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 acknowledged my dad’s death when I came back to school after the summer.
Becca stayed home the rest of the week by order of her mom, who gave her the choice of going to school or Dead of Winter Con. She also offered 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 possibilities 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?
Yes.
How?
I’m wearing hoop earrings.
Whore.
At lunchtime, I wasn’t in the mood for the ultra-vapid conversation, 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 first 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 first 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 fill 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 NeverEnding 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 floor was cleared and the shelves filled around six o’clock. I felt not only a sense of accomplishment, but that somehow putting this room back together signified something great. Not great meaning good, but great in that there were possibilities. Even good ones. Which was new to me and scarier than the prospect of living on top of an Indian burial ground.
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 first. Get the lay of the land. We’ll find 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. I woke up extra early to ensure my blood was distributed in a grotesque, yet natural, fashion.
“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 morning 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 vendors 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 fifty-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 filled 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 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 stretch marks to the world. Nobody judged. My favorite costume at 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 adding to the dementedness. I had Becca take a picture for my Facebook profile, 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 horror and sci-fi TV shows. I usually had to look at the signs behind them to figure out who they were, if I recognized them at all. Jamie looked different 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 character. 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 film 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 floor spot with optimum Bamber vision and pulled out the snacks Becca’s mom forced
