Julie Halpern - The F- It List

“Me, too,” I answered, rushing home in my head so my mom wasn’t worried. I never wanted to call her when I was late, in case she was asleep and my call woke her up. Better to be late without her knowing if at all possible.

There was a pause, both of us wondering what to do. Leo’s mom helped us out, calling from the front door. “Leo? Is that you?”

“And that’s why we didn’t go back to my house,” Leo said. “See you Monday.” He got out, and I drove away without looking back.

When I got home, Mom was asleep in her room, and the house was quiet.

I went to my room and dug out my jeans pockets and threw keys, cash, and phone on my desk. There was a text I must have missed during the movie. Or something else. It was from Becca.

I’m dying, was all it said.

I CHECKED THE TIME Becca’s message was sent: 9:14. It was currently 12:17. If I texted her back, would I awaken her from a pain-free slumber? What if she were back in the hospital? I had to try.

Are U OK? Are U dead?

After I sent the text, I turned on my computer and logged onto Skype. Chances were slim that Aunt Judy was still up and waiting for a midnight chat unless she had some seedy secret life I didn’t know about. Maybe I would like her better if that were true. Like a Mullets Anonymous group or something.

Hello? Come in, Becca. Do you read me, Becca? I typed.

Nothing from either phone or computer.

To calm my nerves I played a video of Troll I downloaded last week. It was such a crappy movie, but the guy who played Atreyu from The NeverEnding Story was in it. And a weird plant lady.

I wished I could talk to Becca about what happened with Leo. It was exactly the kind of story my sex-obsessed bestie would have been dying to hear every drippy detail of. But instead she was just dying. For a second, I almost felt angry at her, which made me feel like the biggest dick in the world. How could I possibly be mad at my best friend when she was sick—possibly dying—with cancer just because I couldn’t talk to her about Leo Dietz going down on me? Shame on me for even allowing a guy down there when Becca was so sick. Is that how she felt when she was doing I don’t even want to think about it with Davis? Was this payback in the most disgusting form possible? I wanted to ask God, to talk to him one-on-one, but I couldn’t decide if I even believed in him at the moment. Plus, kind of a weird topic. Death and sickness and sex and so much guilt—where did God fit into that?

As my internal moral battle raged, my Skype rang. It was not Aunt Judy and her mullet club but Becca. I scrambled to my desk chair and answered. The view of Becca was a close-up of her bald head resting on a stack of pillows in her bed. She looked tired and pasty. Her lips were dry and cracked. I wanted to pass her some lip balm through the computer, or a glass of water, or something to help. Once again, I could do nothing.

“Hey, Cueball,” I joked. She laughed dryly but didn’t say more. “How are you feeling?” I asked, wanting to know but not sure if she wanted to talk about it or pretend things were normal. I felt that way a lot about my dad.

“Like a bag of ass,” she croaked.

“Whose ass? Because if it’s mine, then you must be feeling pretty good.” I was trying too hard.

“Can’t laugh. Hurts.” She held up a bandaged and bruised hand to her throat. “Tell me something good.”

“Well, Leo went down on me in the backseat of my dad’s car. And I met Bruce Campbell.” Becca coughed, and I couldn’t tell if it was because of what I told her or because she had to cough. The coughing continued. “Do you need me to get help?” I asked the screen. She shook her head no. A woman I didn’t recognize appeared, her wide behind blocking the camera. When she was gone, Becca held a cup of water with two hands.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“Night nurse. Helen.”

“Was she in the room when I just told you about the car scenario?” Becca nodded. “Is she still in the room?” Becca nodded again.

“But do go on,” she eked out. I curled my lip in disgust, but Becca said, “It makes me happy to hear about it.”

“I hope Helen isn’t a prude,” I told her, and launched into the story of the night.

When I finished, Becca told me, “Helen just crossed herself.” I laughed. “I better go to sleep.” And just like that she closed her eyes. I thought she might already be out.

“Are you really dying, Becca?” I asked.

She opened one eye. “The doctors say probably not, but it sure fucking feels like it.” She closed her eyes again.

“Good night,” I whispered at the computer. No answer. Becca was already asleep.

I SLEPT IN on Saturday, spending most of the day in my room in case Becca called. I watched all three Basket Case movies, plus The Toxic Avenger and A Nightmare on Elm Street 2. While Nightmare wasn’t as cheesy, weird, or gross as the other films, I always loved the premise of someone attacking you in your dreams. Plus, I heard Robert Englund, the guy who played Freddy, wore actual blades on his fingers and could cut an apple if he wanted.

The only Skype call I received was from Aunt Judy, who I ignored and didn’t care about the consequences. I messaged a little back and forth with Damien and Brandon, and they invited me to a show that night, but I declined. I didn’t want to have to talk about Becca or Leo or myself. There was no point in leaving the house.

Instead, my mom, brothers, and I shared a pizza and watched Poltergeist on TV. For a horror movie, it’s surprisingly scary. Maybe I watched too many and was desensitized, but it seemed to me most horror movies were funny and gory but not necessarily scary. But Poltergeist… the clown doll? I had second thoughts about leaving my Chuckie doll out after that. CJ hid behind the couch whimpering most of the movie.

I texted Becca at bedtime with a quick note.

Still Ok?

Ten minutes later she wrote back.

Can’t stop barfing.

And that was it.

Sunday I worked all day, which meant hungover college students and tons of business. There was some game on TV in a corner of the restaurant, but we in the kitchen didn’t give a shit and drowned out the jocular din with a musical din of our own. I anticipated the possibility of Leo coming in for a sub, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. If he did, would we have to talk? Make out in the disgusting bathroom? I grooved on the rhythmic construction of the subs, and I didn’t want that to be interrupted. When it turned out I wasn’t interrupted all day by a visit from Leo, I was a tad disappointed. I wish I could make up my mind.

Before I left work, I texted Becca.

Do u want me to bring u a sub?

It was a long shot, with her puking issue. I was afraid she might say yes, which made me feel horrid. But I was scared to see her in person, not just in the grainy, poorly lit world of my computer screen. She texted back.

Too pukey. Too medicated. Thanx.

I kicked myself for my fear. How scary it must have been for Becca. I’m glad she didn’t know what I was thinking. I had to hold it together for her, do whatever I could. I pulled out the Fuck-It List from my pocket. It was always there, transferred each time I changed my jeans. Nothing on the list caught my eye. It was either sex or food, and I wasn’t in the mood for either. The guilt piled on me even more. I couldn’t even do a simple task like number 2: Stick my tongue to a frozen pole, or one like number 18: Have sex with a football stud, and dump him the next day. “Jesus, Becca,” I said to the list. “Just fucking get better, so you can do this ridiculous shit yourself.” Then I berated myself again for my selfishness. The cycle was endless.

That night I did my homework in bed as Troll 2 played in the background. Nothing like the original, it was so bad there was even a documentary made about how bad the sequel was.

My Skype rang: Becca in bed. I wondered if she had moved at all since the last time we spoke.

She greeted me with “Where’s my sub?”

“I thought you didn’t want it,” I said, defensive.

“I’m kidding. Why are you so wound up?” Becca sounded better than the last time we talked. “I think I’m going to try and come to school tomorrow,” she informed me.

“Why?” I asked, but I thought I knew part of the answer. Who wants to sit around feeling like shit when you can do something to make yourself forget?

“I want to get out of this death house. Plus, they’re auditioning for the fall play.”

“Becca, are you seriously going to try out? What if you can’t—”

“I’m not an idiot. I’m just going to watch.” She looked angry. I didn’t know what to say.

“Do you have any other sordid Leo tales to tell me? Helen’s not in the room.”

I smiled. “Sorry, no. Just me and my hand. And I’m not telling you about that.”

“Speaking of hands, Caleb has huge ones.”

“Caleb? Homeschool boy?” I confirmed.

“I had Helen roll my bed near the window, so I could watch him mow the lawn. He looks a lot like Chris Hemsworth, I think. Sans the Thor lady hair.”

“Maybe you can do a number eleven on yourself then.”

“I’m being watched too closely to play with myself. Speak of the devil. Helen just walked in with my med cocktail. Gotta go.”

“So I’ll see you tomorrow?” I asked.

“Hopefully.” She signed off.

I hadn’t thought of Becca back at school so soon. Would the school year veer into semi-standard territory? It was hard to remember a time when life felt anything but abnormal.