I jerked away from Leo to answer. I hung up. “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 find my car keys 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 just happened was as imaginary as a clown in the clouds.
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 incredibly 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 confide in her anymore. That already happened over the summer when I hadn’t told her about me and Becca’s friendship hiatus. “Not really, actually. Can I tell you something?”
My mom was still distracted by her unpacking, so I emphasized 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 finished, my mom’s shoulder was covered in saltwater and snot. She put her hands on my cheeks 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. Whatever 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 sniffed. “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 your other shoulder.”
“Then I’ll have a matching set.” She tried to laugh.
I walked upstairs to my bedroom and shut the door. My overhead light was too bright for my mood, so I turned on my three pop-can lamps from junior high shop class. Each one illuminated a different 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 flashing 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 elderly couple with three ratty poodles. Even if I did flash 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 messaging 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 messenger on.
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 fished the Fuck-It List out of my crumpled jeans on the floor. 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.
CHAPTER 10
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 pepper. How tiny. How insignificant. 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 to do on her own?
Number 4: Write Rupert Grint a love letter.
I remembered Becca’s Rupert Grint phase, after we first saw Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire on DVD. “He looks so different. 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 that they could be taken off the list altogether?
What about number 1: Have a Kool-Aid stand with every Kool-Aid flavor invented.
