“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 measure 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 flowers brighten your day just a little. If you need anything, throw a rock at my window. I might have something to help with the pain, too, if you’re interested. Take care of yourself.
“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 homeschooly 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 growing 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 pot or his penis.”
“I’d take either.”
“Should we throw a rock through his window and find 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 affair.”
“That sounds pretty hot,” I acknowledged.
“Speaking of hot,” Becca transitioned, “tell me about your evening with Mr. Army Jacket.”
I hadn’t yet told Becca about my night with Leo. Parts of it felt too good to share with her, as though I’d be rubbing my ecstasy in her cancerous face. And other parts of it, where I looked like a 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 voyeuristically 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 effect. 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 everyone was supposed to be measuring their experience by. People were so different 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 definitely 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 than that?
“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, satisfied 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 remind you of Ronald McDonald?”
That fast-food clown scared the crap out of me with his red 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 difficult 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 fulfill 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 chocolate and batter rolled in my palm with a massage-like effect. I could’ve stood there all day, until my brothers barged in and tried to finger 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.
“You guys are turds. I’m making them for the school janitor.”
“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 offering. And these were real, homemade ones, not fresh from the fridge impostors. The janitor couldn’t possibly eat all of the cookies anyway.
