twelve? I don’t

know how long the Q&A will go.”

“Call me if you’ll be later than eleven thirty.”

“Will do,” I told her as I left for my room.

Normally, I never kept Skype open because my aunt Judy was

like a Skype vampire, waiting to suck away any time I had chatting

with her. Once I even deleted her as a contact, but she called my mom

within minutes to report it. I had to make up an excuse about acci-

dentally clicking on her name instead of an ex- boyfriend I meant to

delete, which would never happen since Skype asks you repeatedly if

YOU ARE SURE you want to delete the contact.

For Becca, I opened Skype. Before I had the chance to video call

Becca, my computer rang. It was Aunt Judy. If I didn’t talk to her, she

would call the entire time I was on with Becca. I clicked to answer.

“Hi, Aunt Judy.”

“Oh, Alex, so glad to see you! And on a busy Friday night, I’m

sure.”

“Yep.” I nodded casually.

“So, any new boys in your life?”

Aunt Judy seemed to fancy herself the young and hip aunt, which

was hard to be when you sported a curly mullet without a hint of

irony.

-1—

“Aunt Judy, I can’t really talk. I have to Skype with my friend.

0—

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She has cancer.” I hoped just laying it out there would clam the old

lady up, but then it turned into a bloated pity fest.

“OH MY GOD! MY POOR ALEXANDRA. WHAT CAN I

DO? ARE YOU OKAY? IS SHE OKAY? OH MY GOD!”

“Aunt Judy!” I had to yell several times until she took a break to

exhale and grab a tissue from her bra. “I have to go. She’s calling me

on Skype right now,” I lied.

“YOU TAKE CARE OF YOUR—”

I hung up on her. I hoped she’d get the hint to give me space

from Skype, but it could also go the way of the concerned check- in,

too. I liked Aunt Judy, though. She sent fat checks for birthdays and

was actually the fi rst person to show me a horror fi lm when I was

eight. My parents had dropped me off at her house for a dinner date,

and Aunt Judy put in a tape of one of her favorite childhood movies,

Heidi, so I could watch while she made dinner. Turned out it was not

Heidi, but Carrie, and by the time Aunt Judy came to tell me dinner

was ready, Carrie was being scolded by her psycho mom and getting

her period in the shower. Such sweet, innocent times those were.

Becca’s icon, a headshot of the gorgeous Number Six Cylon from

Battlestar Galactica, showed that she was signed on to Skype, but that

didn’t mean she would answer. I clicked on the video call button and

let it ring. No answer.

That gave me time to think about to night. I didn’t want to call it

a date, didn’t want to think about the attachment and attention and

commitment that came with having a boyfriend. I needed all of that

for Becca, not some guy I only knew in my dreams until last week. So

far it had been easy enough, fun even, and defi nitely fulfi lling in cer-

tain areas. That’s where I wanted it to stay.

—-1

—0

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I decided not to change clothes.

In ten minutes, I’d leave to pick Leo up at his house, a house I’d

driven by dozens of time with Becca riding shotgun when I fi rst got

my license, in hopes of catching a glimpse of him. I liked those

glimpses. Nothing serious about a glimpse. I didn’t need any more

serious.

Just as I was about to leave my room, my Skype rang. I thought

it might be Aunt Judy checking in, but happily it was Becca. My view

of her was skewed, her laptop on her stomach as she lay awkwardly

on her bed with her neck propped up. I forgot for a minute that she

had no hair, and her skin was almost chartreuse.

“Hey! How are you?” I asked like a dumbass.

“Gurgle,” was all she said, not the sound but the actual word. “I

have a puke bucket next to my bed. A bucket of puke,” she slurred.

I didn’t know if she was tired or pumped full of drugs or both.

“Speaking of buckets,” I tried to sound cheery, “I’ve been work-

ing on your list. I draw the line at wearing two diff erent shoes, though.”

She attempted a smile but could barely hold up her head.

“And I’m going to wait until you’re better so we can hop a train

like a hobo together.”

Was Becca asleep?

“I better let you go. I’m going to see Bruce Campbell to night

with Leo Dietz. Wish it was you, though.” Did I really, or did I feel

obligated to add that? God, she looked like shit.

After Becca didn’t answer, I started to say, “Well, bye. I’ll talk to

you—”

“Alex. Alex.” B came back to life and spoke urgently. “You gotta

-1—

do something for me,” she breathed.

0—

“What? Anything.” I meant it, too.

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“Find out if he’s circumcised.” And then she defi nitely was

asleep.

Even sick as fuck and pumped with meds, Becca was a complete

pervert. She better not die on me.

—-1

—0

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CHAPTER

16

Leo waited outside for me on his front porch. His house had

fancy landscaping with brightly colored window boxes and rounded

bushes. A huge American fl ag fl ew from a post.

He slid into my dad’s car wearing a pair of jeans spotted with oil

and a dark green t-shirt. I couldn’t remember if it was the same outfi t

he wore earlier. He smelled minty. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” I agreed, and we drove off .

I had NPR on the radio, a story about Damien Echols, a South-

erner wrongly sent to prison for a sick crime he didn’t commit just

because he was an all- black- wearing metalhead and the town needed

a scapegoat. We listened intently, fi nishing the show as we parked at

the Orpheum. A line snaked around the block.

“Good call on getting here early,” I commended him. He placed

his hand on my back to guide me toward the end of the line. It was an

-1—

odd feeling. Boyfriendish, almost, and unnecessary. I scooted ahead

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of him to fi nd our spot in the queue.

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Most of the people waiting were in some kind of costume: fake

blood, wigs, one guy even had a disembodied hand gripping onto his

shoulder. There was enough people- watching to keep us talking and

laughing. I even managed to accomplish one of Becca’s early Fuck- It

List items— number 3: Chew ten pieces of gum at once and blow a

qua dru ple bubble. It was rather hilarious to observe Leo as he watched

me polish off an entire pack of his Dessert Delight gum. “This apple-

pie gum is fucking gross,” I spat through strained chomps of the

massive wad in my mouth.

“Not nearly as gross as watching you chew it.”

I spat out several double bubbles but never made it close to the

coveted qua dru ple.

At seven, the line began to move, and we made our way to our

seats. “Do you mind if we sit on the aisle?” I requested. “I like to have

an exit route.”

“In case of a zombie attack, I’m assuming.” I nodded. Once we

were in our seats, Leo asked, “Do you want any snacks?”

“Dots, if they have them,” I said, and fi shed a few dollars out of

my pocket.

“That’s okay.” He wouldn’t take the money. “You can pay for

coff ee later.” Leo stood up and rubbed past my knees on his way out

of the row. Standing next to him outside in line did nothing for me,

but that small act of connecting with my knees made my stomach

tingle.

I texted Becca while Leo was away.

About to see Bruce! I’ll tell him u say hi

As the lights dimmed for the start of the movie, Leo returned and slid

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past me once again. I tried to ignore my libido’s feelings to retain the

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reverence of the Evil Dead fi lms. Leo handed me the box of Dots,

while he munched from a tub of popcorn. I attempted to remove the

clear wrap from around the yellow box in a movie- appropriate man-

ner, but it took me forever to fi nd a weak spot to open the plastic. By

the time I was in full crinkle, characters were talking and some people

in front of me turned around to glare. I popped a Dot in my mouth

and sneered back.

“Ew.” I spit the Dot into my hand.

“What’s wrong?” Leo leaned over and whispered into my ear.

He smelled all buttery.

“I ate a green one,” I whispered back. The warmth of his cheek

near my mouth begged for a kiss, but I restrained myself.

“Here.” He handed me a napkin from under his tub, and I rubbed

the sticky mess from my hand into it.

Each time I pulled a new Dot out of the box, I held it up to the

screen in hopes of discovering its color in the darkness, lest it be green

again.

“Do you want some popcorn?” Leo whispered midway through

the fi lm.

“No thank you. Want a Dot?”

“Are there only green ones left?”

“Yep,” I told him, and he kissed me one, two, three times on the

mouth. I wished there weren’t so many people around us.

We watched the rest of the movie as members of an audience,

reacting together with laughter and disgust at the appropriate inter-

vals. When the fi lm ended, Bruce Campbell, the lead actor in the Evil

Dead trilogy, as well as a cult god, walked out on the stage. He looked

-1—

paunchier and older than in the fi lms, but still had that great movie

0—

star butt chin I admired on him. The audience took several minutes to

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calm down from our enthusiastic standing ovation, and when we did

Leo immediately took my hand in his.

I never was much for holding hands. Most people

were so

clammy, or our fi ngers fi t together wrong. There was nothing worse

than intertwined fi ngers as a gesture of romance only to realize that

the boy’s hands were stumpy and there was barely enough room to

lace our fi ngers together. Leo didn’t weave our fi ngers, but held my

hand on his lap with a grip that tightened every time he laughed at

something brilliant Bruce said. Leo’s hand was much larger than mine,

with prominent veins. At times, no matter how funny or engaging

Bruce was, I was distracted by the force with which Leo would jerk

my hand with a laugh. Not a bad distraction, but I wanted to focus on

Bruce, maybe learn something for my own movies.

I fi shed my hand away from Leo’s and pretended to dig some-

thing out of my back pocket. He didn’t seem to notice. I spent the rest

of the show wondering why Leo didn’t try to hold my hand again.

Bruce was selling and signing copies of his books, posters, shirts,

and any other weird artifact people brought to him. When it was time

for me and Leo to greet him, I told Bruce, “You are a legend.”

He thanked me and off ered to sign an Army of Darkness poster

I brought along. “Gimme some sugar, Baby,” he wrote, a classic line.

One of my favorites. I asked Leo to take a picture of me and Bruce

with my phone, and he did. Then the next person in line, a rather large

woman with a Bubba Ho- Tep t-shirt on, asked us, “Do you want

a picture with both of you?”

“Sure,” Leo answered before I could decide for myself. When

the moment was over, Leo and I reviewed the picture. We stood on

either side of Bruce, smiling like dorks, while Bruce produced bunny

—-1

ears behind our heads. Classic.

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If it were possible for me to feel jubilant, that’s how I felt as Leo

and I walked back to my car. For two seconds I forgot about my dad

and Becca and just reveled in the primo eve ning.

Leo was bubbly, too, and quoted moments from Bruce’s Q&A

verbatim. “Remember when … ?” “And then he said …” It was

funny how cute and sweet such a big, supposedly scary guy could

look. I started the car, and the clock read 10:45. “What time do you

have to be home?” I asked.

“One,” he answered.

“Midnight for me. But you can have my glass slipper.” He smiled,

illuminated by the parking lot lights. “What do you want to do?” I

asked. I knew the question was too open, too obvious. At that time of

night, we could go back to someone’s house and worry about waiting

parents, go to Denny’s for coff ee, which I had previously off ered to

cover, or fi nd somewhere to park the car.

“How about the Halloween store?” Leo suggested. I hadn’t

thought of that.

“Is there one up yet?” The phenomenon of pop- up Halloween

stores was always exciting and depressing at the same time. Anything

huge and Halloweeny meant awesomeness in my book, but they were

always thrown into some giant, dead store space that would become

empty again once the holiday ended. Or at least until the pop- up Christ-

mas store took its place.

“Sure,” I agreed. “Where is it?”

“Where the Borders used to be,” he directed.

I drove to the strip mall parking lot and parked in the vast empti-

ness. We unclicked our seat belts and walked up to the blackened

-1—

windows. Leo cupped his hands around his eyes and peered in. “I

0—

guess we’re a little late,” Leo noticed as we surveyed the dark store.

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“They stay open later when Halloween gets closer,” I mentioned.

“Next time,” he suggested.

I mulled over the idea of a next time as we returned to the car.

“So,” I asked as Leo hopped in and shut the door. “What now?” I

started the car and turned on WVVX, a local station that turned

from Spanish to metal at 8:00 p.m.

As I attempted to tug on my seat belt, Leo slid toward me and ran

his hand up my arm. At that moment, the streetlight above the car fl ick-

ered off . “I planned that,” he said. He leaned over and kissed me, his

position awkward and sideways, the steering wheel preventing us from

getting comfortably close. I gently pushed his chest away from me

and crawled my way over the armrest and into the backseat. Leo fol-

lowed, less gracefully, and stumbled until we were next to each other.

Our hands were everywhere. He pulled my shirt over my head,

and I did the same to his. Or was it the other way around? He leaned

back onto the leather bench seat, and I rested on top of him. Without

taking my bra off , Leo slid his hand inside it and drove me to an

embarrassing squeak.

“What was that?” He laughed quietly, as if talking loudly would

alert someone outside to our presence.

I bit his lip slightly harder than playfully, which he took to mean

I wanted more. I did.

Somehow my hand found its way down to the buttons of Leo’s

jeans, and I undid them one by one before fi tting my hand inside and

feeling him against me. He responded with a moan, and dug around

until my jeans were unbuttoned, too. We slithered out of our pants and

rubbed our barely dressed bodies together, kissing, grinding, grip-

ping. He hooked his fi nger onto the top of my undies and started to

—-1

pull them off .

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“Wait,” I breathed. “We’re not going to have sex,” I told him.

“Why is it you keep saying that?” He didn’t sound annoyed, just

curious.

“I’ve said it twice.” His fi nger remained on my undies, which

were now halfway down one side of my leg.

“Does that mean third time’s a charm?” He smiled. I smacked

his freckled shoulder and shifted onto my knees to pull on my undies.

“Wait,” he stopped me. “We don’t have to have sex. I don’t have

a condom anyway. Unless you do.”

“Even if I did, I said no.” My undies were back in place, and I

was sitting up. Leo pushed himself up next to me and began kissing

my ear.

“Can I still take your pan ties off if I promise we won’t have sex

to night?”

His hands didn’t give me time to answer, and he felt so good I

wouldn’t have said no anyway. After my undies were somewhere on

the fl oor of the car, Leo took my hips and turned me so I was reclin-

ing on the seat. He slithered down to where my underwear used to be

and placed his hands on either thigh, separating them. I grabbed onto

his hair, not hard enough to pull him away from what he was doing

but enough to steady myself. Even lying down, I felt like I could fall

at any moment. He was masterful at what he did, and I squirmed in

painful ecstasy. My head started going to that place where I wondered

how he got so skilled, but I willed myself to drown in the moment. I

gasped and palmed the car seat, reaching for anything I could before

I completely succumbed. When it was over, I released my grip and

my hands cramped. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t think.

-1—

That must be what heaven is like.

0—

I heard Leo groping around for his clothes, and I opened my

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eyes. He had a, well, me- eating grin on his face, and I was embar-

rassed to look at him after how I completely let go. When we were

both dressed, I noticed the clock. “Shit. I have to get home,” I said.

We climbed into the front seat, a Megadeath song playing as I drove

Leo back to his house. When we got there, Leo unclicked his seat belt.

I thought he’d slide over for a good- night kiss, but he just said, “I had

a good night.”

“Me, too,” I answered, rushing home in my head so my mom

wasn’t worried. I never wanted to call her when I was late, in case she

was asleep and my call woke her up. Better to be late without her

knowing if at all possible.

There was a pause, both of us wondering what to do. Leo’s mom

helped us out, calling from the front door. “Leo? Is that you?”

“And that’s why we didn’t go back to my house,” Leo said. “See

you Monday.” He got out, and I drove away without looking back.

When I got home, Mom was asleep in her room, and the house

was quiet.

I went to my room and dug out my jeans pockets and threw keys,

cash, and phone on my desk. There was a text I must have missed

during the movie. Or something else. It was from Becca.

I’m dying, was all it said.

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CHAPTER

17

I checked the time Becca’s message was sent: 9:14. It was cur-

rently 12:17. If I texted her back, would I awaken her from a pain- free

slumber? What if she were back in the hospital? I had to try.

R U OK? R U dead?

After I sent the text, I turned on my computer and logged onto

Skype. Chances were slim that Aunt Judy was still up and waiting for

a midnight chat unless she had some seedy secret life I didn’t know

about. Maybe I would like her better if that were true. Like a Mullets

Anonymous group or something.

Hello? Come in, Becca. Do you read me, Becca? I typed.

Nothing from either phone or computer.

To calm my nerves I played a video of Troll I downloaded last

week. It was such a crappy movie, but the guy who played Atreyu

-1—

from The NeverEnding Story was in it. And a weird plant lady.

0—

I wished I could talk to Becca about what happened with Leo. It

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was exactly the kind of story my sex- obsessed bestie would have

been dying to hear every drippy detail of. But instead she was just

dying. For a second, I almost felt angry at her, which made me feel

like the biggest dick in the world. How could I possibly be mad at my

best friend when she was sick— possibly dying— with cancer just

because I couldn’t talk to her about Leo Dietz going down on me?

Shame on me for even allowing a guy down there when Becca was so

sick. Is that how she felt when she was doing I don’t even want to think

about it with Davis? Was this payback in the most disgusting form

possible? I wanted to ask God, to talk to him one- on- one, but I couldn’t

decide if I even believed in him at the moment. Plus, kind of a weird

topic. Death and sickness and sex and so much guilt— where did

God fi t into that?

As my internal moral battle raged, my Skype rang. It was not

Aunt Judy and her mullet club but Becca. I scrambled to my desk chair

and answered. The view of Becca was a close- up of her bald head

resting on a stack of pillows in her bed. She looked tired and pasty.

Her lips were dry and cracked. I wanted to pass her some lip balm

through the computer, or a glass of water, or something to help. Once

again, I could do nothing.

“Hey, Cueball,” I joked. She laughed dryly but didn’t say more.

“How are you feeling?” I asked, wanting to know but not sure if she

wanted to talk about it or pretend things were normal. I felt that way

a lot about my dad.

“Like a bag of ass,” she croaked.

“Whose ass? Because if it’s mine, then you must be feeling pretty

good.” I was trying too hard.

“Can’t laugh. Hurts.” She held up a ban daged and bruised hand

—-1

to her throat. “Tell me something good.”

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“Well, Leo went down on me in the backseat of my dad’s car.

And I met Bruce Campbell.” Becca coughed, and I couldn’t tell if

it was because of what I told her or because she had to cough. The

coughing continued. “Do you need me to get help?” I asked the

screen. She shook her head no. A woman I didn’t recognize appeared

on the screen, her wide behind blocking the camera. When she was

gone, Becca held a cup of water with two hands.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“Night nurse. Helen.”

“Was she in the room when I just told you about the car sce-

nario?” Becca nodded. “Is she still in the room?” Becca nodded again.

“But do go on,” she eked out. I curled my lip in disgust, but

Becca said, “It makes me happy to hear about it.”

“I hope Helen isn’t a prude,” I told her, and launched into the

story of the night.

When I fi nished, Becca told me, “Helen just crossed herself.” I

laughed. “I better go to sleep.” And just like that she closed her eyes.

I thought she might already be out.

“Are you really dying, Becca?” I asked.

She opened one eye. “The doctors say probably not, but it sure

fucking feels like it.” She closed her eyes again.

“Good night,” I whispered at the computer. No answer. Becca

was already asleep.

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CHAPTER

1 8

I slept in on Saturday, spending most of the day in my room in

case Becca called. I watched all three Basket Case movies, plus The

Toxic Avenger and A Nightmare on Elm Street 2. While Nightmare wasn’t as cheesy, weird, or gross as the other fi lms, I always loved the prem-ise of someone attacking you in your dreams. Plus, I heard Robert

Englund, the guy who played Freddy, wore actual blades on his fi ngers

and could cut an apple if he wanted.

The only Skype call I received was from Aunt Judy, who I ignored

and didn’t care about the consequences. I messaged a little back and

forth with Damien and Brandon, and they invited me to a show that

night, but I declined. I didn’t want to have to talk about Becca or Leo

or myself. There was no point in leaving the house.

Instead, my mom, brothers, and I shared a pizza and watched

Poltergeist on TV. For a horror movie, it’s surprisingly scary. Maybe

I watched too many and was desensitized, but it seemed to me most

—-1

horror movies were funny and gory but not necessarily scary. But

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Poltergeist … the clown doll? I had second thoughts about leaving

my Chuckie doll out after that. CJ hid behind the couch whimpering

most of the movie.

I texted Becca at bedtime with a quick note.

Still Ok?

Ten minutes later she wrote back.

Can’t stop barﬁ ng.

And that was it.

Sunday I worked all day, which meant hungover college students

and tons of business. There was some game on TV in a corner of the

restaurant, but we in the kitchen didn’t give a shit and drowned out

the jocular din with a musical din of our own. I anticipated the pos-

sibility of Leo coming in for a sub, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about

it. If he did, would we have to talk? Make out in the disgusting bath-

room? I grooved on the rhythmic construction of the subs, and I

didn’t want that to be interrupted. When it turned out I wasn’t inter-

rupted all day by a visit from Leo, I was a tad disappointed. I wish I

could make up my mind.

Before I left work, I texted Becca.

Do u want me to bring u a sub?

It was a long shot, with her puking issue. I was afraid she might

say yes, which made me feel horrid. But I was scared to see her in

person, not just in the grainy, poorly lit world of my computer screen.

She texted back:

-1—

0—

2 pukey. 2 medicated. Thanx.

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I kicked myself for my fear. How scary it must have been for

Becca. I’m glad she didn’t know what I was thinking. I had to hold it

together for her, do what ever I could. I pulled out the Fuck- It List

from my pocket. It was always there, transferred each time I changed

my jeans. Nothing on the list caught my eye. It was either sex or

food, and I wasn’t in the mood for either. The guilt piled on me even

more. I couldn’t even do a simple task like number 2: Stick my tongue

to a frozen pole, or one like number 18: Have sex with a football stud

and dump him the next day. “Jesus, Becca,” I said to the list. “Just

fucking get better, so you can do this ridiculous shit yourself.” Then

I berated myself again for my selfi shness. The cycle was endless.

That night I did my homework in bed as Troll 2 played in the

background. Nothing like the original, it was so bad there was even a

documentary made about how bad the sequel was.

My Skype rang: Becca in bed. I wondered if she had moved at all

since the last time we spoke.

She greeted me with “Where’s my sub?”

“I thought you didn’t want it,” I said, defensive.

“I’m kidding. Why are you so wound up?” Becca sounded better

than the last time we talked. “I think I’m going to try and come to

school tomorrow,” she informed me.

“Why?” I asked, but I thought I knew part of the answer. Who

wants to sit around feeling like shit when you can do something to make

yourself forget?

“I want to get out of this death house. Plus, they’re auditioning

for the fall play.”

“Becca, are you seriously going to try out? What if you can’t—”

“I’m not an idiot. I’m just going to watch.” She looked angry. I

—-1

didn’t know what to say.

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“Do you have any other sordid Leo tales to tell me? Helen’s not

in the room.”

I smiled. “Sorry, no. Just me and my hand. And I’m not telling

you about that.”

“Speaking of hands, Caleb has huge ones.”

“Caleb? Homeschool boy?” I confi rmed.

“I had Helen roll my bed near the window, so I could watch him

mow the lawn. He looks a lot like Chris Hemsworth, I think. Sans

the Thor lady hair.”

“Maybe you can do a number 11 on yourself then.”

“I’m being watched too closely to play with myself. Speak of the

dev il. Helen just walked in with my med cocktail. Gotta go.”

“So I’ll see you tomorrow?” I asked.

“Hopefully.” She signed off .

I hadn’t thought of Becca back at school so soon. Would the

school year veer into semi- standard territory? It was hard to remem-

ber a time when life felt anything but abnormal.

I spent the following morning at school looking over my shoulder for

Becca. I saw Leo once, and he gave me a smileless wave, not unfriendly

but on his way to somewhere. He caught me on my way to lunch.

“You feel like … hanging out?” At that point, it was unclear if “hang-

ing out” meant just hanging out or taking each other’s clothes off while

surrounded by books.

“I can’t today. Becca said she might come to school, so I want to

stay visible.” I guess I answered my own question as to where we’d

end up.

-1—

“Is Becca well enough to come to school?” Leo asked, concerned.

0—

“I have no idea. She seems to think so.”

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“Oh.” Leo remembered something and dug into his front pocket.

“Here.” He handed me a key, similar to the one he used to open the

book closet door. “I got you one.” I turned the key over in my hand,

wondering what exactly it meant. My face must have revealed some-

thing because Leo said, “Damn, it’s not an engagement ring. I just

thought maybe you’d like a key in case you wanted to go in there

when I’m not around. No need to get all disturbed.”

“I’m not disturbed.”

“You kind of are,” Leo pushed.

“Don’t you have a class to go to?”

“Not really. But I’ll fi nd one to get away from you.” He was

messing with me, but he still walked away.

“Thanks for the key,” I called after him.

“Sure,” he called back.

Becca arrived while I sat at the lunch table with Damien, Eliza,

and Brandon. She had on a striped winter hat, covering up her bald

head. She walked slowly toward the table, and already I thought she

looked thinner. Maybe it was her coloring. As she walked, a myriad of

people came up to her to chat. I watched with a protective glare. Who

were they to talk to my best friend before I did? I stood up and pushed

past several of her fans. I grabbed her arm, then let my grip go soft

when I realized how frail she seemed. We walked together to the lunch

table, and Becca said, “I feel like a celebrity. Now I know I have to get

famous someday.” It was nice to hear her talk about the future as if

she’d be alive.

Damien, Eliza, and Brandon bombarded Becca with hugs and

questions, and I let her soak in the attention. At least it was people I

liked and knew, not just cancer groupies.

—-1

At the end of lunch, Becca asked if I would walk her to the drama

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room so she could talk to Ms. Richards. She held my arm and waved

with her free hand to her adoring audience. I almost punched Jenna

in the face when she stopped us to squeal at Becca’s presence. I pushed

to keep moving, and Jenna faded into the hallway crowd. Before we

managed to make it to the drama room, Becca’s legs gave out. I held

her up as best as I could, but my size wasn’t helping me. In an instant,

I felt her weight lift off me, and there Leo was holding up her other

side.

“Are you okay?” I asked. I felt like I was always asking that.

“Can you take me to the nurse? I need to lie down for a minute.”

She sounded panicked. Then she puked, not a ton, but a dribble down

the front of her shirt. I waited for Leo to make a grossed out com-

ment, but he just carried her along as though nothing happened.

“Sorry.” Becca coughed.

As we walked through the halls, the same people who fawned

over Becca minutes ago were now gawking at her like she had a dis-

ease. Which she did, although nothing they could catch. In fact, the

crowd of people and their hordes of germs were much more danger-

ous to Becca than she could ever be to them.

When we got to the nurse’s offi

ce, Leo carried Becca over to a

plastic bed. The nurse called Becca’s mom, and I pulled some tissues

from a box and helped Becca clean off her face and chin.

“Thank you,” she said. “My hero. And this is Leo?” So Becca—

that even when she’s wiping puke from her chin, she’s thinking about

me and a guy.

“Yeah. Becca, Leo. Leo, Becca,” I introduced them.

“Nice to meet you,” Leo said formally. “I’ll let you two have a

-1—

moment.” He backed out of the nurse’s offi

ce.

0—

“Well, that sucked,” Becca said when Leo was gone.

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“It wasn’t that bad. You could have projectile vomited.”

“All over Jenna’s face,” Becca said dreamily.

“So it could’ve been better is what you’re saying.”

The nurse came back into the room. “Becca, your mom will be

here shortly. Can I get you anything?”

“No thank you.” Becca spoke with a sickeningly sweet baby

voice reserved for doted- on patients.

“Do you need a pass, Alex?” Mrs. Kafcas knew me well from the

era during freshman year when I had strep three times. She was nice

and helpful and generous with the passes.

“Sure,” I answered.

She ripped a pass off her pad and scribbled her signature. “You

fi ll out the time when Becca’s mom arrives.”

Becca closed her eyes, and her breathing became even.

“Why don’t you let her get some rest?” Mrs. Kafcas whispered. I

could’ve sat there with sleeping Becca until her mom came, but that

meant talking to her mom again. I wasn’t up for the sad parent. I walked

out and closed the door to the nurse’s offi

ce quietly. Leaning against

the wall nearby was Leo.

“She going to be okay?” he asked. I shrugged.

“Can we go somewhere?” I pressed, and he knew exactly where

I meant.

When we arrived in the book closet, Leo sat down on a desk.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“That’s the exact opposite of what I want. I just want to feel

good.” I looked at Leo. He walked over to me, put his hands around

my back, and made sure of just that.

—-1

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CHAPTER

1 9

Becca and I Skyped the minute I got home from school. She sat

engulfed in her pillow mound looking far less green than when I last

saw her. “So that was—” she started.

“Putrescent,” I fi nished.

“Thank you for sugarcoating things.”

“You know you can count on me for that,” I joked. “How are

you feeling?”

“I wish you didn’t have to keep asking me that.”

“Sorry. But you did throw up, and my gallant guy- dude- friend-

thing did have to help carry you through the halls.”

“You still won’t call him your boyfriend? What’s that about?

And did he think I was gross?”

“He didn’t mention your grossness, at least not to me.”

“Again, I feel so much better. And what about the boyfriend fac-

-1—

tor?” she prodded. While her words were on the normal side, her face

0—

looked pained.

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“Who has time for a boyfriend? All that pathetic sexting and

going on dates and meeting parents and proms and shit. I’m too busy

taking care of you. Speaking of, is Helga in the room with you?”

“Helen. And, no, her knitting needles were driving me crazy.”

“Careful what you say. Knitting needles make for excellent mur-

der weapons.”

“Always looking on the bright side, you are. Oh! Speaking of

bright sides, I saw Caleb as I was coming home from school today.”

“Was he naked?” I asked.

“I’ll ask the pervy questions around here,” she noted. Why

wasn’t she using more ChapStick?

“So was he?”

“I wish. He was taking out the garbage. Our eyes met as my

mom pulled into the driveway. He smiled.”

“Did you?”

“Barely. I was afraid I still had puke chunks in my teeth.”

“That is quite possibly the grossest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“From you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I thought that was obvious. So when do you fl ash him next?”

“Try never. I look so gross now. Holes in my arms and on my

chest, no hair. Did I tell you my eyelashes are starting to fall out?”

I shook my head. “Maybe we can write Caleb an anonymous

note, and he can fl ash you back. We could add it to the Fuck- It List.”

“How’s that going, by the way?” Becca tried to adjust her posi-

tion on the bed, and every movement looked strained.

I tried to remain composed. “Okay. I haven’t done anything mon-

umental. I’m saving some things for us to do together. Like the sleep

on a beach one.”

—-1

“That’s meant to be romantic, Alex.”

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“Then how do you expect me to do it?”

“How about hop a train like a hobo?”

“Admittedly, that’s one of my favorites. But, alas, no. Am I fail-

ing you?”

“Not at all! You did way more on it than I ever did, and it’s my

list.” Becca started coughing but managed to calm herself before

Helen arrived. “What about the last number on the list? Have you

done that yet? I know it hasn’t been that long, but I thought maybe

you and Leo …”

I pulled the list from my pocket and reread number 23: Have sex

with someone I’m in love with and is in love with me.

“No. We haven’t had sex yet. And we’re not in love.”

“Yet,” Becca added.

“I’ll let you believe that because you have cancer.”

“You could totally love him, Alex. He’s completely your type:

big, weird, a criminal.”

“He’s not a criminal.”

“What ever. Fall in love with him soon, please, and have sex so

you can tell me all about it.” She yawned.

“Maybe I’ll just fall in love with Caleb instead so you can watch

us have sex from your window. That way I won’t accidentally leave

out any details.”

“You better not. He’s my homeschool boy.”

“You’ve already branded him with your boobs. There’s nothing

I could do anyway.”

We both laughed, and Becca’s laugh turned into a cough again.

Helen’s big butt resurfaced. When the camera was free, Becca’s newly

-1—

scratchy voice said, “I have to go. Keep me posted on number twenty-

0—

three. I’m counting on you.”

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“And Caleb’s counting on you. Sweet dreams.”

“If only.” She hung up.

From downstairs, I heard the garage door close and my brothers’

clumsy footsteps fi ll the house with life. I didn’t want to be alone, a

rarity, so I headed downstairs and spent two hours splayed across the

couch watching AJ and CJ destroy zombies. It wasn’t quite as good

as a movie, but their aggressive banter helped me temporarily erase

the vision of Becca puking that was on repeat in my head. I must have

been pretty fucked up to watch horror movie after horror movie, not

to mention my brothers ripping intestines out of realistic dead humans,

and only be disturbed by a little puke. Forgetting about that day, and

so many others, felt like a constant goal. I hoped there would come a

day I would want to remember.

—-1

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CHAPTER

20

Tuesday and Wednesday were regular school days in the

sense that I went to class, nobody threw up near me, and Leo and I

didn’t spend any time in the book closet. His creative writing teacher

was annoyingly holding him accountable for what ever it was he was

working on, so I ate with my lunch friends listening to them talk

about stage crew and trying to win me back.

“We miss you, Alex. The catwalk isn’t nearly as creepy without

you,” Brandon told me.

“Yeah, and you already own enough black to blend in,” Eliza

said.

“You’re really selling it, but I have an actual job and actual, you

know, stuff I have to do with my eve nings.”

“Watching Dead Hags 7 isn’t ‘actual stuff ,’ ” Brandon air- quoted.

“If only that were a real movie,” I mused.

-1—

I spent both nights working at Cellar and cramming in home-

0—

work when I wasn’t fi lling bread with assorted meats and cheeses. I

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liked the busyness, the mechanical yet artful nature of building

a sandwich and delivering it to a hungry person. Sometimes I felt like

the patron saint of subs. There probably already was one, from what

I’ve read about saints, which wasn’t much. Except that there’s one for

practically everything. I could totally fi ll out a pair of black wings.

Do saints have wings?

Near the end of my Wednesday shift, Doug called back to me in

the kitchen. “Alex, you have a visitor! Clean the bathroom fi rst.”

“I’ll get right on that, Sir Subs- a-lot.” Nobody tells the Patron

Saint of Subs what to do.

I wiped my hands on my grungy jeans and stepped out to fi nd

Leo waiting for me behind the counter.

“Hey,” he smiled.

“Hey,” I repeated, not matching him in enthusiasm. I didn’t want

to get razzed by the college crew.

I stayed behind the ledge where we placed the subs ready for

consumption. Leo leaned on the counter with his elbows, bringing his

face closer to mine. The low lighting somehow emphasized the freck-

les that seemed inappropriate with the rest of his tougher exterior.

“Did you want something to eat?” I asked.

“Nah. Already ate. Thanks, though. Just stopped by to say hi.”

“Picking up your comics?”

“Yeah. New Buff y and Walking Dead are out.”

“Buff y comics any good?” I asked. “I liked the show.”

“They’re really good. Most of the time. They had this totally

weird plot where Angel and Buff y had sex in space. I didn’t quite get

it.”

I nodded as though agreeing with something. I wasn’t sure how

—-1

to respond to Buff y space sex.

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“I guess I’ll let you get back to work,” Leo said as he drummed a

little tune on the counter.

“Thanks, I guess,” I said. “See you tomorrow, maybe?” The

question felt awkward, like what I was really saying was “Will you

be sticking your hand down my pants tomorrow?” But curious minds

wanted to know.

“I have to meet with my teacher every day this week for my

in de pen dent study, so I won’t be able to, you know, hang out.” He

had some unbuttoning on his mind, too.

“Okay.” I shrugged. No big deal.

“What about Friday night?” he asked.

“What about it?” I couldn’t remember if we had talked about

something, and I forgot again.

“Do you want to hang out? Maybe watch a movie? You know

I’ve never seen Basket Case 2 or 3.”

“That’s right!” The thought of schooling a horror fan on the

blinding brilliance of Basket Case had me jazzed. “So much diff erent

from Basket Case the First.”

“Basket Case the First? Is that really what it’s called?”

“No. But it makes it sound fancy. As fancy as someone with

a mutant twin brother that used to be attached to his side can sound.”

He laughed and shook his head. “Want to come to my house? My

parents are going to a play. We can watch on the massive screen my

dad installed in the family room.”

Massive screen didn’t resonate nearly as much as his parents going

to a play. Potential book closet times ten.

“Yeah, okay. Sounds fun.” We both smiled this time. “Speaking

-1—

of fun, I have to go pretend to clean the bathroom, so …”

0—

“Maybe I’ll see you in the halls. Defi nitely on Friday.”

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“Bye.” I waved. The anticipation of Basket Case and a parent-

free house made heat rise to my cheeks. Maybe we’d just watch the

movies, like we did with Army of Darkness. But that was in a movie

theater.

I punished my overactive imagination by actually cleaning the

bathroom. I don’t know how clean it got because I didn’t touch tech-

nically anything, just sprayed all surfaces with a disinfectant cleaner.

The next person to use the toilet would get a wet awakening on her

ass. Serves any freak right for not squatting above the pot in this

place. I threw a new urinal cake in the men’s room and grossed myself

out at the name. What sick bastard would call something you piss on

a “cake”? Then my brain went into horror mode, at some psycho-

path’s birthday party where the birthday cake was a urinal cake with a

candle sticking out of it. As I left the men’s room, I laughed at myself.

“Someone’s got a boyfriend,” Ila sang.

“I was thinking about urinal birthday cakes, if you must know,”

I scolded.

I didn’t have a boyfriend. I had someone to watch horror movies

with while my best friend was too sick with cancer. Who somehow

got me hot and bothered enough to clean a bathroom. Not a boy-

friend at all.

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CHAPTER

2 1

Becca and I texted on Thursday whenever I could get to my

phone without it being confi scated.

Becca: R u sick?

Me: No

Becca: Can u come over after school?

Me: Fuck yeah

I had only Skyped with Becca since she started her treatment,

and the only time I saw her in person was for her vomitous half hour

at school. She said as long as I didn’t bring any germs into her house

I could come over and watch Battlestar Galactica with her. This would

be my fourth time watching the series, Becca’s fourteenth. She was

obsessed with the actor who played Lee “Apollo” Adama, the son

of the Galactica’s admiral and number 21 on her Fuck- It List: Touch

Jamie Bamber’s butt. That was one of my par tic u lar favorite numbers

-1—

because of the sheer impossibility of it. I thought that’s what a bucket

0—

list was supposed to be fi lled with: things one could only dream of

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doing. Lucky for me, I guess, Becca had a more attainable list that I

could help her with. Except for number 21. And maybe the one about

the hobo.

When I arrived at her house, Becca’s mom answered the door.

She hugged me like we hadn’t seen each other in months. The same

hug she gave me after my dad died. I was lucky she didn’t gouge out

my eye with the bedazzled Star of David she sported. The only reason

I ever regretted being a Jew was the fact that I couldn’t wear big crosses

around my neck like Buff y. Not that I’d ever wear the big star, either.

It was the fi rst time I noticed it on Mrs. Mason, but it wouldn’t be

nearly the last.

I quickly retreated to Becca’s room. Becca was camped out in her

bed; vases of voluminous fl owers and crinkly balloons were every-

where. Wadded up balls of wrapping paper littered the fl oor, and

boxes of shrink- wrapped DVDs were scattered over her bed.

“Holy shit. It’s cancer Christmas,” I declared.

“Even my dad sent something. Six missed birthdays, but the pos-

sibility of his kid dying and he gets sentimental. Not that this thing is

very sentimental.” Becca held out a blocky stuff ed animal hamster.

“Watch this,” she said, and squeezed its hand. “You’re a toolbox dou-

checake,” she spoke at the beast. It repeated back her words fi ve times

the speed, high pitched and eerie. The worst part was the way its tiny

mouth moved, as though it was really calling me a douchcake.

“This is the fi rst time I have ever liked your dad,” I told her.

“You can have it.” She tossed it to me, but the throw was short.

“I have a younger brother to terrify with this, thank you.”

“Anytime. What do you think your dad would have gotten me?”

Becca asked. The question froze me, repeated back in the chitter of

—-1

the chatimal.

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“I don’t know. I mean, I never thought about it. Do you?”

Becca looked exhausted, and her initial excitement at my visit

faded from her voice. “I think about how he would probably say

funny things. Maybe he’d come visit me in the hospital. Buy me a

viper stuff ed toy instead of a talking rodent.”

It wouldn’t have felt as bad if the dead dad we were talking about

weren’t mine. I was jealous. That my dead dad would bring things

to my sick friend in her imagination. The subject needed changing

immediately before I said the wrong thing, like, “What right do you

have to get gifts from my dead dad?” came to mind.

“Somebody bought you Kim Kardashian’s perfume?” I noticed a

bottle on her desk.

“That’s the ass of my dreams,” she sighed.

“To look at or to have?” I asked.

“Maybe just to look at. Or, like, squeeze just once.”

“You think if you squeeze Kim Kardashian’s ass, her perfume

comes out?” Once upon a time, we would have laughed our not- nearly-

as- ample asses off . But I didn’t want Becca to start a coughing jag.

“Come sit down and share in my spoils.” Becca patted the blan-

ket. I sat down next to her and looked toward the TV.

“Where are you?” I asked, regarding which season of Battlestar

she was on.

“ ‘Unfi nished Business.’ I just love that Lee and Kara fi nally have

sex.”

“Of course you do,” I said. “This is a good episode. I love watch-

ing Starbuck kick Hot Dog’s ass.”

“That is good.”

-1—

“If you were a pi lot, what would your call sign be?” I asked.

0—

We’d had the conversation a million times, but it was one of our

+1—

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favorites. Battlestar Galactica pi lots had really cool ones, like Athena,

or truly dorky ones, like Narcho. “I’ve got one for you: Vixen.”

“Ooh. That’s a new one. But it’s too much like Blitzen. I don’t

want to sound like a reindeer.”

“What do reindeer sound like?” I joked. Becca nudged me softly.

The top of her hand was poked and bruised. I willed myself not to

gag. Real- life gore was so much more gorey than the fake stuff . “Okay.

How about Kumquat?”

“That’s horrible!” she squealed.

“No worse than Hot Dog. What about me?”

“Yours would be Blackie.”

“What?” I demanded. “That sounds kind of racist.”

“I meant because you wear black. Like the color of your heart.

Geez. I’ll think of another one. How about Sleazy? Like the Ke$ha

song.”

“You and your Ke$ha.” I had an epiphany. “You should totally

make that your Make- A-Wish. Meeting Ke$ha.”

“That’s really good. But what about Jamie Bamber?” she mused.

“True. There’s no way he could say no to you touching his ass if

that was your Make- A-Wish wish,” I claimed.

“So I should tell them my wish is to touch Jamie Bamber’s ass?”

she asked.

“I wonder if people ever make wishes like that. You know there’s

some twelve- year- old girl with cancer asking to fl ip tongues with

Justin Bieber.”

“You’re sick.”

“No, you’re sick. I’m just trying to make your wishes come

true.”

—-1

A light tap sounded from Becca’s bedroom window.

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“What was that?” she asked. The same sound, louder next time,

pinged off the glass. “Go see.”

I slid off the bed and walked over to the window. Caleb stood in

his bedroom with his window open, holding an envelope in his hand

and waving. I slid open Becca’s window.

“Hi?” I questioned.

“You’re not Rebecca. Is she there?” Caleb’s voice was power-

fully low, his muscles so large it looked like his church retreat t-shirt

could barely contain them.

“I’m Alex.” I looked back at the bed to see Becca waving her

hands no at me. “Becca is … indisposed at the moment. Can I be of

ser vice to you?”

“I have something for Rebecca. Becca? If you wouldn’t mind

giving it to her.”

I fumbled with the screen until it rose up, and Caleb and I leaned

out our windows toward each other. His arms were long and mus-

cularly veiny. I bet if I fell from the window, he would have eas-

ily reached down with one arm to catch me. I grabbed the white

envelope and landed back on Becca’s fl oor. “Make sure she gets it,

okay?”

“Sure. I will.”

“Thank you.” He nodded and closed his screen, then his win-

dow. I did the same, then dove onto Becca’s bed.

“Holy shit. I bet it’s a marriage proposal. He wants you to run

away with him to an Amish village or something.”

“He’s not Amish, or he wouldn’t be my next- door neighbor,”

Becca reminded me. “Open it. Last time I opened a letter I got a paper

-1—

cut, and it’s taking forever to heal.”

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I gingerly ripped open the plain envelope. On the front was writ-

ten, “Rebecca.”

“I like how he called you Rebecca. So formal. I’m telling you,

he’s going to ask for your hand in marriage. Wait, there would need

to be some courting fi rst.”

“The last time his mom talked to my mom was probably fi fteen

years ago when she insisted on calling me that. They’re not the friend-

liest neighbors to have, and my mom is too uptight.”

“All this makes the proposal so much more romantic.”

“Oh my god stop. Give me the letter.”

Together we read it in silence.

Dear Rebecca,

I know you don’t know me, but I have seen you

coming and going from your house lately in less than

your usual shape. I wanted to check in and ask if you

are okay and if you need anything. As you know, I’m

right next door and almost always home. Just throw

something at my window.

Sincerely,

Caleb

P.S. I want to thank you for your visit to my window a

few weeks ago. I hope that wasn’t a lone incident.

“Ha!” I blurted. “He totally wants to see your boobs again! ‘Lone

incident.’ I bet he had a lone incident after that, if you know what I’m

saying.”

—-1

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“So sweet. Could he be any sweeter? I have to write him back.”

A tinge of pink returned to Becca’s cheeks.

We drafted a note to Caleb on some notebook paper. “Why don’t

you use your Hello Kitty stationery?” I asked.

“Please. I want to exude an air of sophistication.”

“Becca, you stripped for him in front of his window.”

“In a sophisticated manner.”

Becca thought it best to keep the note short and sweet.

Dear Caleb,

Thank you so much for your thoughtful note.

I am home now with cancer, Hodgkin’s lymphoma

to be exact. Maybe one day when I’m feeling better

we can get a cup of coffee. I would be interested in

hearing what homeschooling is like. I’m still hoping

to finish up my se nior year, so I can go to col ege.

Wil you go to col ege? I better go and rest now.

Fondly,

Becca

P.S. I would be glad to also give you a repeat

performance when I’m better.

“I love how it goes from ‘fondly’ to ‘I’ll show you my tits again

someday.’ Promise!”

“Shut up and deliver the note, please.”

“Do you have any wax you want me to seal it with? Some per-

-1—

fume to spray on it? A handkerchief?”

0—

“Speedy delivery, Alex!”

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I opened up the window and screen.

“What can I throw to get his attention?” I asked.

“How about a jelly bean? Someone sent me a fi fty- fl avor box.” I

picked out a black Jelly Belly, the dreaded licorice fl avor, and threw it

at Caleb’s window. Within seconds, he appeared again. His shirt and

face were moist with sweat, like he had been exercising. From the

look of his body, I’m guessing he did that a lot.

I held up the folded paper, and he threw open his window and

screen. We made the pass, he thanked me, and we closed up shop

again.

I sat back on the bed. “Can I have some jelly beans?” I asked.

“Go for it. I puked a rainbow yesterday.”

“They should put that in an ad.”

We watched two episodes of Battlestar Galactica when Becca’s

mom called through the door, “Alex, you need to get going. Becca

needs her rest.”

“PT scan tomorrow,” Becca told me as I shoved my shoes back

on.

“Is that going to suck?” I asked.

“I hope not.” She shuddered.

“Me, too.”

“Since it probably will suck, you have to promise to do some-

thing from the Fuck- It List tomorrow and email me about it.”

“I’ll try.” I hiked on my backpack.

“You are not allowed to try; you are only allowed to do.”

“This cancer is making you sound like a Jedi.”

“If I were a Jedi, I wouldn’t have cancer,” Becca pouted.

“President Roslin had cancer.” I pointed at Battlestar Galactica

—-1

on the TV. “And she’s pretty kick- ass.”

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“Great. All I need is some chamalla extract and Cylon blood,

and I’ll be cured.” Becca oozed sarcasm. That was my job.

“Shit, Becca, what do you want me to say? I don’t know what

to do.”

I stood with my backpack weighing me down as Becca and I said

nothing. Finally, she broke the silence. “Sorry. I guess cancer has

turned me into a bitch.”

“At least you have an excuse.” I smiled. “Let me know what hap-

pens tomorrow. Try to focus on your upcoming nuptials.”

“I will.” She broke a smile.

We said good- bye, and I left Becca’s house, the guilt of the healthy

friend weighing more heavily than the backpack on my shoulders.

-1—

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CHAPTER

2 2

School felt like an impediment to actual life. Tests, home-

work, fucking gym class. Did any of it really matter? I spent much of

the day staring at Becca’s list. What if I died tomorrow? Would my

life have been fulfi lling? Would I have regrets? Would any of my

thoughts or feelings matter once I died? Therefore, did anything that

I did now matter?

I ran into Leo at my lunch hour, and he asked if I was still com-

ing over that night. I told him yes, and as we parted ways I wondered

why I didn’t feel more excited. I liked Leo a lot, but something about

turning a fantasy into a real person took away the excitement, the

sexy mystery. At the same time, Leo managed to surpass many of my

fantasies with even more satisfying reality. Is that all that mattered

anymore? Satisfaction? Immediacy? One moment of plea sure to

eclipse the mundane, the horrifi c, the tragic? I didn’t know what

I wanted. Nothing felt important, not my current life, my future, my

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death.

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Becca texted me near the end of the day:

Done w shit for a week. Maybe back at school next week. We

can make out in the book closet.

Instantly my mood changed. I never knew what to expect from

Becca’s cancer treatment. It seemed like a lot of up and down, sick

and normal, Regular Becca and Cancer Becca. If she were to be at

school next week, it would mean jokes in the hall and instant updates

on ridiculously unimportant things. Things that weren’t worth typ-

ing into an email or holding for our Skype conversations. Toilet

paper on shoes and whose hand grazed someone’s ass in gym or who

farted in AP Spanish. Laughter at lunch and looks in the hall that

spoke louder than words. That’s what I was missing from my life.

Even alive, cancer took away my best friend.

AJ, Mom, and CJ were playing Jenga in the kitchen when I got home

from school. “Whoa,” I pronounced. “Am I in the right house?” I

looked around suspiciously.

“We wanted to show Mom how expert we are,” AJ explained.

“They’ve been playing at lunch in the school library,” Mom

bragged, the pride of her boys spending lunchtime in a library too

great not to share.

“I remember that from middle school. Is Ms. Nelson still the

librarian?” I asked, sitting at the table, careful not to knock it.

“Yeah. She’s hilarious when we play Scattergories.”

“Yes! We used to play that, too. And a lot of Guess Who for some

reason.” I missed that. The games. The innocence. Me and Becca in

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middle school.

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CJ wiggled his fi nger into a precarious slot near the bottom of

the Jenga tower and artfully slid out a block.

“Very nice move,” I commended him.

“Thanks. You want to try?”

“Sure.” I stood for better leverage and selected an easy target at

the top of the tower. As I shimmied the block out of its hole, my hand

twitched and the top half of the tower crumbled to the table.

“Jenga!” Mom yelled, with her hands thrown into the air. We

all looked at her. “What? Aren’t I supposed to yell that when it

falls?”

AJ, CJ, and I looked at one another with eye- rolling glances and

busted out laughing.

“I’m so glad I amuse you.” My mom smirked. “So, pizza okay for

dinner?” She stood and opened the menu drawer. AJ and CJ were all

over it, but I had to decline.

“I have plans,” was all I off ered.

“Yes?” Mom goaded.

“I’m going to a friend’s house to watch the Basket Case movies.

He’s never seen them.”

“He?” Mom caught the slip instantly.

“Yes, Mom. There are boys who like horror movies, too. It’s

fascinating.”

“I’m sure it is. Does this boy have a name?”

“Leo Dietz.”

“So he has the same name as the boy you saw a movie with last

week. Friday nights. Movies. If I weren’t a confused old lady, I’d say

it sounds like you’re dating.”

“It’s called hooking up, Mom,” CJ corrected her.

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“You are both wrong, and promise me you’ll never say those

words again, CJ. Especially if it ever involves you.”

“Then what is he?” Mom tried to hide a smile.

“I don’t know. Why does it matter? We’re not running away and

getting married or anything.”

“That’s called eloping,” CJ interjected.

“Have you been watching Lifetime or something?” I chided.

“He likes those movies where Tori Spelling gets stalked,” AJ

pointed out.

“Shut up.” CJ punched AJ’s chest.

“You shut up,” AJ retaliated, and in an instant they were on the

kitchen fl oor, on top of each other.

“Is that a scene reenactment?” I asked over their screaming.

Twin boy legs fl ailed, and a clatter of Jenga tiles rained down on

top of them. “Enough!” my mom cried, and while she attempted to

pry the gangly pair apart, I made my hasty exit, running upstairs to

grab the Basket Case movies and calling “Good- bye!” as I escaped

out the front door.

When I got to Leo’s, his parents were in the front hall getting ready

to leave. I was early, and I hadn’t anticipated the dreaded meeting of

the parents. I put on my most pleasant girl face, the one that says “I’m

just a friend and your son will not be impregnating me this eve ning.”

“So nice to meet you, Alex. Wish I could say we’ve heard a lot

about you, but Leo doesn’t talk to us much.” Leo’s mom was tall and

polished, with his same dark, coppery hair. She wasn’t overly friendly,

and I wasn’t sure if I actually liked her. Not that it mattered. Friends’

-1—

parents were always at the bottom of the list of people I needed to like.

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Or like me back. As long as it didn’t get in the way of said friendship,

neutral territory was fi ne.

Leo’s dad didn’t say anything, but he shook my hand when Leo

introduced me. “This is Alex,” was what Leo said. I was relieved he

didn’t precede it with “my girlfriend.” They left soon after I arrived,

and Leo and I did the awkward dance of what now in his front hall. I

looked at the framed pictures his parents had along the wall. Gapped-

tooth school pictures, family vacations on mountainsides, and military

portraits of who I assumed was Leo’s brother, Jason, covered the walls.

“He looks like you,” I noted about Jason.

“Yeah. Except the halo over his head.” Leo sounded peeved.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You know, every family has one kid who’s perfect and one kid

who’s a fuckup. He’s not the fuckup.”

“I don’t think every family has to be that way. Like, what about

families with more than two kids?”

“They’re lucky. The perfection and fucked- up- ness get distri-

buted more evenly. Way less pressure.”

I mulled over this theory and chalked it up to baggage I wasn’t in

the mood to delve into.

“I brought the movies.” I held up the DVDs to change the subject.

Leo led me into the kitchen and opened the freezer. “What kind

of pizza do you want?”

“Just cheese, if you have it.”

As Leo cooked dinner, I moved into the family room. The house

was very neat and looked designed, as though all of the knick- knacks

were strategically placed instead of shoved onto available shelf space

like at my house. I loaded the fi rst movie into the player and sat down

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on a long, velvety gray couch. I kicked off my shoes and turned

myself to lie down on the luxurious fabric. Leo entered the room,

saw me, and took this as a cue to rest himself beside me. Instantly I

felt my body heat up. This was my favorite position to be in with Leo:

too close to read expressions, too tempted to have a conversation. We

kissed and fumbled and groped and grabbed, but our clothes remained

in tact because, as I reminded him, “There’s a pizza in the oven.”

About ten minutes in, I pulled my face away from Leo. “You

taste diff erent,” I said. “And smell diff erent.”

He talked into my neck. “I’m trying to quit smoking. Someone

told me it tastes like a turd.”

He quit smoking for me? That was a lot to put on a person. What

would happen if we stopped what ever it was we were doing? Would

he go back to smoking? Smoke more cigarettes just to spite me? Turn

to crack?

The buzz of the oven put a pause on the couch session and my

thoughts. So what if he quit smoking because of me? It was stupid to

begin with, and he smelled a lot better without it. And if he started

smoking again, not my problem. I didn’t need another thing to feel

guilty about.

Side by side we ate pizza, drank Coke, and watched Basket Case

2. Leo laughed at all the right parts, and I caught myself watching his

face to see how he reacted to each scene. He was rather lovely. Noth-

ing made someone more attractive than knowing they liked the same

movies I did. It always disgusted me when people couldn’t tolerate

horror movies, or lumped them all into one dismissible genre, as

though they weren’t each their own work of art. Or piece of crap. But

-1—

at least watch them and decide.

0—

When Basket Case 2 ended, I asked, “So what did you think?

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Brilliant, right? The third one goes total crazytown. There’s this part

where Granny Ruth says, ‘oh Cedric, I see you’ve brought your let-

tuce.’ It’s hysterical—” Before I could continue, Leo was on top of me.

He smelled so good, like laundry and pizza and gasoline, I couldn’t

help but pull his shirt over his head. Instantly my shirt was off , too.

We attacked each other’s clothing with mindless abandon. Instinc-

tively I needed to be naked next to him, to feel nothing but his warm

skin against my own. When all our clothes were off , we shivered

together. Not from cold but anticipation.

We hadn’t known each other very long, not in the talking- to-

each- other- every- day sense. But I had watched him for years, fol-

lowed his class schedules and smoke breaks, spied on him at horror

movies and coff ee shops. He felt familiar, safe. Leo had done nothing

in his existence to make me feel bad, never touched me in a way that

was all about him. I had never known a guy like that, and I had let

them explore me, manipulate me, convince me that what I did with

them would feel as good to me as it did to them. It never had. Leo

helped me to lose myself. Not become someone diff erent but tran-

scend my life so none of the bad mattered. I wanted to be as close to

him as I could. To feel what I had never felt with another person.

Our breathing was frenetic, like we couldn’t get where we

wanted to go fast enough. His hands were gentler than I wanted, and

I grabbed one and wrapped it around my breast. I let out a sigh, and

Leo reciprocated with a sound of his own. “So you have a condom?”

I asked. Life had been too cruel in the last year not to get me pregnant,

or diseased if I wasn’t careful. I couldn’t trust my body to do the right

thing, and I didn’t want to have a conversation with Leo in the middle

of this to talk past sexual partners. I didn’t want to know. I just needed

—-1

it to happen.

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Leo rolled off me and stumbled upstairs. I quivered on the couch,

every part of my body feeling tense and needing. Footsteps pounded

down the stairs, and then Leo was on top of me again, ripping open

the wrapper with his teeth. Quickly we were completely intertwined.

Neither of us lasted very long. We couldn’t have if we tried. Nothing

I had ever done with myself compared to the grand fi nale with Leo. I

shuddered, even after he collapsed on top of me. I willed the feeling

not to end, and when it fi nally did I fell asleep almost instantly.

When I awoke, a knitted blanket covered my body. Leo, fully

clothed, sat next to me on the couch eating Doritos and watching

Basket Case 3. When he saw I was awake, he paused the movie. “I

didn’t think you’d mind if I started it since you’ve seen it a million

times. Actually, I tried to ask you but you wouldn’t wake up. Plus,

you look really cute when you’re asleep.”

“I don’t look cute.” I sneered and tried to dress myself discreetly,

but I felt Leo’s eyes on me. It reminded me of Becca, of her fl ashing

Caleb at her window the night before she started chemo. I dropped

the blanket and dressed in full view. When I fi nished, Leo wore a

huge grin. “Unpause,” I said.

“Come here,” he commanded.

I hesitated, and a ding sounded from the kitchen.

“Cookies are ready.” Leo bounded off the couch into the kitchen,

his bare feet slapping against the fl oor. When he returned, he carried

a plate of steaming chocolate- chip cookies.

My face must have objected.

“What?” he demanded. “They’re just the fridge kind. It’s not

like I broke a fucking egg. Don’t eat them then.” He looked put out.

-1—

Guilty as a bitch, I tried to hide my discomfort with his post- sex

0—

baking eff ort. “No. Cookies are good.” Apparently, that was enough

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for him, and he squeezed up to me on the couch, barely giving me

enough room to digest.

Ten minutes into Basket Case 3, I left to use the bathroom and

when I returned found a nice, spacious seat on the opposite end of the

couch. Leo seemed focused enough on the movie not to notice. When

it ended, I collected my DVDs and told him, “Thank you for having

me over.” It sounded ridiculously formal after what we did, but I

didn’t want to get all sappy and relationshippy. The smell of fresh-

baked cookies dangled around us.

Leo stood to walk me out, but I stopped him. “No, you stay on

the couch. I can fi nd my way out. Eat your cookies.”

He looked at me quizzically but didn’t make a move to rise again.

“Thanks for coming,” he said in a way that acknowledged the weird-

ness of the situation, the weirdness of me. “Hope we can do this again

sometime.”

I nodded, not knowing which part he was referring to.

“See you in school!” I waved overly enthusiastically and bolted

out the door.

As I drove home, I berated myself for showing so much vulner-

ability during sex. It should have been no big deal. Except that it was

a big deal. And sex with Leo was an even bigger deal. And the actual

sex with Leo was most defi nitely the biggest deal of all. I mean …

cookies.

Instead of doing something to make me forget the shit of my life,

I had added something to make it a trillion times more complicated.

I knew then I had to end what ever it was I had with Leo.

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CHAPTER

23

Saturday Becca felt somewhat better than she had been feel-

ing, but not enough to leave the house. We spent the day together,

camped in front of the TV, this time for a Buff y marathon.

“Maybe I should have my Make- A-Wish about Joss Whedon.

Like, meet him or something.”

“Screw that. You have cancer. Up the ante and wish for him

to create a show about a badass bounty hunter and make you the

star.”

“Yes! Opposite Jamie Bamber!” she cooed.

“Speaking of muscular men, what’s going on with you and home-

school boy?”

“I can’t believe I didn’t tell you. Yes, I can. I have total cancer

brain— but he sent me fl owers! Like, a bouquet he picked from his

garden. With a note. It’s over there.”

-1—

I hopped off the blue chair and walked over to a wonky,

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paint- dappled vase fi lled with wild- looking fl owers, although not

necessarily wildfl owers. “Where’s the note?” I asked, not fi nding it

tucked into the bouquet.

“Oh. I hid it under my mattress. Mom and Helen are nosing

around my room way too much. I think they suspect I’m smoking

pot, which I’m totally not. I wish I were. It’s supposed to work mira-

cles on nausea. Maybe you can score me some!”

“Score you some? Who talks like that?”

“I do. Now get me some pot.”

“Where am I going to get pot? You’re the one who was all toking it

up with Davis. Maybe you can call him in the army to score you some.”

“What about Leo? Could he get me some pot?”

“Leo doesn’t smoke pot. I don’t think.”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t get a quarter. Or a gram. However

they mea sure it. Ask him. For me?”

“We’ll see. Isn’t it legal now for medicinal purposes? Can’t you

just get a prescription?”

“Can you really see my mom going to Walgreens to pick me up

some joints?”

“Duly noted. Now where’s that note?”

She accepted my weak commitment to getting her pot, and dug

Caleb’s note out from under her mattress. Inside a blue envelope was a

neatly printed note.

Dear Becca,

I hope these fl owers brighten your day just a little.

If you need anything, throw a rock at my window. I

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might have something to help with the pain, too, if

you’re interested. Take care of yourself.

Wishing you well,

Caleb

“He totally wants to bone the cancer right out of you,” I told

Becca.

“You got that from the note? I thought it was much sweeter and

homeschool- y than that.”

“What did he mean when he said he might have something to

help you deal with the pain? Do you think he meant pot? Is he grow-

ing marijuana in his little homeschool garden?”

“There is no way. He’s not like that.”

“Ah, but Leo is.”

“You know what I mean.” I brushed off the insinuation that

somehow Leo was pottier than Caleb. “But do you think that’s what

Caleb might have meant?”

“It’s either pot or his penis.”

“I’d take either.”

“Should we throw a rock through his window and fi nd out?” I

asked.

“I believe it was at his window. And no, not while my mom is

home. I prefer this to remain a secret homeschool aff air.”

“That sounds pretty hot,” I acknowledged.

“Speaking of hot,” Becca transitioned, “tell me about your eve-

ning with Mr. army jacket.”

I hadn’t yet told Becca about my night with Leo. Parts of it felt

-1—

too good to share with her, as though I’d be rubbing my ecstasy in

0—

her cancerous face. And other parts of it, where I looked like a

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dumping skag, seemed too stupid to burden her with when she was

dealing with something so much bigger. Still, I knew how much

Becca loved anything sordid, and it was a somewhat momentous

occasion for me.

“Well, if you must know, I guess I kind of crossed something off

my Fuck- It List. If I had one.”

“Spill!” Becca’s eyes were voy eur is tically wide, which would

have been creepy if we didn’t already know every last perverse detail

about each other’s lives. That’s what best friends were for, and we

pushed that to the limit.

“So, yes. We had sex,” I pronounced with a cheeky smile.

“I knew it! It’s almost like I could psychically feel you doing it

last night while I was in bed!”

“My god, Becca, contain yourself.”

“Okay, not really, but I had a feeling.”

“Could it be possible that having cancer has turned you into an

even bigger perv?”

“Yes. It’s a common side eff ect. Go on. How was it?”

That always seemed to be the question you heard after someone

had sex. It was weird to me, like there was some sex scale that every-

one was supposed to be mea sur ing their experience by. People were

so diff erent in what they liked and knew and felt. Was that just the

generically polite thing to ask after sex, like saying, “I’m so sorry for

your loss” after someone died?

“I guess it was good. I mean, it was defi nitely good. Bordering

on amazing?” I was at a loss for words. So much of what I experienced

last night with Leo was purely tactile, not emotional or analytical.

Was that how you knew when sex was good? Or was there more to it

—-1

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“So what part of it was on your list? Did you do something

freaky?” She waggled what was left of her eyebrows.

“I am so renting you a male prostitute just to get you to

shut up.”

“Come on. Humor me. You’ve seen my list. What was it?”

“I had an orgasm,” I declared. “With him.”

“Ooh la la.” Becca smiled, satisfi ed that she nudged the truth out

of me.

“Yeah, but there’s a problem.”

“You’re in love with him. I knew it! You know, you’ve proven

that the endorphins released during an orgasm—”

“No, that’s not it. I just feel like it’s too much for me right now.

Does it mean we have to start calling each other and sending cutesy

texts? Go to stupid dances and exchange birthday presents and shit? I

don’t need that. I have my mom and my brothers to take care of and

school and work and you …” I trailed off . I didn’t want Becca to

think I blamed her for anything, didn’t need her to worry about me

when she had to take care of herself.

Instead of worrying, though, Becca exploded. “What are you

fucking talking about? Leo sounds like a great guy, and I don’t just

mean in bed. Don’t put the blame on me just because you’re scared to

get close to him.”

“First of all, how do you know that he’s such a great guy? And

second, I’m not scared of anything.”

“He’s a great guy because he’s done nothing dickish since you

started frisking each other. He carried me through the hall while I

puked, for fuck’s sake. And you are too scared of things. Do I have to

-1—

remind you of Ronald McDonald?”

0—

That fast- food clown scared the crap out of me with his red

+1—

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mouth and huge feet. But he wasn’t real. “Just because he hasn’t done

anything dickish doesn’t mean he’s a great guy.”

“He is, though, isn’t he?” She calmed a bit, watching me lose the

argument.

“Yeah. He’s nice. A lot nicer than I am.” I chewed a cuticle.

“That’s not too diffi

cult an accomplishment, Alex.” I smacked

her leg. “Ow! Cancer leg!”

“Always with the cancer. And was that a cancer fart you just

made?” I waved my hand in front of my face.

Becca rolled up in hysterics. “It’s not my fault! It’s the meds!”

We didn’t mention Leo for the rest of the day, but that night

I reviewed what was said and still came to the conclusion that I

needed some space from him. Everything we did together just felt too

good. Sooner or later, that would turn to shit as all good things did.

I’d rather put an end to it myself than watch it unravel or blow up in

my face.

After work the next day, I decided to fulfi ll a Fuck- It List entry—

number 9: Bake cookies for the janitor.

I chose classic chocolate chip because the recipe was right on the

bag. When it came time to mix in the chips, I lunged my hands into

the batter instead of using a mixing spoon. The small chunks of choc-

olate and batter rolled in my palm with a massage- like eff ect. I could’ve

stood there all day, until my brothers barged in and tried to fi nger

their way into the bowl.

“Stop!” I yelled, and whacked at their hands. “These are for

someone else!”

“Alex has a boyfriend,” sang the twins.

—-1

“You guys are turds. I’m making them for the school janitor.”

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“Alex is dating the school janitor,” AJ and CJ chimed in unison,

as if they shared an idiot brain.

“Get out of here.” I pushed them out of the kitchen.

They gave me an idea, though. Maybe I could soften the blow to

Leo with some cookies. A sort of let’s be friends peace off ering. And

these were real, homemade ones, not fresh from the fridge impostors.

The janitor couldn’t possibly eat all of the cookies anyway.

After the cookies fi nished baking and I doled out a few to appease

my annoying brothers, I packaged them neatly into two Ziploc bags.

One I labeled “To: Mr. Cooper, From: an appreciative student.” I

wavered over what to write on the second bag, how to address it, how

to sign it. In the end, I simply wrote, “Leo.”

He’d be fi ne. I’d be fi ne. We didn’t even know each other that

well— mostly in the biblical sense, as they say. ( Were they really

doing all that in the Bible?) I would keep myself busy with school and

work and Becca, and he’d go back to what ever it was he did before

me. He could start smoking again. I bet he wouldn’t miss me at all.

-1—

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CHAPTER

24

Armed with two bags of cookies, I picked up Becca for school.

On her head was a brilliant blue, bobbed wig.

“Attention much?” I asked as she got into the car.

“This may be my biggest moment in the spotlight,” Becca declared.

“This will be one of many, Becca. Soon you’ll star in a Holly-

wood blockbuster, date a movie star, burn out, land on a worst dressed

list, then have a miraculous comeback in some brilliant indie fi lm,

which will garner your fi rst of many Oscars. I will be the only person

you thank, of course.”

“You have this all planned out, don’t you?”

“Yes. And my career will go like this: Straight out of high school

I write the next big horror franchise, totally revolutionary. I’ll go on

to a lucrative career in writing and directing, and I’ll fall in love with

Norman Reedus.”

“Who’s Norman Reedus?”

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“You’re kidding. You must have cancer brain to forget sexy hick

Daryl from The Walking Dead. ”

“The one who always looks dirty?”

“They all always look dirty.”

“The one with the crossbow.”

“That’s him.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“If we could only get high school to hurry itself up and get out of

our way.” Before we arrived at school, Becca had me park in a dis-

creet spot on a side street. “You were right about Caleb having some-

thing for me.” She dug through her bag.

“Please tell me he did not give you his detachable penis.”

“Better,” Becca said, and pulled out a joint.

“Homeschool pot, huh? Caleb’s full of surprises. Maybe next

he’ll tell you he’s really a demigod from Asgard.”

“You want to try it?” Becca lit up the joint as if she had been

smoking professionally.

“No. Unlike you, I have no excuse for acting like a glassy- eyed

paranoid with the munchies in homeroom.”

“Don’t judge. It helps me eat.”

“I’m not judging. Just promise me that when the cancer’s over you

won’t turn into some Phish- loving pothead. I would have to divorce

you.”

“Duly noted,” she coughed.

Becca walked with her hand on my shoulder into the school. I wasn’t

sure if she needed help balancing or the extra assurance on her big

-1—

day back. I chose not to ask, pretending it was all normal. Before

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parting ways at my locker, I handed Becca the bag of cookies for Mr.

Cooper. “You can be the messenger.”

“But you made them.”

“It’s off your Fuck- It List, Becca. And, I might add, something

you could totally have done yourself. If I weren’t so trusting, I’d say

you were taking advantage of me.”

“I am, and you are one of the least trusting people I know.”

Becca walked off slowly with the bag, and I watched as a con-

cerned and adoring crowd swarmed her. “Let me know if you want

me to call Norman Reedus and his crossbow!” I called after her.

“And try not to scarf all the cookies!”

I waited to see Leo as the hallway crowd thinned, but he didn’t

show at my locker. That wasn’t unusual, since we weren’t really the

locker- meeting types. Still, we did have sex Friday night and I did

have a bag of cookies for him. Oh god, what if I didn’t have time to

explain that the bag of cookies was a consolation prize and instead he

thought I baked him cookies because of the sex? I set the bag inside

my locker and headed to fi rst period.

Leo was nowhere to be found at lunch or art, our usual meeting

times, but I was so busy fending off Becca’s cancer groupies that I

didn’t mind. Breaking up with someone, even if we weren’t techni-

cally together, was unpleasant for all involved. My guilt meter was

pretty much ratcheted to full. Any more, and it might overfl ow.

The end of the day came, and still no Leo. I guess I’d postpone

the cookie drop until tomorrow.

But tomorrow came and went, and still no Leo. I worked Wednes-

day and Thursday, and Leo didn’t visit, nor did I see him in school.

I didn’t want to call him or text him. First of all, he hadn’t called

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or texted me in all this time, which wasn’t very cool. But if I did, that

just seemed like leading him on in some way. What if he was avoid-

ing me? I was annoyed with the unknown, so I decided to do a little

detective work.

Friday morning, Becca and I got to school early. I hadn’t driven

her since Monday, since the walking and talking and human contact

seemed to knock her around more than she expected. Like a school-

loving crazy person, she was determined to try again. I was glad to

have her there to assist me in my Leo recon. She wore a red wig,

shoulder length, with thick bangs. Apparently her mom went on

a shopping spree at a costume shop and bought Becca no fewer than

seventeen wigs. They didn’t always help her feel well enough to stay

in school all day, but at least she looked good. And gave her mom an

excuse to go shopping.

We headed to the front offi

ce, and when Becca entered, it was

like the moment where the birthday girl enters her surprise party.

The secretaries screamed; the vice principal patted her back. My god.

Cancer was a strange disease. I fi nally managed to get Mrs. Novak,

the oldest and most crotchety of the secretaries, to recognize there

was someone else in the offi

ce besides Becca.

“How can I help you, dearie?”

It may have sounded sweet, her calling me “dearie,” but she only

did so because she couldn’t recall my name from the other fi fteen

hundred students, no matter how many tardies I got.

“I have a friend”— even that felt odd to say—“who’s been absent

this week, and I was wondering if you knew why.”

“What’s her name, dearie?”

-1—

“It’s a he. Leo Dietz.”

0—

Mrs. Novak typed briskly onto her computer keyboard. The

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juxtaposition of a prune of a woman and the shiny new technological

equipment was always funny to watch. She mastered it a lot better

than my parents could. Mom was always afraid that she was going to

click some button that would make the computer implode. As if they

actually built computers with a panic button.

Mrs. Novak’s expression read that she found what she was look-

ing for, and she looked up at me with sympathetic eyes. “I’m sorry,

dear, but it looks like there’s been a death in the family.”

Those words caused a physical reaction so quickly in my gut that

I had to hold on to the counter and rest my head. I fl ashed back to

when our principal came to my En glish fi nal to pull me out with the

news that there had been a death in my family. I relived that moment

all summer and every time I saw him in the halls wearing one of his

tweed suits and Bears ties.

“Do you know who?” Becca came to my rescue, asking the

question I couldn’t.

“Sorry, dearie, it doesn’t say in the computer. You can ask Prin-

cipal Donovan—”

“No thank you,” I interrupted her, and fl ed the offi

ce.

I found the nearest bench in the foyer, a modern, rectangular

slab with no back, ensuring the least amount of comfort to discour-

age lollygagging and dillydallying. I sat down and cupped my head

in my hands. Becca sat next to me and rubbed my back.

“See? This is what I’m talking about. If I hadn’t gotten involved

with Leo, then I wouldn’t even have known about this and had to

deal with it. You should not be rubbing my back.” I ripped her hand

off me.

“Alex, you can’t seriously be mad that someone in Leo’s family

—-1

died.”

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“Why not? It’s just another thing, Becca. Another layer of shit

on the massive shit parfait that is life.”

Becca snickered, and I shot her my death- ray look. “How am I

not supposed to laugh when you’re talking about a shit parfait?”

“How can you laugh right now? You have cancer! My dad is

dead! Now Leo’s dad could be dead. Or his mom. Or his brother.”

“Alex, what am I supposed to do? Sit around crying all day?

That’s not how you deal with shit. You get to be all broody and mad

and dark. Let me try to look on the bright side and laugh at parfaits.”

She snickered again, and I remembered the homeschool joint she lit

up just ten minutes prior.

That got a smile out of me, but only a tiny one. “I have to call

him.”

“You don’t have to. But unless your heart really is a lump of coal,

you should.”

“How about a text to start with?” I bargained.

“Sure,” she mused. “I really want a granola bar.”

I pulled out my phone and tried typing. All that came out were

idiotic things like, “Who died?” and “I heard there was a death in

your family. Sucks.”

“Help me!” I pleaded to Becca. She grabbed my phone.

“How about, ‘You haven’t been in school. Hope everything is

ok.’ ”

“But I know it’s not okay.”

“He doesn’t know you know, and maybe he wants to be the one

to tell you.”

“Hit send before I chicken out.”

-1—

“Done.”

0—

I waited until the last possible second to walk into fi rst period.

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No reply texts from Leo, but I couldn’t bring my phone to class to

keep checking. If a teacher heard the buzz of a text, that would be an

instant confi scation until the end of the day. I placed my phone in my

locker on top of the bag of cookies that was becoming less edible as

the week wore on. Throughout the morning, I checked my phone in

my locker every chance I got. Nothing. When lunch came around, I

decided the wait was too much for me. But I wasn’t ready to call Leo

and sound like an asshole. Instead, I visited Mr. Esrum, Leo’s creative

writing sponsor. I looked through the glass window of his offi

ce door.

Head down, he graded a stack of papers on his overfl owing desk. I

knocked on the door. He looked up over the top of his glasses and

waved me in.

“May I help you?” he asked. He wasn’t overly friendly, but

I appreciated that in a person. Leo liked him, so I guess I did, too.

“Hi. I’m a friend of Leo Dietz …” I started.

“You must be Alex! He writes about you. I probably shouldn’t

have told you that, though.” His sly smile indicated he was trying to

make me feel good with this comment, but it had the opposite eff ect.

I didn’t respond to it.

“Do you know if Leo’s okay? They told me in the offi

ce that one

of his relatives died, but they couldn’t say who. I thought you might

know.”

“Sweet of you to be so concerned.” If he only knew how sweet I

really was. “I’m afraid it was his brother, Jason. He was killed trying

to dismantle a roadside bomb. Horrible.” It was horrible. I wondered

if Leo tried to picture the death, the explosion ripping his brother’s

body apart. I knew from experience that it didn’t look anything like

in our movies. “The funeral is next Wednesday. They have to wait

—-1

until the body is shipped back.” Mr. Esrum cringed, as though he

—0

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knew he said too much. “I’m sure you could be excused if you wanted

to go.”

I hadn’t thought that far ahead that there would be a funeral.

That after I talked to Leo, there would be more.

“I’ll think about it,” I said somberly, and began backing out of

the offi

ce. “Thank you,” I mumbled.

“Alex?” He stopped me. “I’m sorry.”

I closed his offi

ce door.

Inside I was seething. What was he sorry about? To me? I didn’t

know Leo’s brother. I didn’t know what to do at all, and he was

sorry?

I ran down the hall to the only place I could think of and fum-

bled for my key ring to let me into the book closet. Once inside, I sat

down at a desk and rested my head. The book closet felt so sad and

empty without Leo. Old books that no one wanted to read, clocks

telling time for no one but us, and there wouldn’t even be an us again

if I went through with it. My body wanted to cry, to release the pain

and sadness that consumed it, but it wasn’t my sadness so I wouldn’t

allow it.

I fl ipped through pages of Bradbury until I felt calmer, more

focused. What would I have wanted from Leo if my brother died?

I knew my answer was selfi sh. It was the same thing I had always

wanted from Leo: to make me feel so good that I couldn’t remember

why I felt bad. But Leo was better than I was, and I knew it. I could

tell by the way I caught him looking at me during movies. The way

he laughed at things I said. I had used him because I needed him.

Now he probably needed me. I didn’t think I could be there for him,

-1—

for what he needed from me. But I couldn’t not talk to him. I

0—

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remembered how horrible it felt when Davis, a guy I didn’t even like

that much, didn’t call me. Just to say something. To acknowledge my

pain. The guilt had overfl owed.

I left the book room, the hallways empty, and returned to my

locker. Leo still hadn’t texted me, but I couldn’t use that as an excuse.

The guilt punched me in my stomach until I couldn’t stand it any

longer. I had to say something to him, lest be devoured by my guilt.

I found Leo’s name in my phone and called. Every ring brought me

further into panic mode. What would I say? Could I really help?

Leo’s voice mail picked up. I nearly hung up, the dread of leaving

a message overwhelming. But it was that or call again, and the weight

of my conscience would have crushed me by then.

Beep.

“Hey, Leo, it’s Alex. I heard what happened. To your brother.

And I’m, um, really sorry. Shit. That was stupid. Never mind. I mean,

let me know if you need anything. Bye.” I hung up and threw my

phone into my locker with a bang. The battery exploded out of its

compartment. Instead of helping, I said the least helpful thing anyone

could ever say to a person whose loved one died. I wished I could

erase the message, suck the word “sorry” from the En glish language,

and hack it to pieces with a rusty ax.

I ripped a cookie out of my locker and chomped on it, then spit it

on the fl oor. It still tasted good. It should have tasted horrible, been

fi lled with tiny, writhing maggots, contained high levels of toxic

sludge.

My guilty brain couldn’t handle the rest of the school day, so

I skipped out. Since the one thing that really made me forget

everything— Leo—was also the reason for my pain, I opted for a gory

—-1

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movie brain fry. In bed with my laptop, I watched as topless girls

received blades in their chests, as doppelgangers killed their good

selves, as old ladies ate their grandchildren. It was sick and wrong,

but it was all I could do. Once again, life had become too much to

handle. The pile was too great. I pulled the covers over my head and

listened to the screams.

-1—

0—

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CHAPTER

25

Saturday I worked all day, and the craziness of a nearby col-

lege football game kept Cellar busy. It would have sucked dealing

with the morning tailgater drunks, but I was lucky to be making subs

in the back. The day moved quickly, the Patron Saint of Subs doing

what she did best.

I brought subs home for dinner, and my family ate together in

the kitchen. AJ and CJ were still too young and clueless to have any

plans for Saturday nights, and I needed to spend the eve ning with

Becca before she headed for more chemo torture on Monday.

“I’ll do the dishes,” CJ declared when dinner was over, and pro-

ceeded to crumble our sub wrappers.

“You’re such a help,” Mom said sarcastically.

“So you’ll raise my allowance?” CJ hinted.

“Only if you stop raising my blood pressure.”

I heard my phone ring from my bag in the hallway, and I ran to

—-1

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get it. I assumed it was Becca asking me when I’d get to her house.

But it was Leo. I forced myself to answer it.

“Hey,” I said.

He cleared his throat. “Hey.” Silence.

“How’s it going?” Lame. Stupid. Dumbass.

“Pretty shitty. You?”

“Much less shitty, I’m guessing.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Was I supposed to be talking? When my dad died, people loved

to regale me with their memories of him. It bugged the hell out of me.

My dad was dead, and their personal stories seemed to belittle that

fact, like, “He was your dad but I knew him fi rst.” I wish people were

forced to write their stories of the dead down, so when the living

were ready to hear those stories they’d be there waiting. The only

story I had about Jason was from freshman year. He was a se nior,

and I had no idea where I was going for fi rst period. But I really had

to go to the bathroom, so I ducked into the nearest one assuming it

was a girls’. It was not. One lone pee- er straddled a urinal. I gasped

when I saw him, which caused Jason to turn around, still peeing. “The

fuck?” he asked. I said nothing and ran out, lucky no one else saw.

That didn’t feel like an appropriate story to share after someone’s

death.

“Could you come over?” Leo asked hesitantly.

I didn’t know what to say. Becca was expecting me, and she’d be

out of commission again soon. On the other hand, how could I say

no when Leo’s brother just died and he wanted me to come over? But

-1—

on the other hand— or, I don’t know, foot— my original plan was to

0—

break things off with him before his brother died. Now that death

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was involved, I only saw it as going one of two ways: I end it, or

I become his intense, committed, we can never leave each other because

we’ve survived death together girlfriend. I wasn’t sure I could handle

that. Still, I wasn’t yet the world’s biggest asshole, so I told Leo,

“Sure. I can come now if you want.”

“My parents are at my aunt’s house.” I didn’t know if he told me

because parents being home was always awkward, especially grieving

ones, or if he was telling me “my parents aren’t home.” “So can you

park on the street?” he fi nished.

“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” It was a parking thing. “See you soon.” We

hung up, and I went upstairs to change clothes. Not that I needed to look

nice, but I smelled like ham. Or maybe I wanted to look a little nice.

Show respect. Instead of a printed T-shirt, I put on a plain, black t-shirt

with my jeans and Chucks. Pretty much what I always wore, which

didn’t make it any less appropriately somber. I grabbed a few DVDs

from my collection, just in case Leo, too, liked a little gore to keep his

brain at bay. I also packed the cookies originally plated for a breakup.

Now they’d look like a gesture for the grieving, which made me seem

a lot nicer than I was. I called Becca to tell her of my change in plans.

“That’s disturbingly sweet of you, Alex. Don’t break his heart

to night, okay?”

“I’ll try not to,” I confessed.

“That’s all I can ask.”

“So what are you going to do now that your exciting plans fell

through?”

“I had this idea of inviting Caleb over.”

“Really? Is he allowed to leave his house after dark?”

“Good question. But even if he’s not allowed, he could just sneak

—-1

across our windows somehow.”

—0

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“Sorry I’ll be missing that.”

“I’m not. I mean, I am, but not if I get Caleb in my room, if you

know what I mean.”

“You mean something sexy. That’s what you always mean. Even

if you end up playing Parcheesi, it’ll be, like, strip Parcheesi.”

“Brilliant! Now I have a plan.”

“Details tomorrow, please. I promise not to ditch you again.”

“You’re not ditching me. You are performing a good deed.”

“What? I can’t hear you. The phone is breaking up.” I crackled

and fi zzed into the phone.

“Be nice!” she yelled, and I hung up.

As instructed, I parked on the street in front of Leo’s home. The

house itself looked sad, the way the drapes hung, the newspapers

piled on the driveway. I gathered the papers up and carried them to

the door with me. Leo answered soon after I rang the bell.

I had never seen Leo with stubble. He seemed like one of those

guys who didn’t grow hair quickly, and there wasn’t much on his

face. Still, he looked older, worn. I stopped myself from touching his

rusty shadow, not knowing if he wanted to be touched. He answered

the question for me by wrapping his long arms around me and my

backpack and holding on for what felt like minutes. I awkwardly

clung to the random parts of his shirt I could reach in his tight grip.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered in my ear.

“Me, too,” I said because I felt like I should. At a loss for anything

to say, I told him, “I brought cookies.”

He fi nally relinquished his grip and with a weary smile said,

“Thanks. That’s pretty thoughtful actually.”

-1—

“You sound surprised.” I had no right to be off ended, but I played

0—

the part.

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“No, it’s sweet.” He held my head in his hands and kissed my

forehead, a painfully tender gesture.

“It’s not. Really. I made them last weekend for the janitor for

Becca’s Fuck- It List,” I blurted.

“Well, that part’s sweet, I guess. So you brought me week- old

janitor cookies?” He hadn’t let go of my head yet, but leaned away to

talk. We had never been this close except when we were that close.

“I brought DVDs, too. I didn’t know what you’d feel like doing.”

“Let’s go to my room,” he suggested, and took my hand. He led

me upstairs, past even more family photos lining the walls. His par-

ents obviously adored his brother, and the photos of Jason seemed to

outnumber Leo three to one. Maybe it was just that Leo wasn’t a part

of anything, like Jason was. Fewer photographic opportunities.

Leo’s bedroom was a mess. Not just a guy, throw- dirty- socks-

on- the- fl oor mess, but scraps of paper, books, clothes, and even some

car parts were everywhere. The single window was covered with

taped- on cardboard.

“What happened?” I pointed at the window as I dropped my

backpack on his bed.

“I guess I’m not so good at expressing my feelings,” he said

mockingly.

“Looks to me like you’re quite good.”

“My mom would have preferred a nice journal entry. Or if it

were my brother, shooting a gun at an appropriate target.”

“Do you want to talk? About your brother?” I said straight from

the dead- relative handbook.

“No.” He sat on his bed and pulled me down next to him. It was

forceful but not painful. I could feel his need for closeness in the way

—-1

he grasped my arm. I was glad he didn’t want to talk because neither

—0

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did I. If we talked, I might have said too much, told him about my

dad just to make him feel better about his brother. Told him about

Becca so we could both feel alive. But I thought that would change

things between us. The more I said, the more we became something

together, and I couldn’t do that. So instead of talking, I kissed him.

At fi rst, his reciprocation was hesitant. I wondered if a cuddle was

all he craved, that maybe sex wasn’t the appropriate way for him to

grieve. But soon he was on top of me, aggressively removing my

clothes, sucking on my shoulder, squeezing my hips. I let him because

I knew it could help, because I wanted the same thing. When we were

together, inside and out, there was no death, no cancer, no past, no

future. If his parents had been home, I cringed at the thought of what

they’d have heard. We came together, so close we hardly moved.

When we fi nished, we stayed wrapped around each other for fi ve min-

utes. Ten minutes. I slept. I awakened. I slept some more. Only when

my leg started tingling did I move. Leo snorted awake and reposi-

tioned himself to remain optimally close. I backed myself against him,

and he encircled his arms around my stomach. I felt his breathing even

again and assumed he was asleep. Then, in a faint voice, his mouth

right up to my ear, he told me, “I love you, Alex.”

I jerked upright immediately, as though hit with a jolt of

electricity.

“I have to go,” I said, already hunting for my clothes.

“What? No. Stay,” he commanded, but I moved fast and was soon

tying my shoelaces.

“What the hell, Alex?” Leo sat up, the blanket covering his lower

half. “Because I said I loved you? I thought girls love that shit.”

-1—

“You’ve known me, like, a month. And if you really loved me

0—

you’d know that I’m not a normal girl.”

+1—

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“Which is exactly why I feel that way about you.”

“You’re confused. You’re grieving. You just had a massive

orgasm. You didn’t mean it.”

“I’ve been thinking it awhile, Alex. Why is it such a big deal? I

didn’t expect you to say it back. I knew you wouldn’t. But you don’t

have to be such a bitch about it.”

“Fuck you. I’m a bitch because I don’t want you to be in love

with me? Well, then you’re an asshole for being in love with a bitch.”

I stood up and slung on my backpack.

“You know what, Alex? You’re a pussy. You put up this tough

girl act, but you can’t handle anything,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I can’t handle anything? I didn’t break my fucking bedroom

window, did I? I’m handling, Leo. A lot. My dad. Becca. Now you?

How much more am I supposed to handle?” My voice cracked, my

cue to leave. No way was I going to let Leo see me cry. I turned away

from him and dug the cookies out of my backpack. “Here.” I threw

them onto his bed, not looking at where they landed, and stormed out

of his room.

“Alex!” Leo yelled from his room. I didn’t look back. He didn’t

follow. I didn’t hesitate to start my car and drive away.

Becca had asked me to be nice. Instead, I was a monster. I was all

too familiar with those.

—-1

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CHAPTER

26

Monday came with no contact from or with Leo. Becca

implored that I call him on Sunday, but I had nothing to say. Every-

thing I already said was asinine, and everything I’d say next would

probably be worse. Becca started chemo again and was so exhausted

and sick from the drugs, the only news I heard from her was a text

that said, “Take my head. Please.”

I wasn’t sure if she was trying to be funny or completely deliri-

ous, and when I texted her back, “Where should I take it?” she

didn’t respond. I was done reading her mom’s sugarcoated anecdotes

about Becca in the hospital. The last one I read freaked me out

big- time.

Becca is sicker than I had imagined, but I pray each morning and night

that God will see her through. He spoke to me, told me to take care of

-1—

myself, too, so yesterday I had a facial and manicure… .

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Did Becca’s mom actually believe God spoke to her? And what was

he saying? Go to a spa. It all seemed so backward, talking to God for

help, preening, when her daughter was wasting away in her single bed.

I had no interest discussing any of this with the stage- crew lunch

table. They didn’t know Becca’s mom at all, and what I really couldn’t

stop thinking about was Leo. But seeing as I never told the lunch

table about Leo, any talk about him would most certainly be followed

by a diatribe from Brandon about the dangers of secret lovers. I could

hear his voice proselytizing, “If you couldn’t tell us about him, then

there must be something wrong with him.”

Problem was, there was nothing wrong with Leo. I just couldn’t

deal with him— or everything that came with him before and after

the death of his brother— plus be there for Becca and my family.

That’s what I kept telling myself.

I worked Tuesday after school and pretended it didn’t bother me

that Leo hadn’t visited. Wednesday was Leo’s brother’s funeral. Mr.

Esrum told me I could go, and as much as I didn’t want to, I knew

I had to. I stopped by Mr. Esrum’s offi

ce before fi rst period, and he

gave me a pass to excuse me for the rest of the morning. My mom

could’ve written a note or called in, if she knew what happened.

I didn’t tell her.

Leo was merely a blip of a boy who was a friend on her radar,

and I feared adding death to the equation would set her off . One of

my brothers’ friends’ uncles died recently, and my mom spent the

night locked in her room.

Mr. Esrum suggested creepily that we carpool, but the idea of

sitting in a car with a teacher had Lifetime movie written all over it. I

thanked him but declined.

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I hated my outfi t. It was dressier than what I usually wore,

involving a long, black skirt, black tights, and black Mary Janes. But

the only clean shirt I had to wear was a beat- up black T-shirt. I never

went anywhere that required dressing up, and the only dress I owned

that was suitable for a funeral was the one I wore to my dad’s. There

was no way in hell I was leaving the house in that.

I drove to the church Mr. Esrum so kindly Google- mapped for

me. I had never actually been to a church. It wasn’t like my non- Jew

friends were asking me to hang out in pews on Sunday mornings.

Lining the church driveway were people, possibly veterans, holding

American fl ags. In the distance, I caught sight of an American fl ag–

covered coffi

n being removed from a hearse, military men and women

in their dress uniforms saluting.

I parked on the street and watched from my car. I hadn’t expected

so many people in uniform. I felt schlubby, inadequate, useless. When

the family, black- suit- clad Leo included, followed the coffi

n into the

church, I stayed in my car. When the rest of the funeral goers were

safely inside the building, I still didn’t budge. Who was I to listen to

people talk about Jason? I didn’t know him, except for watching him

pee. He literally said two words to me his whole life. I felt like an

intruder, the little Jewish girl who busted the shit out of Jason’s broth-

er’s heart attempting some semblance of penance by barely playing

dress- up and sitting in my car.

I thought about driving off . Going back to school, or somewhere

else until my pass wore off . I tried to remember my dad’s funeral, not so

long ago but a painful blur of torment. Did I even notice who was there?

Did I once look at the guest book to see who cared and who didn’t?

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Yes I did.

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And the one glaring omission was Davis, my supposed- to- be

boyfriend.

I wasn’t supposed to be Leo’s anything. But I didn’t want to be

his glaring omission either.

I waited in my car, deciding I could follow the family to the

burial site. Being there would be enough. It had to be enough.

After about a half hour, sweat gathering underneath my skirted

knees, people began to fi le out through the church doors. Another

group loaded the fl ag- adorned coffi

n back into the hearse. Leo, head

lowered, joined his parents in a black car. When other cars began to

follow, I joined in.

We parked in an orderly fashion along the side of the cemetery

road, uncomfortably narrow. People exited their cars onto the grass,

high heels and polished shoes sinking into the dirt. I tried to blend,

my height hiding me among the other mourners. There were more

veterans with fl ags, more soldiers in dress uniforms, so young they

barely looked older than me.

Leo and his family sat under a tent in front of the American cof-

fi n. They were tall, so I couldn’t see much more than the backs of

heads. A small group of soldiers, two of which were girls, women,

held guns and shot them into the air. I had never been that close to

real guns. The explosion of sound, then ringing of silence, shook me

twenty- one times. Then a lone soldier played taps on a trumpet. I

wondered how he got the job, if he was a trumpet player before he

went into the military or if they have music school there where the

only song they learned was taps. Did they know Jason? Was this

their job in the military? Go around to funerals and perform death

rituals? It seemed harder than going to war itself.

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Together a group of soldiers folded the fl ag from the coffi

n. I was

terrifi ed for them, that they’d mess it up, there were so many precise

steps. I thought about them studying that, too, that being part of the

military wasn’t just about going to war but dealing with what hap-

pens as a result. Was there any joy in it at all?

Would there ever be joy again?

I watched the back of Leo’s family’s heads. I remembered the

feeling of being a family member sitting in the chairs, the special

place that was the worst place to be. I wondered who watched me,

wanted to see me cry. My mom had sat next to me, sobbing uncon-

trollably. It had been my job to hand her tissues. No one gave me the

job, but I didn’t want my mom to gross people out with the pool of

snot under her nose. That’s what I thought about: my mom’s snot.

Anything to get through. And there I was at someone else’s funeral,

hoping Leo didn’t need a tissue.

As my brain spun with funerals past and present, the end of the

ser vice caught me off guard. I awkwardly tried to hide myself behind

the Dietz giants and military uniforms. I went to the funeral. Was

it necessary for me to be one of the sorry people? I couldn’t do it. I

couldn’t do anything.

As the rest of the mourners milled about, held fl ags, shook hands,

I tried my best to subtly make my way to my car— my head down,

not risking the opportunity for a forced, sympathetic look. Not that

I wasn’t sympathetic, but a look wasn’t what Leo or his family needed.

I breathed out with relief when I got to my car door undetected. I

made the mistake of looking up toward the funeral, and in that quick

second my eyes led directly to Leo, who was looking right at me. We

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were far enough away that I didn’t attempt mouthing anything to

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him, not that I had something to say. All I could off er was a slow nod

of my head. Leo did the same. Then someone engulfed him, a blub-

bery hug, and I made my escape.

Maybe it was enough that I was there. Maybe he knew I cared

even if I couldn’t talk to him. Maybe it didn’t matter at all.

I thought about skipping the rest of school that day, but I had a

quiz in history that I didn’t want to have to make up. Annoyingly I

reached the school building at the same time as Mr. Esrum. He

gave me a conspiratorial face, as though we’d just shared something

momentous. But we hadn’t shared it. Everyone was alone at a funeral.

“Lovely ser vice, wasn’t it?” he asked. Funeral small talk was so gross.

I shrugged. “Hopefully Leo will be feeling more up to it second

semester.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I’m sorry. I assumed he told you. Leo is taking the rest of the

semester off to do homebound. It’s very common for kids to need

time off when there’s a death in the family.”

I knew that all too well. Even though I didn’t.

“I’m sure you’ll see him, though.” Mr. Esrum was fucking

clueless.

“I have to get to class,” I told him, and walked as fast as I could

to the book closet. I fumbled with the key and swore repeatedly until

I managed to unlock the door. Once inside, I was lost. This tiny

space and I was lost. I knocked at a stack of Shakespeare, and it

spilled to the ground. That wasn’t enough. I kicked another stack,

and down it went. I slipped on books, which made me angrier, and

I punched a shelf. Books rained down in every direction as I kicked,

hit, shoved at any semblance of neatness and order. When nearly

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every book lay in a heap on the fl oor, I collapsed on top of them. Cor-

ners jabbed my ribs, my neck, my face, and I welcomed them. Then

the tears came. I couldn’t stop them. I imagined I was Alice through

the looking glass, fi lling the fl oor with my giant tears, the absorbent

books sopping them up until the pages fl oated along the fl oor like

soggy crackers and I fl oated away with them.

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CHAPTER

27

WINTER

Becca finished her last round of chemo yesterday. She

claimed it was at maximum toxicity, and I didn’t doubt it. It seemed

like the chemo was meant to kill everything except her. Sometimes

she could barely lift the remote, and other times her head hurt so

badly all she could do was silently cry.

School and life had been lonely, but not much diff erent than it

had been over the summer. I worked, watched movies, helped my

mom out. Talked to friends at school, but that was about it. When-

ever Becca felt up to it, I went to her house. My mom had taken up

making a diff erent casserole for each visit. I don’t think Becca man-

aged to try even one. The smell of her bedroom had evolved. In

eighth grade, Becca went through a phase after her aunt Vicki visited

the Ca rib be an and bought her a perfume called White Witch. Becca

thought this was the coolest thing ever, never mind the nose- piercing

smell. She managed to collect dozens of bottles and sprayed every-

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thing she owned with the scent. Thankfully, she fi nally moved on to

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a new smell, one of Britney Spears’s concoctions, but the White

Witch bottles still remained in a box in her closet. The White Witch

smell hung around too, and, I couldn’t be in her room without fl ash-

ing back to innocent dances and early curfews.

Her room smelled nothing of White Witch anymore. The

smell was a combination of disinfectant, Jell- O, and puke. I won-

dered if Becca could smell it. Or if her nose was immune to it, like

how grandparents have an old person smell that I’m sure they’re not

aware of.

Some days the smell in Becca’s room was so bad I almost sug-

gested pulling out the old box of White Witch and coating the air

with it.

I watched helplessly as she dealt with the side eff ects: constant

nausea, puking, not being able to walk, not being able to see, not to

mention the tubes and holes and weight loss and not wanting to eat.

Why did this happen? To Becca, and to anyone? Why can someone

get so sick that the only way to get better is to make them more sick?

It’s like the world’s longest exorcism. It doesn’t make sense that I can

chat with someone live on a tiny screen, that governments spend bil-

lions of dollars on war and mayhem, that actors make millions of dol-

lars to just look pretty and skinny, yet no one can fucking fi gure out

how to cure cancer without torturing people.

The other day Becca’s mom said, “Thank God” about some-

thing. It wasn’t anything important enough to remember or anything

big enough to warrant divine intervention, but she felt the need to

thank God, something she’d been doing a lot more of recently. Becca

didn’t hesitate to tell her mom, “I don’t believe in God.”

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“What?” Her mom looked shocked, uncomfortable, as if saying

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she didn’t believe in God would somehow make Becca cursed. If she

could be more cursed than she already was.

“I don’t believe in God,” she repeated.

“I suppose that’s understandable, though I’m sure you don’t

mean it,” Becca’s mom conceded. “I’m going to believe in Him and

keep praying for you.”

“That is just wrong, Mom.” Becca’s mom had hit a nerve. “What

kind of god do we have to beg to make us well? What kind of god

allows people to get this sick? And not just get sick, but have months

of pain and misery? Is it some kind of vengeance? A lesson He’s try-

ing to teach me?”

“God gives what you can handle.”

“So it’s a test? Let’s see how much shit Becca can endure, so she

can come out a better person on the other end? Was I that bad a per-

son to begin with?”

“It’s not just what you can handle, Becca. And God doesn’t con-

trol everything, but He can help us get through.”

I wondered if Becca’s mom had always been this religious and I

hadn’t noticed, or if this was a direct correlation to watching her

daughter disintegrate.

“I don’t want to believe in a god who can help me because I can’t

believe in a god who would let something like this happen in the fi rst

place.”

Becca’s mom was shaken. Maybe she was holding on to the belief

that God would save Becca. That if she prayed long enough and hard

enough, she’d get better.

I didn’t know what to believe anymore. Here I was, surrounded

by death and sickness, guilty for the tiniest crumbs of plea sure

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I allowed myself: ice cream, horror movies, and the selfi shly selfi sh

act of fi nding happiness in making Becca laugh. Where did God fall

into any of that? I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want the

blame, or the hope, to be on someone else. So I carried on, waiting

for what ever was to come, with or without God’s help.

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CHAPTER

2 8

I hadn’t seen Leo since the funeral. I told myself he needed

space, that he wouldn’t have taken a semester off if he wanted to be

around people. I tried to convince myself that somehow we were dif-

ferent; that my absence was appreciated instead of begrudged. But

really, why would he want me around after the way I treated him?

I went with that, but I thought about him all the time. When a

movie came on TV that I thought he’d like, or I read about what

celebrities were coming to Dead of Winter Con next month. I wanted

to call, or at least text. Once I managed to force my fi ngers onto my

phone.

Got a second copy of Frankenhooker. You want?

Two painful days later, I heard back from him.

No

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Like I said, ouch.

Becca tried to keep things light, when she could willingly move

her body. We made a list of things to do at Dead of Winter Con, and

we planned on going, no matter what state she was in. I told her if she

couldn’t walk, I’d push her around in a shopping cart.

“What if I throw up?” she asked.

“Who would know that was real and not just some realistically

sick- ass costume?”

Just one day earlier, Becca got the news everyone was waiting

for: chemo was offi

cially over, at least until after radiation and the

results came back.

Then why was she still so fucking sick? Instead of cancer being

over, Becca was in total, all- consuming pain. Her joints ached, her

head hurt, and the nausea was just as bad as it ever was. What ever

they used to kill the cancer was beating the shit out of her insides

nonstop. Her meds made her groggy and incoherent, and she still

seemed to be in so much pain.

The last time I visited, packing Mom’s patented tuna noodle cas-

serole, she slept most of the time, except when she woke up to whim-

per. I stayed out of obligation and guilt, not because I liked it. There

was nothing I could do for her, and even being next to her didn’t mat-

ter when she was unconscious. Her mom came into her room every

few minutes, and each time she told me, “You’re such a good friend,

Alex.” It made me feel worse. Especially the fi fth time she added,

“God bless you.”

The only thing that lightened my mood was reading the love

notes Caleb had been writing to Becca for the last couple months. He

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was a smart guy and an old- fashioned romantic.

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My dearest Becca,

Today I chose to study the fi lms of Lillian Gish. She

reminds me of you, and I envisioned you on the screen

someday as bright a star as there ever was. My sister is

still in her baking unit, and she made some chocolate-

chip cookies using coriander. I’ll make sure to drop some

off. I don’t know if you can eat them now, so she froze

some for you when you can.

Looking forward to our next visit,Caleb

If a guy wrote me a letter like that, I’d be embarrassed to the

point of burning the paper. But it suited Becca. She deserved to fi nd

some joy in the shitty quagmire of her life.

During the quietude of her bed rest, I tinkered with the idea of

getting in touch with Leo again. It killed me that he ate away my

brain like that. Maybe it was just the loneliness of being next to some-

one who couldn’t even talk to me, who had stacks of love notes tucked

under her mattress. But she deserved those love notes. I deserved the

loneliness. It was self- imposed, after all.

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CHAPTER

2 9

The holidays came and went. They were the fi rst without

my dad, and therefore had more sadness and refl ection than anticipa-

tion and celebration. Becca and I exchanged gifts aboard her bed. She

gave me some hardbound classic Tales from the Crypt Comics, and I

bought her a Battlestar Galactica t-shirt reading, “I ♥ Fat Apollo.” It

was a hilarious misstep on the part of the show’s creators, making the

usually buff Apollo into a doughy mess to show the passage of time

(other characters just got new hairdos). Even better was how quickly

and eff ortlessly he got back into shape. And even better than that: A

shirt was created to commemorate the gaff e.

It would be the perfect shirt for Becca to wear to Dead of Winter

Con, where none other than Jamie Bamber, aka Lee “Apollo”

Adama, would be appearing in the autographs area. That would

fi nally give us a chance to get back to the Fuck- It List, which had

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fallen into obscurity soon after Leo’s brother’s death. Except for one

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“I did it!” Becca announced over Skype one afternoon. She was

having a good day and spent almost the entire time at school “playing

a norm” as she liked to call it. By the time I came home from school,

she was back in her pj’s.

“Did what?” I assumed it had something to do with one of her

video games, which she had become increasingly addicted to thanks

to too many hours a day in bed.

“Number eleven on the list.”

“Some of us don’t have the list memorized,” I reminded her.

“Here’s a hint: It’s one of the fi rst ones you did. By yourself.

Something I had never done by myself.”

“Ooooh. Number eleven.” I recognized it now as the masturbat-

ing number. “Mazel tov,” I congratulated her.

“It just felt like the right time. No one was home, and Caleb left

a note by my door. I imagined him sneaking in my window.”

I interrupted her, “Becca, the beauty of number eleven is that I

don’t need to know what you did or what you thought about. But

I’m happy for you. See? Even cancer can’t stop you from touching

yourself.”

“Fuck cancer!” she exclaimed.

“Fuck cancer!” I reiterated.

A few weeks later, Becca would have the chance to accomplish

number 21: Touch Jamie Bamber’s butt. I couldn’t wait. Dead of

Winter Con was a decent- sized horror/sci- fi convention fi lled with

panels of B-grade (or lower) celebrities sharing their memories of

working on mostly defunct TV shows and straight- to- DVD movies,

with plenty of vendors selling their gory wares. Some years there was

no one I’d pay money to see, but I still loved the atmosphere. People

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dressed up in homespun costumes, some based off movie characters,

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others pulled from their sick and twisted minds. My kind of people.

This year I’d wear my usual clothes, since they were already zombie-

based, and I’d add some blood and dangly bits to my arms and face

to make it realistic. Becca planned on wearing her Fat Apollo t-shirt,

in hopes of charming the pants off Jamie Bamber. Not literally, of

course, although number 21 didn’t specify whether or not his butt

had to be naked.

I hadn’t had something like this to look forward to in months.

Not since the Army of Darkness showing with Leo.

Leo.

I wondered if he would go to Dead of Winter Con.

I wondered if I’d see him.

I wondered if he still loved me.

I tried to forget he said that. It seemed unreal, a spontaneous

proclamation born from ejaculation and mourning. I told myself over

and over that he didn’t mean it. And then I berated myself for even

thinking about it. For thinking about him. I’d catch myself, in the

early morning times when I was only half awake, when I allowed

myself to feel good, thinking of Leo. I remembered what it felt like to

be together, how being with Leo felt better than being alone. I relived

his touch with my touch, but it wasn’t the same. I’d hate myself in the

shower afterward. It was just easier to hate myself.

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CHAPTER

30

The weeks before Dead of Winter Con, Becca began feeling

a little better. She was still tired, still in some pain, but her hair was

sprouting the tiniest bit so nothing could get her down. She started

radiation, a pro cess not nearly as bad as chemo.

“I still feel like shit, though,” Becca confi ded one afternoon from

her bed while I sat in her blue chair. She wore a pair of pajamas cov-

ered in pictures of sushi, some of her cancer swag. Every time I saw

her she was in a diff erent pair of pajamas. She swore she had more pj’s

than regular clothes. “And check this out.” Becca lifted her shirt to

show me a pattern of black lines drawn on her chest.

“If you wanted a tattoo, I could’ve done something cooler than

that,” I told her.

“They drew them on me at the hospital so every time I have

radiation I’m lined up in the exact same spot. It seems so unmedical,

like there should be more to it than just pulling out a permanent

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“What would happen if they didn’t align you correctly?” I asked,

picking at a box of chocolates dropped off by her homeschool

loverboy.

“They’d burn up my organs, I guess. In the olden days they’d

actually tattoo the marks on your body.”

“The olden days before Sharpie?”

“Yes. The Sharpieless days of yore.”

It was fun hanging out with Becca like that, but everything was

diff erent. Just looking at her was a constant reminder of the past four

months. Her hair, of course, but even when she lifted up her shirt I

could see how thin she’d gotten. So many months of nausea killed her

appetite, and the combination of the illness, drugs, and malnutrition

zapped her energy. Nearly every time we watched a movie together,

Becca fell asleep. I didn’t know how she— how we— would make it

through Dead of Winter Con. Becca’s mom rented a wheelchair a

month ago, but Becca refused to use it. It was funny to watch Becca’s

vanity randomly show its pretty little head. She didn’t seem to mind

the baldness and wig wearing, but when it came to her standing on

her own two feet she was adamant. “I don’t mind leaning on someone

if I’m having trouble,” she told me. “In fact, I have to admit I love the

attention. One day at school, Edgar Abbott practically carried me

out of French and down the hall.”

“Who’s Edgar Abbott?” I asked.

“He’s on the football team. I think he may be a quarterback. Or

a halfback.”

“It’s all jock to me,” I said.

“He smelled surprisingly good,” she mused.

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“Don’t let Caleb hear you,” I warned her.

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“Caleb could crush Edgar Abbott. Not that he would. Caleb’s a

pacifi st. Next year he’s thinking about joining the peace corps,”

Becca said wistfully. “I might join him.”

“Say what? Is this your cancer brain talking?” I walked over to

her and spoke loudly into her ear. “Becca, are you in there? This per-

son says she wants to join the peace corps.”

Becca shoved me with a frail hand. “I didn’t say it was defi nite,

but he got me thinking. The cancer got me thinking, too. If I live,

maybe I should do something more important with my life than pre-

tending to be someone else for loads of money.”

“(A) You mean when you survive, and (B) there is nothing more

important than starring in one of my horror masterpieces. It’s on

your Fuck- It List, remember? I didn’t see anything about saving other

people’s lives.”

“Your capacity for empathy never ceases to amaze me.”

I knew Becca was joking, making fun of me for sounding callous.

But part of me knew she was absolutely right. The one thing I rarely

expressed was empathy.

Which brought me back to Leo.

“I was thinking of inviting Leo to Dead of Winter Con. Well,

maybe not inviting him, but seeing if he was going.”

“I think that would be a fi ne idea.” Becca pursed her lips, hold-

ing in words she didn’t think she could say.

“What?” I demanded.

“Nothing. I said I thought it was a fi ne idea, and I do. You should

do it right now.”

“Like, right now?” I asked as though it were Becca’s decision.

“I’m not getting any younger.”

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“I can tell. You’re starting to talk like an old broad.”

“This old broad says you need to call him ASAP. My bunions are

killing me.”

“Would you settle for a text, Madame Bunions?”

“Only if I get to read it.”

“I’ll get your bifocals.”

I stared at my phone for a minute before I concocted this brilliant

work of art:

Hi. R u going to Dead of Winter Con? If so, I’ll c u there. This is

Alex, btw.

I stupidly hit send before I showed it to Becca, and when she read

it afterward she berated me for it.

“Really? You haven’t talked with the guy in months— after you

had sex with him AND his brother died AND he loves you, and

that’s your reconciliation text?”

“I texted him another time, too.” I shrugged. “I didn’t think it

was so bad.”

“You could have at least asked him how he was doing.”

“That was implied,” I explained.

“I fail to see where that implication was.”

“Now I’m on CSI? I said hi. No one ever bothers with that in a

text.”

“Now I see. How could I have missed all the concern and love hid-

den in those two little letters?” Becca started laughing, which started

her coughing.

“You totally deserve that cough. The text wasn’t that bad.” I

-1—

scowled.

0—

“You’re right.” She sipped from a cup near her bed, and her

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cough eventually subsided. “You could have asked, ‘How’s your

dead brother?’ ”

“If I’m that awful, why are you even friends with me?” I stood

up, hurt by the coldness Becca implied.

“Hey, Alex, sorry. You don’t usually seem to care about being

a coldhearted bitch.”

“Not making this better,” I noted.

“That’s where so much of your charm is, Alex. It’s one of the

reasons I love you. And probably why Leo does—” I glanced hard at

her. “Did. Maybe. Well, he liked you at least, right?”

“I guess,” I conceded.

Could he ever again? Was that what I wanted?

A text buzzed on my phone. Becca and I locked eyes. “Open it!”

she prodded.

It was a reply from Leo. One word.

Going

“What the fuck does that mean? Was he planning on writing

more and sent it by accident?” I shook my phone, willing it to spit out

extra words.

“I think it means he’s going,” Becca suggested.

“He didn’t say anything about seeing me.”

“He didn’t say anything about your thoughtful use of the word

‘hi’ either. Maybe he was in a hurry.”

“Maybe he was in the middle of fucking some other girl.” My

brain went to a terrible place.

“Alex, I’m sure he wouldn’t stop having sex just to answer your

text. And besides, the two of you were never just fucking.”

“I don’t feel any better,” I admitted.

—-1

“He bothered to write you back. That’s something.”

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“You’re reaching, Becca.”

“Maybe. But what’s wrong with that? If we don’t reach for

things, think of how much we’ll miss.”

Then Becca fell asleep.

Her words were generically profound, like a Hallmark card I’d

skim over to get to the check. But they made sense, too. How far I

was willing to reach for Leo, I just didn’t know yet.

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CHAPTER

31

The week leading up to Dead of Winter Con, Becca was up and

down. Radiation every morning at 6:30, then she pushed herself to go

to school. She said she wanted to feel normal, which I got and I didn’t.

She was hardly normal, with her fuzzy hair and extra- special treatment

from everyone around her. But it had been months of bed rest, puke,

and pajamas, making school a diversion. Wednesday I was supposed to

drive her home, but she had to be picked up early by her mom. Becca

fell asleep on her desk in French class. Her teacher let her sleep the

entire time. I was surprised at how kind everyone was to Becca. So

many shitty things happen to so many people; somehow cancer is the

thing that made other people change their behavior. Maybe it was that

Becca’s illness had been so visible; not only in her diminished physical

appearance, but in the gaping hole of her absence, too. I quelled the

bit of jealousy I had, trying not to remember how few people acknowl-

edged my dad’s death when I came back to school after the summer.

—-1

Becca stayed home the rest of the week by order of her mom,

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who gave her the choice of going to school or Dead of Winter Con.

She also off ered her a home visit from Rabbi Schulman, but Becca

feigned a headache to get out of it. Her mom had been spending a hell

of a lot of time with Rabbi Schulman. Becca didn’t mind, since it

meant her mom was out of her (minuscule) hair and Caleb could

homeschool Becca on all kinds of matters. It pissed me off , though,

that her mom would be gone so much. What if Becca were to die?

And her mom missed out on all of that time with her, just to ask God

that she live? Nothing made sense.

Thursday afternoon, I received a text from Becca.

#22 completed

Becca took a bath at someone else’s house.

So you’re breaking and entering, I texted.

Is that what we’re calling it now? ;) Caleb’s house has very

small bathtubs, FYI.

I wanted to be happy for Becca, as jazzed about her sexual exploits

as she always was for mine. But did that mean my time with the list

was over? That she didn’t need me anymore? If she didn’t, who did?

Try not to get stuck, I texted, and tried to laugh at the possibili-

ties of misinterpretation. But nothing felt funny when I was laughing

at it alone.

Friday morning, I made another Fuck- It List attempt.

Today is #20.

You’re dressed like a prostitute?

-1—

Yes.

0—

How?

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I’m wearing hoop earrings.

Whore.

At lunchtime, I wasn’t in the mood for the ultra- vapid conversa-

tion, so I took my hot pretzel and Coke and snuck my way down the

quiet halls.

Pulling my key ring out of my pocket, I gingerly inserted the

key Leo had given me, my fi rst and only present from him. The door

to the book closet clicked open, and I entered the forbidden space.

It was a shithole.

The last time I had been there was after Leo’s brother’s funeral,

and I had managed to nicely destroy any semblance of order the

room held. I picked up the fi rst book my shoe hit.

Fahrenheit 451.

I reached over and placed it on a shelf.

One down, thirty trillion to go.

I worked this way through the lunch hour, then, upon hearing

the bell ring and the hallway fi ll with students, decided to stay

through art. Then calculus and history.

When the bell rang signaling the end of the day, I continued to

work. I felt like Bastian, up in the attic of his school in The NeverEnd-

ing Story. If only I had a sandwich to nibble on, so I could say to

myself, “No. Not too much. We still have a long way to go… .”

The fl oor was cleared and the shelves fi lled around six o’clock. I

felt not only a sense of accomplishment, but that somehow putting this

room back together signifi ed something great. Not necessarily great

meaning good; I wasn’t optimistically there yet, but great in that there

were possibilities. Even good ones. Which was new to me and scarier

—-1

than the prospect of living on top of an Indian burial ground.

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CHAPTER

32

Becca had a break from radiation for the weekend, and she

was determined not to let her wobbly legs stop her from achieving

her butt- touching dreams.

“The plan is,” she explained on the drive to Dead of Winter

Con, “we scope out the joint fi rst. Get the lay of the land. We’ll fi nd

Jamie Bamber’s booth, see how long his lines are, and assess the most

optimum time for an autograph. When that time comes, I’ll play up

the cancer angle and lure him out from behind his table for a close

encounter picture. Then, while you pretend you don’t know how to

work my camera, I’ll put my hand on his butt.”

“Why do I have to pretend that I can’t work a camera?”

“It adds tension. It’s how I envisioned it.” Becca vibrated with

excitement in her bubblegum pink wig.

“I hope you don’t freak him out,” Becca added, looking me over.

-1—

I woke up extra early to ensure my blood was distributed in a gro-

0—

tesque, yet natural, fashion.

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“Me freak him out? This is expected. It’s a horror convention.

I’m not the one grabbing genitalia.”

“I’m not grabbing genitalia! Butts are not genitalia!”

“Calm down. I just wanted to use the word. I didn’t know you’d

have an aneurysm over it.”

Speaking of aneurysms, I also spent a good portion of the morn-

ing and previous night pre- enacting scenarios of running into Leo.

What if he ignored me? Pretended he didn’t know who I was?

What if he was with another girl?

We arrived at the convention center and followed the herd of

costumed kindred spirits into the hall. The walls were lined with ven-

dors selling everything from bootlegged DVDs to homemade dead

babies. D-level celebrities with huge, fake boobs attempted to lure

lonely fanboys in for a photo and fi fty- dollar autograph. We watched

a twenty- something girl break down crying after meeting the star of

Gremlins. The place was a freak show, and I reveled in it. The spirit of

horror fi lled me, and I immediately plunked down forty dollars for

a Children of the Corn DVD, signed by Malachai himself. “You were

totally scary,” I told him. He thanked me, although as I walked off I

wondered if that was a compliment. He was mostly scary because of

how naturally creepy- looking he was.

Becca’s mom asked me to watch over her, make sure she sat

down to rest even before she said she needed to. We made a habit of

popping a squat at every corner of the hall, where others congregated

to sift through their swag. People- watching at cons was one of my

favorite parts of the experience. Grown men who spent their days

as personal bankers changed into Rick Grimes and Freddy Krueger.

Mild- mannered secretaries shed their clothes and showed off their

—-1

stretch marks to the world. Nobody judged. My favorite costume at

—0

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the con was a man wearing a psycho rubber baby mask, a tiny t-shirt,

and a giant diaper, his hairy legs and oversized white gym shoes add-

ing to the dementedness. I had Becca take a picture for my Facebook

profi le, and we moved on to the Fuck- It List quest.

No Leo sightings yet.

Jamie Bamber’s booth was in a row amid other actors from hor-

ror and sci- fi TV shows. I usually had to look at the signs behind

them to fi gure out who they were, if I recognized them at all. Jamie

looked diff erent from the military Apollo, even after his character

turned into a politician and wore a pin- striped suit and longer hair.

Bamber’s con hair was wild and outgrown, as though to prove to the

world that he was nothing like his somewhat tight- assed TV charac-

ter. Of course, that show ended years ago, so maybe he grew his hair

out for a role. I always wondered what it was like for actors signing at

cons; was it a happy occasion, greeting fans, or did they feel pathetic

in some way that their fame was stuck in a past life? What if I made

one horror fi lm that everyone loved, and then a bunch of movies most

people hated? Would I be okay, signing Blu- ray covers at horror

conventions, only to be remembered for my single triumph? Hell

yeah, I would. It’s better than not being remembered at all.

We camped out on a fl oor spot with optimum Bamber vision and

pulled out the snacks Becca’s mom forced us to bring. Becca was so

enchanted with Jamie Bamber that she missed her mouth every time

she attempted to insert a pretzel stick. “He’s cute, right? Defi nitely

not Fat Apollo.” Bamber looked to be in excellent shape, wearing a

t-shirt that showed off his eff orts at the gym. “Why is his line so

short?” Becca’s eyes remained fi xed on Bamber.

-1—

“Chewbacca’s next to him. That’s hard to compete with. Plus,

0—

Chewbacca’s like two feet taller than him.” One thing you learned

+1—

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going to cons is that most celebrities, unless they were playing a

Wookie, were much shorter than they appeared on screen.

“When there are two people in line, we’ll go.” I was about to ask

her how she chose that arbitrarily small number, but she sprung into

action mode instantly and announced, “Two! There are two! It’s go

time!” I helped her off the fl oor, and she adjusted her wig and I ♥ Fat

Apollo t-shirt before we stepped into his line. Becca gripped my hand

as we waited and watched him smile for the fans in front of us. He

looked rather darling, and I was sucked in, thinking of the countless

hours I’d spent watching him on TV. Soon it was our turn, and I was

glad this was Becca’s show. She deserved something this great in her

life. Becca strode right up to Bamber’s table, and drew his attention

to her shirt with a fl ourish of her hands.

“I will never live that down,” he laughed. I had completely for-

gotten he was British.

“You do an amazing American accent,” I told him as Becca

fi shed some money out of her wallet. Another hilarious aspect of cons

was how you were talking to someone you admired, but at the same

time you had to ask them how much money it cost to pay for their

autograph. Jamie was smart and had a handler to take the money.

Some celebrities were alone at their booths and looked mortifi ed

every time they had to interrupt a gushing fan to collect cash. I stood

back and let Becca charm him with her crazy fangirl chatter. He

politely smiled and said things to make her laugh. When it came time

for the picture, it was Jamie who asked if Becca wanted him to come

around his table. Some celebrities would only lean over a table, so the

pictures turned out to be you leaning backward against a table with

a celebrity torso next to you. The cool ones came out, put their arms

—-1

over your shoulders and acted like your best friend for thirty

—0

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seconds. I played my part of bumbling photographer. “Is this where I

press?” I asked, like a ninety- year- old woman. Becca took her cue,

and I watched as she slowly, subtly moved her hand into position.

“One, two, three!” I cried, and just as the picture snapped, Becca

landed her hand on Jamie Bamber’s ass.

“Whoa!” He jumped forward. I took picture after ass- groping

picture to capture the hilarity of the moment. Stunned but not angry,

Jamie looked at her in a jokingly scolding manner.

Becca gave her sweetest grin and told him, “Sorry! I have cancer

and just had to do that.” He looked confused, so she rambled on, “I

wrote this bucket list, but we called it the Fuck- It List, and one of the

things on it was to touch your butt and I never really thought I’d have

the chance to do it especially because I got cancer but then you were

here and I’m in radiation now and thank you—” I pulled her away as

she fi nished. “You have a really solid butt!”

Jamie, ever the British gentleman, nodded a “you’re welcome,”

and we ran off . I was laughing so hard that I didn’t realize Becca had

sat down to rest somewhere behind me. I stopped walking and turned

around to sit with her. Together, we panted and laughed and fl ipped

through the pictures to relive the moment we just had. I hadn’t

noticed that two Chuck- wearing feet approached me until someone

tapped my heel with his. I looked up, and there was Leo.

-1—

0—

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CHAPTER

33

“Hey.” Leo nudged my shoe. I stood up so his towering height

was a bit less towering. Not seeing him for so long, I thought I was

over the magnetic quality his body had with mine. Not so much. He

looked really good. “You shaved your head,” I noted, and reached up

to feel it. He only slightly recoiled.

“We match.” Becca smiled. Leo forcibly smiled back.

“I’m Brian, by the way. Thanks for introducing me, bro.” Leo’s

friend extended a hand for me to shake, then down to Becca. He

didn’t go to our school, but I had seen him with Leo once or twice on

stalking expeditions. And Jason’s funeral. He wore a slight pompa-

dour in his dyed black hair and carried a friendly rockabilly vibe.

“That’s a good look for you.” Leo reached for my face, and it took

me a melty second to realize he was talking about my fake blood. He

touched a dangling bit of fl esh, but none of my own. I smelled ciga-

rettes on his hand.

—-1

“Thanks. It’s not real, in case you were worried,” I told him.

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“Worry about you? I’m sure you can handle yourself,” Leo

quipped. I didn’t know if he thought that was a good or bad thing.

“Did you guys go to any panels?” asked Brian. The conversation

turned lighthearted, or as lighthearted as one can get when talking

about Deathbox 4. I tried to stop myself from staring at Leo. Had he

really said he loved me once? Where would we be now if his brother

hadn’t died? If Becca didn’t have cancer? If my dad hadn’t died?

Would he have stayed a distant object of my imagination? Tragedy is

what brought us together. And then pushed us apart.

Where were we now?

I’ve heard countless people say bad things happen in threes. That

never made sense to me. Shit happened all the time; how could any-

body determine where the pattern of three ended and the next one

began? Maybe Leo’s brother dying had nothing to do with my fi rst

two bad things. Maybe Becca was going to die. Or my mom. Or one

of my brothers. Or both. If both of them died, did that count as one of

three bad things or two?

No, I didn’t believe in the “cycle of three bad things” any more

than I believed in love at fi rst sight and giving people the benefi t

of the doubt. Love was never going to be something you could fi nd in

the split- second glance of judgment we make on people we don’t

know, and if people seemed like they were up to no good, chances are

they were. My dad taught me that.

Just because three horrible things happened, that didn’t mean

more weren’t to come. Better to protect yourself than kick yourself

later for being an asshole. Now, that was something I believed in.

“Can someone help me up?” Becca asked, and before I could

-1—

reach for her, Brian extended his hand. While they made with the

0—

niceties, Leo and I looked at each other, on the verge of words. I must

+1—

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have opened my mouth fi ve times while trying to think of something

to say. We looked like two fi sh in an aquarium.

I studied Leo’s face, the straight lips, the too- sweet freckles, his

translucent eyelashes. In that moment I hated myself for not trying to

be there for him.

Fish mouth again.

Brian broke the underwater moment. “You guys want to come to

the screening of Reanimator with us?”

“I’m sure they’re busy,” Leo informed him.

“Yeah,” I agreed out of obligation. “We can’t. I promised Becca’s

mom I’d bring her home for dinner. She’s hardcore about making

her eat her vegetables.” I looked at Becca, whose mom told her to

stay out as long as she wanted.

“Yeah,” she presented her best disappointed face, always the

actress. “Maybe another time?” she asked.

“Sure.” Brian smiled, googly eyed. If he only knew Becca was

attached to a homeschool beefcake.

Not knowing how to say good- bye, nor really wanting to, I

blurted, “Want to get coff ee sometime?” at Leo, a line direct from the

list of top asshole- isms.

“Maybe,” Leo answered, kind of sounding like an asshole himself.

“That would be great,” Becca pushed. That he would maybe

want to get coff ee with me? I felt like I was morphing into one gigan-

tic asshole as we spoke. Like, literally a human- sized hole in an ass.

“Better get in line so we can get seats. Nice meeting you guys.”

Brian winked. I always said never trust a winker.

Or anyone else for that matter.

Leo and Brian walked away, and Becca and I headed for my car.

—-1

“What happened?” she asked.

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“What do you mean?” I played dumb. Or maybe I just was.

“That was your big chance to charm Leo back into your evil

clutches, and you totally choked.”

“I didn’t choke. He didn’t want to see me. Or watch Reanimator

with me. Or drink hot caff einated beverages with me.” I stomped

ahead of Becca, who called after me, “Slow down!”

I stopped and waited for her to catch up. “I need to sit down,” she

said. We plopped down on a parking block, so Becca could rest.

“I fucked this up, didn’t I? Not just today, but, like, forever.”

“Possibly not. Leo did say maybe. He could have fl at- out said no

and called you a twat.”

“Leo has never used the word ‘twat’,” I guessed.

“Well, more people should.”

“Do you think I’m a twat?”

“Not all the time.” I fl icked Becca’s arm. “Watch it. I bruise eas-

ily. What I meant was, maybe you are a twat sometimes, but Leo

already knew that. Maybe he understands. I mean, you just lost your

dad, and then his brother goes and dies. People deal with death in all

sorts of weird ways.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed, Davis Humper.”

“Did you seriously just use the word hump?”

“Don’t forget Davis.”

“Wish I could.”

That night, as I replayed every detail of my debacle with Leo,

my phone buzzed on my nightstand. It was a text. From Leo.

Yes to coffee. Tomorrow?

-1—

Fuckbaskets. What made him change his mind? Was this his oppor-

0—

tunity to tell me off ? To make up? To introduce me to his fi ancée?

+1—

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I didn’t want to wait and give him a chance to change his mind.

Have to work tomorrow.

After work

OK. 7:30 @ Brew Town?

OK

I waited for more texts, felt like I should say something else but

lacked the words to express anything. What would I express if I had?

I wished my mom had homeschooled me, so I had the gall to write

sappy love notes like Caleb. But Leo wasn’t the sappy love- note type.

I didn’t think. Whether or not he was, I wasn’t. I couldn’t even handle

those three little words.

I handled liking the guy who said them even less.

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CHAPTER

34

I was a jangly ball of stress all day at Cellar. Too many

hunks of turkey and plops of mayonnaise missed their bread, and my

feet were surrounded by casualties.

“Are you on the rag or something?” accused Doug. “You’re sur-

lier than ever today.”

“Maybe. Want me to pull out my bloody tampon and show you?”

That shut him up. Guys seemed much better equipped at handling the

hypothetically hormonal aspect of menstruation than the actual act.

My shift ended at seven. Brew Town was only two stores away,

and I used the extra half hour to change out of my subby shirt

and into one that didn’t smell quite as much like roast beef. At 7:25,

I ascended the stairs and walked out the door of Cellar. There, two

doors down, leaning against the storefront with a cigarette in his

hand, was Leo.

-1—

He wore a heavy black down jacket and a black winter hat over

0—

his buzzed hair. He looked around nonchalantly, either not in a rush

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to fi nd me or really just taking in the sights. When our eyes met, he

brought the cigarette to his lips, took a long drag, blew out the smoke,

then stamped out the rest of the cigarette with his shoe. It could have

been a calculated move to show me that he was smoking again, that

I had no infl uence over him. Or maybe he started smoking again

because of other reasons. Because the world was oh- so- far from

revolving around me.

I approached Leo, and he eased himself out of his window lean.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” he repeated. He held the door open for me with his back,

hands in his pockets. Without taking off his coat, he slid into a table

near the window.

“What do you want?” I asked, standing next to him. He looked

at me, almost annoyed. “Coff ee?” I pushed.

“Oh. Large. Black.”

I didn’t bother asking him which brew. I guessed that wasn’t

something he cared much about. At the counter, I ordered him a

medium roast and hoped it was the right choice. I selected a mocha

for myself. When the barista asked for the name on my order, I told

him, “Ash,” the name of Bruce Campbell’s character in the Evil Dead

movies. I thought maybe it would soften the situation. I waited by the

counter for the drinks, and when the barista called, “Ash,” I looked

over at Leo for approval. He watched passersby at the window. I was

pissed at myself for bothering.

“Your black coff ee.” I delivered the cup in front of Leo, drawing

his attention back inside. I shook off my coat but left on my gloves,

fi ngerless ones that converted into mittens.

“Thanks,” Leo off ered fl atly, and poured a heaping amount of

—-1

sugar into his cup.

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I felt like I was supposed to talk. But what about? The easiest

segue into conversation was Dead of Winter Con, so I took it.

“How was Reanimator?”

“The same as it always is.” Leo didn’t look at me when he

answered.

He stirred his coff ee. I blew on mine. An imaginary clock ticked

loudly in my brain.

“Why are we here?” I broke the silence. He managed to look

at me. I wanted to drown in his green eyes. Until he said, “Fuck if I

know. Brian made me text you last night.”

“He made you? Like, held a gun to your head and threatened

your fi rstborn?”

Leo stared at me drolly. “This was your idea. Total mistake.” He

abruptly pushed his chair back but didn’t stand.

“I don’t feel like it is,” I told him.

“What do you feel, Alex?”

Shit. Was this the moment where I was supposed to excrete emo-

tions? Was that the only way to make this thing right?

“Do you still love me?” I asked.

Wrong question.

“Seriously. Seriously? You are royally fucked up, Alex.”

“Oh, is that why you asked me here? To be a total dick and tell

me shitty things about myself? Because I don’t need you for that.

Perfectly capable of self- loathing on my own, thank you.”

We stared at each other through squinted eyes. If we were bulls,

steam would have come snorting out of our noses.

“Why did you ask me here? And don’t tell me because Brian

-1—

made you come.”

0—

“I don’t know. It’s been a shitty few months, and as much as I

+1—

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hated running into you yesterday you looked really cute with that

viscera hanging off your head.”

And … melt.

I tried not to smile at the compliment, but it was impossible not

to. “That’s a good word. Viscera.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. We watched each other, silent again, less snorty.

“I need more than cute viscera, though.” He sipped his coff ee.

“Like what?” I asked, stumped.

“I’m not going to feed you your lines, Alex.” I still didn’t know

what to say. He waited. “So that’s it, then?” he pushed.

Part of me had hoped that everything that happened, or didn’t

happen, in the last few months could be erased. Forgotten. What

good would it do to rehash all of the shit?

I’m the idiot who asked if he still loved me. And I’m also the idiot

who decided to say, “I got a new print of Children of the Corn if you

want to watch it.”

“Maybe.” He didn’t look quite as mad anymore, just disappointed.

Which was much worse.

I stood up and walked over to his chair. We were about the same

height when he sat and I stood, and I pulled off his hat to run my fi n-

gers over his hair. It had worked for me in the past when words failed

me, as they often did. I leaned in and stole a kiss, then backed away to

gauge his reaction. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward him,

his other hand cupping my neck as he kissed me back. The warmth

rushed from my lips to my toes, and for a minute all was forgiven.

Until he pushed me away and snatched back his hat. “Damnit,

Alex.” He wiped his lips off with the top of his hand. “I gotta go.” He

crushed his hat back on his head and shoved his way out the door,

—-1

leaving his large coff ee behind.

—0

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I slunk back to my chair and sipped my mocha. When I was

done, I forced myself to drink the rest of Leo’s coff ee, too. The bitter

taste fi lled my mouth and coated my stomach. I imagined it was poison,

a concoction that would eat away at my tongue, my teeth, my esopha-

gus, rendering me physically speechless. A fi tting end to someone who

never said the right thing.

-1—

0—

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CHAPTER

35

Becca stayed home from school much of the next week. The

radiation made her throat incredibly sore, to the point where swal-

lowing hurt. Her mom wouldn’t let me come over, telling me I made

Becca laugh too much and that would just hurt her throat more. I sent

Becca a link to Ordinary People, the saddest movie ever made, with

the note, “I hope you never laugh again.”

She wrote me back that Caleb had come to her rescue with home-

made hard candies.

“Right. Hard candies. I know what you mean.”

“Perv.”

“Takes one to know one.”

It was hard to communicate with Becca about Leo through typ-

ing only. She was stuck on the positive of “At least he wanted to see

you. And he kissed you!”

“And then he stopped kissing me. Is there anything more morti-

—-1

fying than a guy not wanting to kiss you back?”

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“Try not being able to kiss a guy because you have puke breath

twenty- four- seven.”

That shut me up. My problems still weren’t real problems next to

Becca’s.

I drowned my sorrow and guilt in Ben and Jerry’s and horror

movies. Friday night, my mom asked if I would watch the twins so

she could play mahjong with some friends.

“I know they’re old enough to be alone, but I’d feel better if you

were home with them. Please don’t drive anywhere.” Mom had chilled

a lot with her tension over driving, except at the thought of her three

children being alone in a car together. She never said, but I knew what

she thought, if we were all driving together, we could all die together,

too. I told her we’d stay home, order pizza, watch some movies.

“Nothing too scary,” Mom requested. “CJ wouldn’t want you to

know, but he’s been having nightmares lately.”

For being such a turd, CJ sure was sensitive.

I suggested we watch Dead Set with our pizza. “You know how

you always ask me why I dress like this everyday? Well, now you’ll

know. Plus, you love reality TV.”

“Sounds cool,” AJ agreed.

CJ wasn’t so convinced. “Is it scary?”

“No. It’s fake. Do you believe in zombies?”

“Not really. I mean, no.” CJ played it cool.

“The show is about a group of idiots on a reality show where

they all have to live together in the same house. We get to watch

behind the scenes, too, which is where my character is. Then, outside

the house, where they’re totally locked in, the world is overrun with

-1—

zombies. And they have to fi gure out what to do. It’s genius. Way

0—

more gross than scary. You love gross, CJ. Remember that mole rat

+1—

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that was eating its own baby at the zoo? It’s practically the same

thing.”

CJ was lightly convinced by the mole rat, and we started the

marathon. All was well for the fi rst hour. But then things took a turn

for the worse, and not just for the characters turning into the living

dead.

“Can we turn it off ?” I hadn’t noticed that CJ was squinting his

eyes in an eff ort not to see the screen. I paused, unintentionally on a

screen shot of someone getting their eyeball eaten.

“Just turn it off !” CJ yelled. I complied. This wasn’t normal CJ

behavior. Tears formed at the corners of his closed eyes.

“It’s off . What’s wrong? It’s not real,” I told him.

“But it was real! People die! And they look gross! Dad looked

gross!” CJ began full- on sobbing.

I didn’t know what to do. Not that I ever did, but it was paralyz-

ing seeing my normally brash and annoying tween brother turn into

a blubbering little kid. Then things got even worse. AJ began crying,

too.

“What’s going on?” I panicked.

“Don’t you ever think about him, Alex? Don’t you miss him?”

Dad. I rarely heard them talk about Dad, not in a way that

expressed any sadness.

“Of course I do,” I admitted.

“Then how come you never talk about him?” CJ sniff ed.

“What do you want me to say? Remember when Dad got man-

gled in a taxi?”

Wrong again. CJ exploded like a four- year- old who lost his

blankey.

—-1

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I fumbled. “I do miss him. I loved him so

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much. He was my dad. Our dad. He was funny. And smart. And he

listened and taught us things and now he’ll never be here to teach us

anything else. Like how to make my gigantic brothers feel better

when they’re crying next to me on the couch.” I pressed back my

own tears, until AJ started laughing.

“We’re not gigantic,” he snuffl

ed.

Somehow that made more tears escape from my eyes. “To me

you are. You sure you guys weren’t adopted?” I joked.

“You’re the death- loving weirdo,” CJ noted.

“I don’t love death,” I defended myself.

“Then why do you watch this stuff ?” He waved his hand at the

blackened tele vi sion.

“Because it’s not death. It’s ridiculous. It’s fake and it’s controlled

and it’s hilarious and girls like me can kick zombie ass, that’s why.

Because in the movies, I could stop Dad from getting in a cab and

turning into shrapnel.”

AJ and CJ just looked at me. I didn’t know if they got the full

impact of my confession, that even making a confession was one of

the hardest things I could do.

“What’s shrapnel?” CJ asked.

“Never mind. That’s not important.” I rubbed my eyes. “You

guys want to watch something else?”

“We never got to watch this week’s Wipeout,” AJ hinted.

“Big balls it is.” I switched on Wipeout, and my heart warmed at

the sight and sound of my brothers laughing at others’ stupidity.

It wasn’t a direct lesson from my dad, and it was about the most

sour lemonade I could have made out of lemons, but his death forced

-1—

me to have a real talk with my brothers for maybe the fi rst time ever.

0—

And for the fi rst time in forever, some of my guilt fi nally lifted.

+1—

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That night, my mom home, the twins in bed, I sent a text

to Leo.

I want to say I’m sorry, but I don’t know how.

Those words, “I’m sorry,” felt so contrived to me for so long and

yet I knew they were important. What Leo did with them was up to

him.

—-1

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CHAPTER

36

Snow fell steadily on my way to work Saturday, and I

gripped the steering wheel to the point of hand cramps. Drivers ed

never prepared me for skidding sideways uncontrollably until my

possessed car decided to stop inches from a stop sign. Not to mention

how other people drove like complete assholes. I don’t know how

many times I yelled into my rearview mirror, “Two car lengths, ass-

hole!” There were very few things I feared, but driving in snow was

one of them. My mom claimed it would get better with practice, but

since it didn’t snow year- round, how could I ever stay on top of it? I’d

either have to move to Antarctica to have snow all the time or the

equator to never have it. But I liked the seasons.

I arrived at work shaking and dripping in sweat.

“Did you run here?” asked Ila. She wore fi ngerless gloves, as the

front counter received a lot of the draft from the opening door.

-1—

I peeled my scarf away from my neck and shivered at the newly

0—

exposed wetness. “Snowshoed, actually.” I hung my jacket up in the

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back room and pulled my grungy work t-shirt out of my schoolbag.

Before I re- smoothed my hair into a low ponytail and tucked a towel

into my waistband, I checked my phone. No reply from Leo. Using

Becca’s positive thinking, I told myself he probably slept in. Using

my usual apocalyptic brand of thinking, I guessed he barfed on the

word “sorry” and had his phone number changed.

Since it was only 10:00 a.m., the lunch rush was still to come,

although on a snowy day there could either be a ton of people who

didn’t want to cook or just a trickle of customers. Enough people

lived within walking distance, and walking around in the snow was

a lot easier than driving. I passed the time by refi lling the mayo and

mustard squeeze bottles, restocking cheese, and arguing with Doug

about the greatest sequels of all time.

“Aside from the obvious Evil Dead and Basket Case, I think A

Nightmare on Elm Street 3 was really good,” I said.

“I haven’t even seen that. I’m sure it sucks. Commercial crap.”

“Aren’t we all pretentious, Mr. College Student? You can’t judge

a movie you haven’t seen. We’re talking teens in a mental hospital. At

one point, Freddy pulls out some kid’s tendons and works him like a

marionette. Brilliant.”

I was so busy making my obviously winning point that it took

me a few minutes to notice Leo watching me on the other side of the

counter. He wore a gray winter hat this time with his black winter

coat. Not that I noticed. His cheeks were red from where the falling

snow burned them.

“You know nothing,” I told Doug as I budged past him toward Leo.

“Hey,” I greeted him, hopefulness practically exploding off my face.

“Hey.” He leaned on the counter, as was his usual position here.

—-1

It had been so long, though, did he actually have a usual position?

—0

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“Thank you for the text,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” I off ered. It seemed like enough to start the

fl ow of conversation.

“How’s Becca doing?” He surprised me with the question, even

though it was what a nice person would ask. She did have cancer, and

she did once barf in his general direction.

“She’s okay. Chemo is over, but she’s in radiation which seems

to also suck. She’s really weak.” I didn’t like the sound of that, since

Becca was trying to kick cancer’s ass. “I mean, she’s tough, but it’s

never ending. I still don’t understand why the treatment is so unbe-

lievably cruel. She passed one hundred days. Sick for one hundred

fucking days.”

“Seriously? That long? I feel like this year has gone on for ten

years.”

That wasn’t good. I was part of his extra- long year. So was his

brother, I knew, but if only I had been there for him when I should

have, maybe it wouldn’t have felt so long.

“So how are you?” I asked. The dumbest question in the uni-

verse. Still working on moving along the conversation.

Leo shrugged, an appropriately ambiguous answer. The awful

thing was that I really wanted to know how he was, and that was one

of the things that kept me from talking to him since his brother’s

death. The longer I waited, the less we’d have to say, the more blanks

no one wanted to fi ll in. Those blanks could be sadder than that ridic-

ulously sad movie I sent to laughless Becca.

“How are you?” Leo asked back.

“Okay,” I answered. “I hate this snow. I mean, I actually love it

-1—

aesthetically and how quiet it makes everything at three a.m., but

0—

I’m terrifi ed of driving in it,” I admitted.

+1—

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“You? Terrifi ed of something? You’re full of surprises today.”

“Full of them? What else?” I asked.

“I think that might have been the fi rst time you asked me how I

am. Ever.” He was serious.

“It’s not because I don’t want to know. It’s just such a contrived

question. I usually fi gure if someone really wants to tell me how they

are they’ll just tell me. No need to pull it out of them.”

“You are abnormal.” Leo studied me.

“Thank you,” I answered dryly.

“Sometimes I think you might be a robot. Or an alien. At least

ge ne tically engineered somehow,” Leo said.

“That would explain my freakish elbow dimples.”

“Or how you could just stop talking to someone after what we

had.”

So it was time to talk about that.

“Can we go sit at a table?” I asked, noticing that the lack of cus-

tomers made Leo and me center stage for my fellow sub makers.

Leo didn’t answer but led the way to a table, the same table where

we fi rst sat months ago. I wished I could say life was simpler back

then, but it seemed like life was never going to be simple. Maybe if we

were Amish. He shrugged off his jacket and fl ipped it over the back of

his chair, which I took as a positive sign compared to the coff ee shop.

His hat stayed on, probably to keep his newly shorn head warm. The

hat made him look snuggly, and I had the urge to lean over and rub it.

I resisted, knowing we weren’t there yet, nor did I know if we would

ever be again.

Leo looked at me intently, and I knew he expected me to speak.

It was he who had come to my work, though, and I hadn’t prepared

—-1

anything. The text was a huge step for me, and I hadn’t yet fi gured

—0

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out what would follow it. I convinced myself I’d probably never hear

from Leo again.

Yet here he was.

He kicked back in his chair and slung one arm over the back, his

eyes never leaving my face. Feigning confi dence, I continued to meet

his eyes, which had the uncomfortable eff ect of making me want to

touch him again. Even though I stopped talking to Leo, even though

I totally fl ed when he probably needed me most, and even though

I made it a point to move on with my semblance of a life, I couldn’t

dispute the fact that I. Liked. Leo.

Shit.

It was so much easier being with guys I didn’t like. Davis went

off to join the army, and I hadn’t thought about him since. For all I

knew, he was dead, too, right alongside Leo’s brother.

Leo’s brother. Right then it hit me what it could have been like if

I were with someone like Leo when my dad died. I doubt he would

have left me out of fear like Davis left me.

Like I left him.

“I am such an asshole,” I said, not quite meaning to, aloud.

Leo didn’t disagree.

“I was your Davis,” I decided. “I should just go off and join the

army.”

“Who’s Davis? And there’s no way you’re joining the army.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” I argued.

“You seriously want to join the army? All fi ve feet of you?”

“I’m fi ve foot two, and, well, no. I don’t want to join the army.

I just need to stop speaking.”

-1—

“You already did that, remember?” Leo looked smug.

0—

“What are you doing here, Leo? I have no idea what to say to

+1—

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you. I’m not going to apologize anymore because I did that and

apologies are really just bullshit to make the apologizer feel better.

And I don’t deserve to feel better. I should feel like absolute total shit.

I deserve someone to take out my tendons and parade me around like

a marionette.”

“Diarrhea mouth, can you plug it for a second?”

The thought of having plugged diarrhea in my mouth shut me up.

“I’m not looking for another apology—” Leo started, but I cut

him off .

“I don’t know what to give you. I have nothing to say that will

make anything better. Nothing is going to bring Jason back, and it’s

totally my fault.” Wait. What?

“Alex, how could Jason’s death be your fault?” Leo unhooked

his arm from the chair and put his hand on the table near mine, but

not touching.

“I don’t think I meant that. I mean, of course I didn’t.” I picked

at a jagged fi ngernail.

“Do you think your dad’s death was your fault?”

“No,” I argued. “But I just don’t get it. Any of it. I don’t want

any more real horror in my life. There’s nothing funny about actual

death and disease. If only my dad could come back because of a rabid

monkey at the zoo.” I laughed to myself at the ridiculous horror movie

sentiment.

“Or as a reanimated prostitute,” Leo added.

“Maybe we should have buried them in pet cemeteries,” I

suggested.

“That never ends well,” Leo admitted. I had never joked about

my dad’s death with someone, not someone who had a death of their

—-1

own to joke about.

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“Do you believe things happen for a reason?” Leo brought the

conversation back to serious.

“No,” I answered emphatically.

“Me neither,” he concurred. “I can’t buy the idea that we’re sup-

posed to live and learn from horrible things. That somehow these

things happen so we can grow as people.”

“I hope nothing else happens to you,” I told him, “because you

have done enough growing.” I held my hand over my head acknowl-

edging his exceptional height.

“Maybe that’s why shit does keep happening to you. Because you

need to grow. Shorty.”

“That was quite possibly the lamest insult anyone has ever

bestowed upon me.”

“Forgive me. I’m out of practice. Being away from everyone

except your depressed parents will do that to you.”

“That sucks,” I said. “You should come back to school. Better of

two evils? I’m there.” I prodded.

“So that would make school the bigger of two evils.” Leo smiled,

and one of his fi ngers stroked one of mine. My toes wiggled.

“Alex! A little help here!” I hadn’t noticed that the snowy eaters

had arrived, and a line was backing up.

“I guess I have to go work.” I rolled my eyes.

“That is what they pay you for.” Leo stood as I did.

“I thought it was for my bubbly personality and smaller- than-

average butt.”

“Imagine the tips if you had an even average- sized butt.”

“You’re lucky I still feel guilty, or I might have to hit you.” I

-1—

started walking behind the counter.

0—

Leo grabbed my arm. “No more guilt, okay?”

+1—

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I nodded weakly. Guilt was the one thing I’d held on to for

everyone. “So you’re saying I shouldn’t blame myself for you smok-

ing again?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Let’s say you were a coconspirator, but I was the mastermind.”

“I can live with that.”

“Good.”

“Alex!” Doug yelled again. “I need more meat!”

“Should I be jealous?” Leo asked.

“I wouldn’t mind if you were.” I almost felt coquettish, if such a

thing were possible. We both smiled.

“Alex! Meat! Now!” Doug harassed me.

“Better go give Doug his meat. See you in school?” I suggested.

“There’s a book closet that misses you terribly.”

Leo pulled a chain out from his shirt that hung around his neck

and held it up for me to see. I recognized a familiar- looking key and

the distinctive shape of dog tags. He tucked the chain back in, gave a

small wave and a smile, and walked up the stairs.

I felt really good. And it scared me.

—-1

—0

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CHAPTER

37

No Leo the rest of the week at school, nor the entire next week.

We started texting, benign conversations about movies on Svengooli.

I subtly tried to coax him back to school, but I was afraid to push it.

They’re threatening to start construction on the book closet

wing if you don’t show up.

Nice try. That’s not scheduled until next year.

I might knock it down myself then.

That I’d come to see.

But the days passed, and that was as much contact as we had. I

started to believe I imagined our Cellar visit, residual brain fog from

Becca’s pot smoke. She was having a particularly nauseous time from

the radiation combined with the sore throat. I did my best to cheer her

up with visits and pints of ice cream, but it didn’t feel like enough. It

-1—

never did.

0—

Becca’s mom was in a particularly dark, religious state. Every

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moment she could get away from the house, she did. Sometimes it

was shopping, sometimes spa days, but she spent most of her time at

the synagogue. On the rare occasion I did see her, I wished I hadn’t.

One afternoon, when Becca seemed to ache in the most random

places, her mom walked in with a grossly pained expression. I think

Becca’s cancer installed at least six new worry wrinkles on her mom’s

face. She tutted, clicked her tongue, made all sorts of exaggeratedly

worrisome sounds as she watched Becca on her bed. Under her breath,

I heard her say, “God will see you through.” Then she left again.

Unsettling.

“What is up with your mom?” I asked, taking over game duty

from Becca. She liked to think of herself as my sensei to the world of

RPGs, and I complied as long as she agreed to watch Waxwork I and

II with me. I bought the set with some birthday money from Aunt

Judy.

“She’s like the prophet of doom.” Becca’s voice was quiet and

scratchy, but her head was together. I liked that. “She thinks it’s a bad

sign that I’m so sick, even though I’m done with chemo.”

“She told you that?”

“I speak crazy mom clicks.”

“You don’t think it means anything, do you?”

“Who knows? I never thought about having cancer in the fi rst

place, and here I am. We still have to wait a month to fi nd out if

destroying my body also just happened to destroy the cancer.”

“It fucking better have.”

“You tell that cancer, Alex. Maybe you’ll scare it out of me.”

If only.

Friday afternoon I came home to an empty house and plopped

—-1

myself in front of the TV. No Leo, Becca in limbo, and I was in a bad

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head space. As I fl ipped through the channels, it all seemed so point-

less. Why were brainless people followed around all day with cam-

eras, and why did people watch them? Why did singers spend millions

of dollars on one stupid video for one shitty song when there was still

no cure for cancer? Why were so many assholes all over the news and

reality tele vi sion and on sports teams and so many good people were

dead?

And where did I fall in all of it?

My dream, to make horror movies, was so pointless. What good

did it do for anyone? Who did it help? Nothing I did ever helped any-

one. I couldn’t stop my dad or Leo’s brother from dying. I couldn’t

stop Becca from getting cancer. She could still die. My mom could

die. My brothers. What if there were a zombie attack, and I was the

last person left on Earth? Everyone dying around me, everyone

becoming the undead, and I was the only one left living?

When my mom and brothers came home, I sat comatose on the

couch, staring forward at nothing after the TV fi nally sickened me to

the point of turning it off .

CJ, always the turd, saw me and asked, “Who died?” AJ smacked

him in the back of the head, but CJ just asked him an incredulous,

“What?” I guess we were related.

“Your fucking dad died, remember?” I asked coldly.

“Alex!” my mom scolded.

“Did you hear what he said, Mom?”

“It’s just an expression. Tone it down,” CJ said.

In a second I was on him, smacking CJ in the face and slamming

my fi st into his shoulder. I don’t remember the last time I hit one of

-1—

my little brothers, since they had passed the point of being little and

0—

outgrew me by at least fi ve inches. CJ was an athlete, and while I may

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be scrappy, he outweighed me by thirty pounds of muscle. Somehow

he had me pinned to the ground in seconds.

“What? Are you on the wrestling team now? All you need now

is a lobotomy and some tights.” I quoted The Breakfast Club into the

carpet.

My mom came to my rescue, although I wouldn’t have minded

before my brother’s knee wedged into my back. “CJ, get off your

sister. Boys, up to your room. Your sister and I need to talk.”

“Why are we the ones in trouble? She started it.” CJ pouted as he

huff ed up the stairs.

“You’re not in trouble. You have a computer in your room, and

that’s where you would have gone anyway to play Blood and Bones 12

or what ever horrifi c game it is you boys are into now.”

My mom helped me off the ground. We sat on the couch and

waited for the twins’ bedroom door to slam before Mom started talk-

ing. “I know you’re having a hard time, honey—”

“That’s the thing. I’m not having a hard time. I’m still alive. I’m

still healthy. It’s everyone around me that horrible things are happen-

ing to. And I feel guilty every second of every day because I can’t do

a thing about it.”

“Hold on. You think because you’re alive, because you’re not

sick, that nothing is happening to you? Oh, honey. That’s just not

true. You’re allowed to have feelings, you know. Your dad is gone. I

cry about that every single day because he was my husband, the father

of my wonderful children.” She stroked my cheek. “And I loved him

so much. Do you think I shouldn’t be upset because I’m not the dead

one?”

I shook my head.

—-1

“And Becca, of course you feel bad. It’s almost harder for those

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who love the person who is sick because, you’re right, there’s not a

whole lot you can do. Except what you are doing: being there for her.

You have to stop thinking you’re supposed to be so tough all the

time.”

“I don’t think I’m tough!” I was appalled by how dorky that

sounded.

“You know what I mean. You have such an emotional wall up.

Like, if you let it down that means you’re weak or something.”

I hated to admit she was right because it sounded ridiculous, but

I did hate the idea of being weak. The stupid girl in the horror movie

who hid from the killer instead of fi ghting back. The screaming idiot

who went up the stairs instead of to their car and away from the

scene. In a way, I knew it was one of the reasons I watched horror mov-

ies; it gave me a feeling of moral superiority. But in real life, there was

no obvious bad guy for me to slay, no ending where the dead person

came back to life.

“I feel useless,” I admitted to my mom. “Nothing I do is

important.”

“Now that’s bullshit.” My mom surprised me with her swear,

usually reserved for driving. “You want me to make you a list?” Mom

didn’t wait for an answer and started ticking things off with her fi n-

gers. “You help keep this family together. You have a job and make

money instead of sitting on the couch. You make people laugh. You’re

mostly nice to your brothers who need a big sister more than ever

now. Your grades are good. And you are a wonderful friend through

thick and thin. And someday”— Mom cleared her throat, as if this

were hard for her to admit—“you will be an incredible fi lmmaker.”

-1—

“I thought you didn’t want me to make movies. That it wasn’t

0—

practical. And you were totally right.”

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“No, I wasn’t. If it will make you happy and fulfi lled, then it is

practical.”

“But it’s so pointless. Horror movies don’t help anyone.”

But right when I said it, I knew I was wrong. Horror movies

could help people, just as they helped me. I don’t know how I could

have made it through the last summer without their mindless gore to

keep my mind off my life. The conventions and all of the people they

brought together who shared their love of horror. And Leo. Without

horror movies, I didn’t know what would have brought us together.

“You are a wonderful person, Alex. A little dark, maybe,” Mom

laughed. “Don’t beat yourself up. You’ve got two brothers who can

do that now.”

“Yeah. When did that happen?”

Mom kissed my forehead. “I love you very much.”

“Love you, too,” I mumbled, and Mom went to the kitchen to

make dinner. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and sent two

texts. The fi rst was to Becca.

Want me to come over to night? Buffy marathon on Logo.

The second was to Leo.

I’ve been waiting in the book closet for 2 weeks. Starting to

get hungry. Where r u?

Maybe it wasn’t overly emotional, but what ever it was, it was

time to stop kicking myself for it.

—-1

—0

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CHAPTER

3 8

I didn’t expect to hear back from Leo. I thought, and hoped,

that Monday would come and there he’d appear in the hallway asking

me to smoke a cigarette as if he had never left.

Later Friday night, while Becca slept in her bed next to me as I

watched The Master break Buff y’s neck in a parallel world, my phone

buzzed.

If you can get out of the closet, want to come over?

It was only eight, but Becca had crashed early from her pain

meds. I liked to be around in case she woke up and wanted a glass of

water or a note thrown at Caleb’s window. But Leo wanted to see me.

And I wanted to see Leo. Leaving Sleeping Baldy didn’t make me a

bad friend. Plus, visiting Leo when he wanted me to made me a good

friend. Or at least an okay one.

-1—

I texted him back:

0—

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Yes. Rabid Grannies?

Deﬁ nitely.

Rabid Grannies was an oddly dubbed Dutch movie, odd because some-

times it actually looked like the actors were mouthing what they were

saying in En glish. I always said I’d learn Dutch just to fi gure out what

the hell was going on. Maybe I could put that on my bucket list, if I ever

made one. It wasn’t any less noble than prank calls and masturbation.

I gingerly slipped out of the bed and put on my shoes. “Becca,” I

whispered. “Becca.” She stirred enough to roll over but only responded

by way of a snore. I found a Post- it on her desk and scrawled, “Went to

Leo’s. Will let you know what happens when you stop snoring.” I

posted it to her pillow.

The crud of February had set in. All along the side of the road sat

piles of mucky snow, hardened and blackened from the toxic sludge

of cars. At least it wasn’t scary to drive in.

I tucked my gloved hands into my down jacket and pulled my

winter hat as far over my ears as it could go. The temperature had

to be in the zeroes, which meant frozen boogers and cracking hair if

I didn’t have time to dry it. I let my car warm up for two minutes, as

was the advice of my dad when he taught me to drive. The worst part

was having to sit in a frigid car until the little temperature gauge

showed signs of life. Until then, turning on the heat only pulled

freezing air away from the freezing motor.

When I saw the hint of temperature gauge movement, I turned

the heat on full blast and put the car in gear. Before I went to Leo’s, I

stopped at home to get the DVD. Mom sat on the couch with a tissue,

blowing her nose and wiping tears from her eyes.

—-1

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I had the most selfi sh thought of disappointment, that if my mom

was crying I’d have to put my visit with Leo on hold to console her.

But when she saw me, she pointed to a black- and- white movie on the

TV. “Bogey and Bacall,” she sniff ed. “One of my favorites.” I kicked

myself with relief that she was only crying over a movie and ran

upstairs to my room for the DVD.

“Forgot this.” I held up the movie, and she acknowledged with

a wave of her hankie. I didn’t feel the need to explain where I was

bringing the movie, and I’d still be home by eleven thirty as expected.

When I pulled up to Leo’s, I took a minute in the car to think

about what might happen. The last time I was here, his brother had

just died. We had sex. He said he loved me. This time I was packing

an imported DVD called Rabid Grannies.

I rang the doorbell, and to my surprise his mom answered. I had

only been at Leo’s one time before when his parents were also there,

and they left soon after I arrived. I fumbled with my words, not know-

ing whether to bring up Jason or acknowledge how long it had been

since I’d seen her. “Hi,” was all that came out of my mouth, and I spent

an inordinate amount of time wiping the wet off my shoes. I heard

the pound of Leo’s feet down the stairs, and he said, “Thanks, Mom.

I didn’t hear the doorbell.” His mom said nothing and somberly

shuffl

ed away in her slippers.

“Sorry,” he said as he took my coat and hung it on the end of the

banister. “My mom’s moods alternate between comatose and overly

perky these days.”

“That was the perky one, right?” I asked. He smiled a small smile,

the kind he made that fi rst day we hung out at the elementary school.

-1—

“I hope it’s okay if we watch in my room. Mom and Dad com-

0—

mandeered the big screen. I have a shitty setup, but it works.”

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“Sure.” I shrugged. “The DVD looks like crap anyway, so it will

be extra crispy.”

“Crispy?” he asked as we walked up the stairs.

“And Dutch.”

His bedroom window had been replaced, and his room was rela-

tively neat compared to the last time I was up there. As I popped the

DVD into his player, Leo lay down on his bed. There was a desk

chair, and I considered sitting in it but thought that would be uncool.

He was already on the bed, and it off ered the best view of the TV. I

lay down next to him, careful not to touch. He didn’t make any move

to get closer. We started the movie, and my back, rigid with tension,

eventually softened as the grotesque cast of characters began their

journey to their Great Aunt’s house to fi nd out which greedy soul

inherited the fortune. Leo and I laughed at the dub and tried to fi gure

out what the Dutch words for “eat” and “bludgeon” were. At some

point, maybe halfway through, Leo’s arm connected with mine. A

laugh moved it there, but he didn’t move it away after the laugh

stopped. I inhaled involuntarily and hoped he didn’t notice. I had on

a short- sleeved shirt, he had on long sleeves. Maybe he couldn’t even

tell we were touching.

As the movie ended, we weakly applauded. “How did you ever

manage to live without experiencing the plea sure of Rabid Gran-

nies?” I asked.

He answered with a kiss. It was a fi rm kiss, and he held my cheek

with one large hand. I needed that kiss. Every part of me needed it.

Not just my body, which screamed at me to touch him ever since I

landed on his bed again, but my mind, my heart, my soul. I needed

him to show me he forgave me wholly for leaving him, so that I could

—-1

show Leo how I truly felt for him.

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For minutes, it was kissing, hands everywhere, clothes still on. It

was me who wriggled my hand underneath Leo’s shirt.

“Wait.” He stopped me. “I don’t want to have sex.”

I had said it to him before, more than once, but hearing it said to

me made me feel unwanted.

“Why not?” I asked, peeved. I didn’t know if I was mentally

ready to go at it again with Leo, but I was afraid to hear why he didn’t

want to do it with me.

I sat up and crossed my arms over my chest as though my body

was somehow exposed through my black t-shirt.

“Don’t get mad,” he told me. “I’m just not ready to go there again

yet. We’ve barely talked in months, and I can’t pretend we’re starting

where we left off . I mean, shit, you dumped my ass where we left off .”

“I was hoping you forgot about that,” I said. “Maybe if we had

sex you would?” I smiled at him through a cheesy grin.

“Momentarily, I’m sure I would. But, and stop me if you don’t

feel this way at all, I’m kind of wanting something more than sex and

gore with you.”

I hid “sex and gore” away in my brain as a kickass name for a

movie. “No,” I said coyly, or as coy as I could muster. “I don’t just

want that either. I think I did want that, originally, but things have

changed.”

I waited for Leo to tell me he was just kidding, that he wanted to

make me feel just as shitty as I made him feel. But Leo wasn’t like

that. He was honest. Open. More so than I could ever be. But I was

trying.

“So what’s changed?” Leo asked.

-1—

“Do I have to answer that?” I cringed.

0—

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“Yes. I deserve some emoting here, and besides, you’re adorable

when you’re all squirmy.”

“Fuck you. I’m not adorable.” I whacked him in the chest.

“You are until you open your mouth,” he decided. “Fess up.”

I exhaled a deep sigh. “Fine. But you owe me, like, a foot mas-

sage or something for this.”

“A foot massage?” he laughed.

“Yeah. Isn’t that what couples do for each other?”

“Couples? Are we a couple?”

“You’re killing me, Leo.” I covered my face with my hand and

attempted to spill. “I just realized that it’s okay to give and get good

things sometimes, and it doesn’t make me a bad person if my life isn’t

one hundred percent hell.” There. I said it.

“Aw.” He patted my head. “Was that so hard?”

“You’ll fi nd out later when I kill you in your sleep.”

“I get so turned on when you talk like that.” He moved my hand

away from my face and kissed me. I couldn’t fathom how I found a

guy who liked me for my good and evil parts. But there I was, in the

arms of Leo Dietz again and I wasn’t hating myself for it.

—-1

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CHAPTER

39

That Monday, as I navigated the hallway at school, I felt

diff erent. The dread was still there when I thought about Becca, the

“what if ” of the rest of her forever- pending test results. But Becca

had returned to the person I knew as my best friend. Not fi ghting her

discomfort anymore, she chose to stay home from school until she was

ready. Her mom was more than okay with that, since it went along

with her whole doomed vibe. Luckily, her mom spent so much time

out of the house it allowed Caleb that much more time in. Becca drew

an old- timey picture in my mind of her recuperating in bed while

Caleb sat next to her reading love poems and refreshing her mint

juleps.

Jenna Brown strode up to my locker as I fi nagled space for my

backpack. “I hear Becca’s still sick.” She pouted overzealously.

“Her mom tell your mom that?” I was ready to jump down her

-1—

throat.

0—

She nodded. “The drama department put some money together

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to get her this.” She handed me a small box with a card attached. “It’s

an Itunes gift card. So she can download TV shows and movies to

keep her busy.” Jenna had a slight look of panic as she explained this,

as though I would have an abusively snarky comeback. I thought

about it, like why it took them so damn long or how would her mom

know how she was because she was never around anyway. I stopped

myself. What they did was a good thing. I couldn’t fault them for tak-

ing a while to do it.

“Thanks. I’ll give this to her. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”

Jenna stood stock still, waiting for the punch line. I thought

about fulfi lling her expectations, when we were interrupted by the

appearance of a super- tall fi gure behind her. I looked up at him and

smiled. If I were one of those people, my eyes might have welled up

with tears.

“Excuse me,” Leo said to Jenna, and stepped between her and me.

“Hi,” I breathed. He didn’t say anything, just leaned down,

hands cupping my face, and kissed me. It was my fi rst instance of

hallway PDA, something I held so much disdain for I made it a point

to mock regular culprits as a sport.

But Leo’s lips on my lips, his hands on my cheeks, and I wasn’t

even in the hallway anymore. It was only me and Leo. Heavenly.

Until Jenna interrupted with a giggle and an overly enthusiastic

“Are you guys dating? That is so cute!” She squealed.

“Leo and I are not cute,” I blasted her. But what was I really

fi ghting about? I wrapped an arm around his waist, and he draped

his over my shoulder. “And, yes, we are dating. Or what ever,” I

admitted.

“Adorable!” she squealed again. I willed myself not to kick her

—-1

in the shin.

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“We have to go,” I announced, and pulled Leo along as best

I could through the hall to the book closet. When we arrived, Leo

fi shed out his key and unlocked the door. Inside for the fi rst time in

months, Leo looked around. “Something looks diff erent. Did you

rearrange the books?” he asked.

“Maybe. Long story,” I dismissed. He kissed me again, and I

wanted to pull the clocks off the wall to stop time.

Every day of school after that started the exact same way. I had

never looked forward to school, or a guy, as much in my life.

I prayed that the third bad thing had come and gone.

-1—

0—

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CHAPTER

4 0

Three weeks passed faster than any I could remember before

my dad died. For so long, time stood still, dragged, or even moved

backward as I focused on every negative, painful thing that hap-

pened and wondered what would come next. My guard was only

down the tiny bit I allowed myself, as Becca waited for the test results

of her cancer treatment. Her radiation was over, and instead of us

spending more time together as her health improved, we saw each

other less and less. I hated to admit it was because of a guy, but Leo

and I were hanging out whenever we could, watching movies, study-

ing at the library, brainstorming a movie I might make someday. Not

that Becca wasn’t busy with her own guy. Now that she was starting

to feel human again, hair growing back, weight fi lling out her sunken

frame, Caleb was in the picture a lot more. They went from romantic

notes between windows to sharing her twin bed most nights. I won-

dered if Becca’s mom knew what was going on, considering Caleb

—-1

was a rather large guy to hide. Maybe she was of the mind that Becca

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went through hell and deserved her little slice of homeschooled

heaven. Or maybe she was too cracked out on God to notice.

Leo and I hung out with Becca and Caleb from time to time.

He was nice, mind- blowingly smart, but defi nitely a little pop- culture

deprived. I feel like if I were homeschooled it would be impossible not

to waste the day in front of the tele vi sion or computer and try to pass

it off as “homework.” But Caleb was all about actual learning. He

did deign to come to a midnight screening of The Exorcist with us.

Leo and I disagreed on its brilliance. “I think there’s way too much

plot and not enough scare,” I argued.

“Which makes the scary parts all the scarier. Plus, there’s all that

subliminal stuff ,” Leo countered. We discovered on a Blu- ray of the

fi lm that the director did all of these extra- creepy secret things, like

inserting random, terrifying faces into scenes and playing the squeals

of actual pigs being slaughtered to make the movie extra unsettling.

“I’ll take a midnight show of Casablanca over this any day,” was

Caleb’s response. Becca stared at him dreamily. It was a good look

for her after so many pained ones.

And still we waited for the news of her life.

Becca began making school appearances again, not full days but

enough to get some work done. One day at lunch, her phone rang.

Becca’s cancer was like a get- out- of- jail- free card and allowed her to

carry her cell phone in case of emergency. “Emergency” most of the

time meant texting sappy I miss you texts to Caleb, but it was nearing

the time of her lab results. Post chemo, post radiation, she’d soon fi nd

out if the cancer was zapped, if she needed to go through hell again,

or the worst possibility: Treatment didn’t work at all.

-1—

When her phone rang, Becca announced, “It’s my mom,” which

0—

it often was. When Becca was the one out of the house, her mom

+1—

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called to check in every hour or so. She admitted to wishing Helen

could follow Becca around school so she didn’t have to worry so

much. I don’t think anything could have stopped her mom from wor-

rying. It felt a tad more appropriate than a facial.

“Hello?” Becca stood up and plugged one ear to hear the phone

better. The lunch crew followed her expressions. Anticipation. Dis-

appointment. Aggravation.

“Mom! Stop calling me! Seriously. Unless you have news, don’t

call anymore. You’re going to make me have a heart attack before

I even fi nd out if my cancer is gone.” Pause. “Yeah, love you, too.

Crazy woman,” she mumbled at the end.

The following Saturday morning I was busy slicing cucumbers at

Cellar when my phone rang in my pocket. I normally didn’t answer

it, mostly because then I had to wash my hands for the millionth time.

Winter dryness was killing me. But all phone calls had become criti-

cal. I knew any day Becca would learn of her post- chemo scans, which

would basically say whether her cancer had gone away. Seven months.

That’s how long I watched Becca have cancer. That’s a long fucking

time to be sick with anything, to have to watch and wonder what was

going to happen to my best friend. Could this fi nally be the call?

I walked into the back room, away from the kitchen scrapes and

music from the stereo. “Hello?” I answered.

I played out this phone call a billion times in my head. Sometimes

it went:

“I have to tell you something, Alex. The cancer’s still there. And

it’s spread.”

And when I’m feeling particularly morbid, Becca adds,

—-1

“They say I have one month to live.”

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I also have the other conversation, where Becca screams at the

top of her lungs, “The cancer’s gone!!!” We dance, and I hug who-

ever’s closest to me, preferably not some sub- slinging douche.

“Hello?” This wasn’t in my head. This was the real deal. The

phone call that determined our future. My hands shook as I answered.

I hadn’t realized how terrifi ed I was.

There was no dramatic pause. Instead, unlike any of my pre-

enactments, Becca blurted out, “I’m clear. No cancer spots. Normal

blood.” She was breathlessly quiet.

“That’s good, right? I mean, it sounds good. I just never know if

there’s something else coming.”

“Eighty- fi ve percent full remission rate. That’s really good. I go

back again in three months. And three months after that.” I let the

tears of relief tumble down my cheeks.

“That’s a lot of waiting,” I told her.

“It’s not waiting, Alex. It’s living. For the next three months, I’m

going to live like we’re gonna die young!” she screamed.

“That was Ke$ha, wasn’t it?” I wiped my eyes with my palm.

“Brilliant woman, she is.”

“Doesn’t she have the words ‘suck it’ tattooed inside her lip?” I

asked.

“Don’t you have a tattoo of a dead guy smiley on your leg?” She

got me.

“Brilliant woman, she is,” I concurred.

I exhaled at the realization that, indeed, for the next three months

there was no more cancer. We could end our se nior year like normal

teenagers. Or, at the very least, like normal teenagers with a shitload

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CHAPTER

41

“Do we have to do this?” I asked, bundled in twelve layers of

clothes and still freezing my ass off at Baynes Beach.

“Bucket list, remember?” Becca still held that Fuck- It List over

my head, as if the fact that I started it with her made me obligated to

fi nish it, too.

“I believe we decided it was a Fuck- It List, and that is what I’d

like to declare right now. Fuck it. It’s too cold out, Becca!” Becca used

her cancer card to convince me, Caleb, and Leo to fulfi ll number 13:

Sleep on a beach to watch the sunset and sunrise.

“I’m calling a technicality. It doesn’t actually say we have to

sleep here. Let’s just watch the sun set and then get up really early for

the sunrise.” Leo was my glowing voice of reason.

“Yes! Excellent idea.” I clapped.

“You guys can leave after sunset. We’re staying.” Becca linked

her arm through Caleb’s massive one. He was scoutly prepared with

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The four of us sat on a blanket in the cold sand. Caleb passed out

hot chocolate made from cacao beans he grew in his green house.

Probably. As miserable as the late March temperature was, nothing

could really make the moment bad. Here we were, together, happy,

alive. So little else mattered.

Still, the instant Caleb marked the sunset with his Swiss Army

watch, Leo and I were out of there. “Call me if you stop feeling

your toes,” I yelled from my car. Leo and I sat inside as the engine

attempted to warm up.

“Just drive. We’ll be back at my house in fi ve minutes. We can

warm up there.”

In the time Leo and I had been back on speaking terms, closer

than when it was merely physical, we hadn’t yet had sex. At fi rst, we

held out so as not to make things too intense too quickly. But as the

weeks passed— the long, yearning, painful weeks— I didn’t think I

could hold out much longer. It surprised me, that while getting emo-

tionally close to someone I could feel even more attracted to him than

when I barely knew anything about him. I knew that sounded stupid,

but I had never experienced anything diff erent. The physical and the

emotional never went together. Maybe because I had never had the

emotional before.

We got back to Leo’s house in record time and shot straight up

to his bedroom. We kicked off our shoes and dove under the covers

together, still wearing all eight million layers of clothing. As we

huddled up, our shivers stopped and we somehow fell asleep. When I

awoke an hour later, I was thick with sweat.

“Gross.” I sat up and began to peel off my coat, then my hoodie.

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Underneath were three more shirts and long underwear. When all

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that was left was my t-shirt, I nudged Leo awake. His forehead and

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hairline were coated in sweat. “You need to get out of your clothes,”

I told him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said sleepily. I helped him unzip his coat and

pulled layer after layer over his head. When it was time to stop,

when he, too, was left with only a black t-shirt, I pulled that off , too.

In return, he yanked my shirt over my head. “Just to be fair,” he

explained.

“Well, if you’re going to be that way,” I said, and unhooked my bra.

There we were on his bed, wearing jeans and nothing else. I sat

on my knees facing him, while his legs dangled over the edge of the

bed. I traced my fi ngers up the defi nition of his stomach, his chest.

He wrapped his hands around my waist and let them rise up over my

breasts. This was as naked as we’d been in months. We both knew that

if any clothing came off , we couldn’t stop ourselves from everything

coming off . We were right. The instant I felt his bare fl esh against

mine, I couldn’t get close enough to him.

We took our time, knowing we had time. Every hair on my body

stood on end, every sense heightened. He tasted so good, felt even

better. I didn’t remember taking off my jeans, and maybe I didn’t.

Maybe it was all him. We waited until we couldn’t stand it anymore,

until it felt like we’d explode from not letting ourselves go. And then

we did. The feeling lasted forever, as though I couldn’t let it stop.

When I fi nally relaxed, every limb entwined with Leo, I said some-

thing so completely involuntary that I gasped after I said it.

“I love you.”

“You what?” Leo propped himself up on an elbow.

“Uhhh …” I sounded like a dolt, and I knew I had to own it. “I

said I love you,” I repeated more clearly, more certain.

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“One more time,” Leo prodded.

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“Those are about to be the last words you ever hear, Leo Dietz,”

I growled in his ear.

“That’d be fi ne with me.” He kissed my forehead. I waited for

his return sentiment, but it didn’t come.

“And?” I prodded.

“And what?” He played dumb. Or was dumb.

“Aren’t you going to say it back?”

“You heard those words from me and had months to deal with

them. I’m going to let your words age a little. Like a fi ne wine.”

“Or cheese,” I noted.

“I like cheese,” Leo added. “A lot.”

“That makes two of us,” I concurred.

So, I had to wait. I had gotten pretty good at waiting. But this

time, it wasn’t test results. Love was so abstract: It wasn’t war, it wasn’t

cancer, it wasn’t death. But I’m pretty sure that’s what I felt. And I was

going to let myself, no matter how hard my evil side fought against it.

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CHAPTER

42

SPRING

I waited for Leo in the book closet. There was less than one

month left of school. Less than one month until the anniversary of

my dad’s death. Less than one month until Becca’s next cancer check.

The door clicked open, and there stood Leo. His hair was grow-

ing out, which I liked a little better than the buzz. I think we all

wanted to have some hair on our heads for a while. He had on a black

t-shirt, jeans, and black Chucks, which made us annoyingly cutesy

and matching. I recognized the outline of his brother’s dog tags under-

neath his shirt. The second he walked in and the door closed, we

clung to each other. We kissed for a couple minutes until I stopped

him. “Time to get down to business.”

Reluctantly, we sat down at the old desks and worked. He had a

huge creative writing story to revise, and I was putting the fi nishing

touches on my new horror movie, Graphite. It was the story of a girl

who gets hit in the forehead with a pencil when some guys in her

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school are throwing them at the ceiling. Then she goes on a killing

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spree, taking out all of the guys who crossed her with violent pencil

deaths. Naturally, Becca would star, fulfi lling number nineteen on

the Fuck It List. Not that we had looked at the list since freezing our

asses off on the beach. We may have accomplished most of the weird,

ridiculous, perverted goals Becca set for herself, but the list felt too

connected to cancer to continue. I held onto it, storing it underneath

my bedside stack of library books. Just in case. Becca never asked

where it was.

On a clear May afternoon, Becca, Caleb, Leo, and I hung out

in Becca’s backyard. It was the spring of the seventeen- year cicadas.

They had been around when I was a baby, so this was technically the

fi rst time I had really seen them. I found them fascinating. In appear-

ance, they would have made perfect horror- movie specimens: about

three inches long, with translucent, green wings and glowing red

eyes. Their feet were covered with sticky pads, and if one landed on

you it might stay and just hang out, not fl it away like scaredy bugs. It

was incredible to think they lay dormant underground for seventeen

years. Then they climbed their way out, leaving behind a trail of

cocoon- y things on the trees and a layer of bugs on the ground so

thick you had to shuffl

e your way through them so you wouldn’t

crush their newly freed bodies. And the noise they made was deafen-

ing. Like a UFO landed somewhere nearby and hovered as it picked

up people for experiments.

There defi nitely was a movie or two to be made out of this.

Caleb’s bea gle waddled around, his belly distended after consum-

ing more than his share of the tasty bugs, three of which rested on my

arm. I examined them, and asked, “Do you think they dreamed?”

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“Hmmm?” Becca mused as she rested her head on Caleb’s lap,

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and he stroked her newly growing hair.

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“For seventeen years. Do you think they dreamed underground

for seventeen years?” I clarifi ed.

“Do any bugs dream?” Caleb asked.

“It’s so sad. To wake up and die so soon after,” Becca said.

“I bet it’s really fucking awesome for those couple of weeks when

they’re awake, though,” Leo noted.

“Maybe they spend seventeen years dreaming about what they

want to do during their minuscule lives.” I smiled at the thought of

bug dreams. Then something came to me. “Hey, Becca. I wonder if

they have bucket lists.”

“A bug- it list!” She laughed.

“That was so not funny,” I said. “Okay. Maybe a little.”

I shook my arm, and the three bugs lazily fl ew away, on their way

to accomplish great things in a short amount of time. Really, how we

all should try to live our lives. No matter how long we’ve got.

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Becca’s

Bucket List

FUCK-IT

1. Have a Kool-Aid stand with every Kool-Aid flavor invented.

2. Stick my tongue to a frozen pole.

3. Chew 10 pieces of gum at once and blow a quadruple bubble.

4. Write Rupert Grint a love letter.

5. Wear two different shoes.

6. Send my bra to Zac Efron.

7. Eat a hot pepper.

8. Crank call Adam Levitz.

9. Bake cookies for the janitor.

10. Hop a train like a hobo.

11. MASTURBATE.

12. Kiss a boy who smokes.

13. Sleep on a beach and watch the sunrise.

14. Tell off Lottie McDaniels

15. FLASH THE HOMESCHOOL BOY NEXT DOOR.

16. Smoke pot with a burnout behind the school.

17. Make out with a burnout behind the school.

18. Have sex with a football stud, and dump him the next day.

19. Star in one of Alex’s movies, and have it seen by actual people

instead of just me and Alex.

20. Go to school dressed like a prostitute.

21. Touch Jamie Bamber’s butt.

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22. Take a bath in someone else’s house.

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23. Have sex with someone I’m in love with

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and who’s in love with me.

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Ac

know

ledg

m ents

tk

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Document Outline

- 9781250025654_WEBfirstpass