The F- It List (6 page)

“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.

“What’s your favorite?” I asked.

“Horror movie?” he checked.

“Yeah. Your absolute favorite. Which one?”

“Is it too obvious to say
Evil Dead 2
?” He seemed less confident 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.

“Maybe a little predictable, but 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 smirked at the possibility 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.”

“Oh yeah. I like
Dead Alive
. I think it’s funnier than
Evil Dead
without trying as hard. Maybe it’s the New Zealand accents.”

“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 Leo rolled onto his side. I did the same and faced him. I marveled at being this close to him, finding freckles on his nose, watching the way the sunlight made his red eyelashes 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 fire,” I deadpanned.

He fell onto his back again and looked up at the passing clouds. The sun was starting to set. Summer was definitely 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?

I was tired of thinking, so I propped myself up on my elbow and looked down at his mouth. Did it want to be kissed, too? There was only one way to find 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 insignificant 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. 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.

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.

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.

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-flavored Kool-Aid stand?

As the list grew, it also matured in content, hence the neighbor flashing 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 behind the school.

I knew which burnout she had in mind, too. Chad Dominguez, her lust-from-a-distance delinquent that fulfilled her bad-boy 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 fulfilled 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 first 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.

The next morning, a half hour before my alarm was set to begin the monotony of the day, and half asleep to where I was still dreamy, 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 stiffness 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 fingers between my legs, gently at first, just one finger in a circle. As Leo kissed me deeper, pressed against me harder, I added more fingers, 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 first day of treatment. She could be in the hospital for days. She could feel sick for weeks. She could even …