Julie Halpern - The F- It List

“I think that would be a fine idea.” Becca pursed her lips, holding in words she didn’t think she could say.

“What?” I demanded.

“Nothing. I said I thought it was a fine 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.”

“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. Are u going to Dead of Winter Con? If so, I’ll see 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 sex 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.”

“Now I see. How could I have missed all the concern and love hidden in those two little letters?” Becca started laughing, which started her coughing.

“You totally deserve that cough. The text wasn’t that bad.” I scowled.

“You’re right.” She sipped from a cup near her bed, and her cough eventually subsided. “You could have asked, ‘How’s your dead brother?’”

“If I’m that awful, why are you even friends with me?” I stood up, hurt by the implication of my coldness.

“Hey, Alex, sorry. You don’t usually seem to care about being a coldhearted bitch.”

“Not making this better,” I noted.

“That’s where so much of your charm is, Alex. It’s one of the reasons I love you. And probably why Leo does—” I glanced hard at her. “Did. Maybe. Well, he liked you at least, right?”

“I guess,” I conceded.

Could he ever again? Was that what I wanted?

A text buzzed on my phone. Becca and I locked eyes. “Open it!” she prodded.

It was a reply from Leo. One word.

Going

“What the fuck does that mean? Was he planning on writing more and sent it by accident?” I shook my phone, willing it to spit out extra words.

“I think it means he’s going,” Becca suggested.

“He didn’t say anything about seeing me.”

“He didn’t say anything about your thoughtful use of the word ‘hi’ either. Maybe he was in a hurry.”

“Maybe he was in the middle of fucking some other girl.” My brain went to a terrible place.

“Alex, I’m sure he wouldn’t stop having sex just to answer your text. And besides, the two of you were never just fucking.”

“I don’t feel any better,” I admitted.

“He bothered to write you back. That’s something.”

“You’re reaching, Becca.”

“Maybe. But what’s wrong with that? If we don’t reach for things, think of how much we’ll miss.”

Then Becca fell asleep.

Her words were generically profound, like a Hallmark card I’d skim over to get to the check. But they made sense, too. How far I was willing to reach for Leo, I just didn’t know yet.

THE WEEK LEADING UP to Dead of Winter Con, Becca was up and down. Radiation every morning at 6:30, then she pushed herself to go to school. She said she wanted to feel normal, which I got and I didn’t. She was 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.

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.”