The F- It List Part 31

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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 a.s.sumed 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."

"f.u.c.k cancer!" she exclaimed.

"f.u.c.k cancer!" I reiterated.

A few weeks later, Becca would have the chance to accomplish number 21: Touch Jamie Bamber's b.u.t.t. 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 --1 dressed up in homespun costumes, some based off movie characters, -0 -+1 1 8 3.

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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-s.h.i.+rt, in hopes of charming the pants off Jamie Bamber. Not literally, of course, although number 21 didn't specify whether or not his b.u.t.t 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 e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n 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 s.h.i.+t, 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 sus.h.i.+, 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 --1 marker and some waterproof tape to cover it."

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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 s.h.i.+rt I could see how thin she'd gotten. So many months of nausea killed her appet.i.te, 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.

-1- "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 f.u.c.k- 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 s.e.x 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."