The F- It List Part 9

"Don't make me cry again, Mom, or I'll rub my boogers all over -1- your other shoulder."

0- "Then I'll have a matching set." She tried to laugh.

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I walked upstairs to my bedroom and shut the door. My over- head light was too bright for my mood, so I turned on my three pop- can lamps from ju nior high shop cla.s.s. Each one illuminated a diff erent 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 fl as.h.i.+ng 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 el der ly couple with three ratty poodles. Even if I did fl ash 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 messag- ing 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 a.s.s. Then, no s.h.i.+t, 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 mes- --1 senger on.

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Well, good night then. Don't let the bed bugs bite. Good luck tomorrow.

I stepped away from the computer to put on my nights.h.i.+rt, which was really just a T-s.h.i.+rt 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 f.u.c.k- It List! I forgot which number. So the question is: Did his mouth taste like a.s.s, too?

I fi shed the f.u.c.k- It List out of my crumpled jeans on the fl oor.

There at number 12: Kiss a boy who smokes.

I typed back, Not like a.s.s. Like a burnt hamburger. But a s.e.xy burnt hamburger.

Goodnight, Alex.

Goodnight, Becca.

I got into bed with the f.u.c.k- 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.

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CHAPTER.

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That night I spent over an hour reading over Becca's f.u.c.k- 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 pep- per. How tiny. How insignifi cant. 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 left for her?

Number 4: Write Rupert Grint a love letter.

I remembered Becca's Rupert Grint phase, after we fi rst saw Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire on DVD. "He looks so diff erent.

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 --1 that they could be taken off the list altogether?

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What about number 1: Have a Kool- Aid stand with every color Kool- Aid invented.

How did that make it to her f.u.c.k- It List? Was it a dying- of- cancer priority? And what kind of a.s.shole would I look like if I did set up a rainbow- fl avored Kool- Aid stand?

As the list grew, it also matured in content, hence the neighbor fl as.h.i.+ng and the smoker kissing. Toward the end, practically every item was about s.e.x or drugs: number 16: Smoke pot with a burnout behind the school. And number 17: Make out with a burnout who smokes pot behind the school.

I knew which burnout she had in mind, too. Chad Dominguez, her l.u.s.t- from- a-distance delinquent that fulfi lled her badboy movie requirements (remedial cla.s.ses, 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 fulfi lled 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 fi rst 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.

-1- The next morning, a half hour before my alarm was set to begin 0- the monotony of the day, and half asleep to where I was still dreamy,

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I remembered my time with Leo on the gra.s.s. 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 a.s.s and the stiff ness 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 fi ngers between my legs, gently at fi rst, just one fi nger in a circle. As Leo kissed me deeper, pressed against me harder, I added more fi ngers, 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 f.u.c.ked 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 fi rst day of treatment. She could be in the hospital for days. She could feel sick for weeks. She could even ...

No. What's that bulls.h.i.+t people love to spout? The power of positive thinking. It couldn't hurt, could it? Not as much as the pain Becca was about to go through, was probably going through already.

If she can endure having every cell in her body attacked, then I could make the eff ort to be a more positive person.

f.u.c.k.

I rolled over and looked at my alarm clock. Two minutes until the radio turned on to the only station that came in with the weak, dangly antenna: Lite FM. It always ensured I got my a.s.s out of bed p.r.o.nto lest I had to listen to Maroon 5 torment me with their mediocrity.

Underneath the library book stack, I spied the crinkly edge of --1 Becca's list. I gingerly pulled it out so as not to knock over the tower -0 -+1 5 7.

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of books or rip the delicate paper. I grabbed a pen from the night- stand, skimmed the list, and found what I was looking for: number 11: m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e.

Even though she wanted to do it, which now meant for me to do it, I still felt guilty. Reluctantly, I crossed it off just as the dulcet vocals of a recently tattooed male a.s.saulted my ears. "Why?" I yelled at my alarm clock, and shut it off . I whipped off my covers and headed straight to my computer.

While the computer booted up, I placed the list into my scanner, a birthday present last year when I was experimenting with Photo- Shopping old family photos. My personal favorite was one where I airbrushed my parents to look young and added wrinkles, jowls, and hunched backs to me and my brothers. I called it "Ye Olde Family Portrait." It won second place in the county's high school art compe- t.i.tion. What I really hoped for someday was to win an award for my fi lms. If I could ever actually fi nish one. I was really close at the end of last school year. I thought I might have a shot at this local fi lm contest hosted by a teen center two towns over. But then my dad died, and I couldn't look at the movie again. Deleted the whole thing from my hard drive. Which was f.u.c.king stupid, since it starred Becca and now Becca might not be around forever and I could have had all that foot- age to remember her and ...

My mind spiraled to a dark place until I realized my computer was ready for me. I scanned the list, saved it as F-IT LIST, which I thought looked kind of funny. I took out the hyphen. The FIT LIST.

As if I were creating some sort of exercise goals list and sharing them with my friends. I opened my email account and saw I had one new -1- message from something called CaringBridge. I thought it might be 0- junk, but I clicked anyway. Completely unjunk, it turned out to be

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