Julie Halpern - The F- It List

I got dressed and immediately called Becca from my cell on the way out of the house. “His penis was wearing a saggy hat,” I reported.

“Really? That’s so depressing. Did it at least feel good?”

“It felt fine.” I shrugged to the phone.

“Well, that’s not how sex should feel. Go back in there and do it again!”

“Um, no thank you. Not today at least.”

“They go back to Norway next week, you know.”

“Well, then we better hurry and have as much bad sex as we can before he leaves.”

“Was it really bad?” She pouted over the phone.

“No. Don’t worry. It just wasn’t really good. I’ll try again, maybe. Just for you.”

“You’re the best.”

“Tell that to my vagina.”

“You’re the best, Alex’s vagina.”

“My vagina thanks you.”

Aleks and I had sex once more before he flew back to Norway. It was better the second time around, with some added foreplay and a near climax. But near isn’t the same as the real deal, which was why I wasn’t in a hurry to try again when I started dating Davis.

Would the Fuck-It List magically help me fall in love and have sex in a way that I couldn’t before Becca got cancer? Was it fair for either of us to live or die with that kind of pressure?

No email from Becca waited on my computer. Her mom sent another report:

The news (not in order of importance):

We will be home Saturday.

Becca will have seven days of chemo in a row, then a two and a half week break, then three to five more treatments followed by a short radiation treatment to zap any remaining tumor cells.

Morphine seems to be working for pain management, and Becca is able to sleep a little, thank God.

After God, she thanked everyone else for being so supportive, but I skimmed that part. It sounded like Becca was in hell, and would be in hell, for a very long time.

I typed Becca an email:

You will be happy to learn that masturbating wasn’t the only thing I did on your list. I ate a hot pepper for you. You’re welcome. You can thank my burning butt tomorrow morning.

Leo stopped by Cellar. We kissed again. I have no idea what’s going on, but he’s a really good kisser. Far better than that Norwegian.

Sweet, circumcised dreams, my friend.

JENNA BROWN CAUGHT MY EYE during the morning hallway rush and gave me a sympathetic actorly smile. I threw up a middle finger and scratched my cheek with it, but she was already off and running with her audience. At lunch I decided to join the living and ate with some of my old stage-crew friends. Damien West had shoulder-length black hair and was a practicing Wiccan. He had been hospitalized for depression three times since I’d known him. I think he was just too smart for his parents, and they had no idea what to do with him. His girlfriend, Eliza Klise, was wafer thin and white-out pale with light blond hair she dyed in various colors as it washed out. Currently it was a pukey shade of green. Not her best. Lastly was Brandon Hathaway, tall and thin, with olive skin and rich brown eyes. I was madly in love with him freshman year, even kissed him once, until he came out. I was pissed at him for a while, going far enough to kiss me, but he said he did it because he felt bad for me. Apparently I really looked like I wanted him to kiss me. I wish someone would take a picture of that face so I’d stop making it. Once I got over the humiliation, he was still fun to be around. And he was an excellent judge of character. He advised me heavily against dating Davis, but I didn’t listen. Obviously.

“How’s our little devil child?” Brandon patted my head as I sat down at the table with a Coke and vending machine packs of cheese and peanut butter crackers. He liked to pretend I was satanic because of my love for horror movies.

“Okay, I guess. You guys heard about Becca?”

“Yeah. How is she?” Damien asked, concerned.

“I don’t know yet. I mean, she officially has cancer and is going through chemo and all that. That’s pretty much it.” I bit into my cheese crackers, while Eliza stared at me. “What?” Bright orange crumbles sprayed from my mouth.

“It’s just, how can you eat? At a time like this?”

“Some of us need food to survive,” I reminded her.

“Sha, but I don’t know, I’d be crying all the time if Damien had cancer. I don’t know how I’d make it through the day.”

“Alex doesn’t cry,” Brandon explained. “She’s on the spectrum.” I sneered at Brandon, and he added, “Maybe just a little bit?”

“I don’t know. But why do I have to cry all the time? To prove to you that I’m upset? Fuck that noise. Becca likes to be the dramatic one anyway.”

“That’s why you guys make such good friends. She’s the actress, and you’re on the spectrum.” Brandon stuck to his brilliant theory.

“I’ll shove a spectrum up your ass if you don’t stop talking about it.”

“Duly noted.”

“Is there anything we can do for her?” Damien offered.

“Not that I know of yet. I can ask her.”

Changing the subject all too easily, Eliza cattily asked, “Did you hear that Lottie McDaniels is back?”

“The bitch is back,” Brandon sang.

Lottie McDaniels was Becca’s major competition when she first started in freshman drama, but last year she opted for a boarding school with a stellar acting program. Good riddance. Having her back the same year Becca would be MIA from productions would ensure her superstar status and enlarge her already infamously ginormous head.

“Oh—” I started, remembering something from Becca’s list. I unfolded the soft paper from my pocket. “Aha!” I exclaimed.

“What is it, Dr. Watson?” Brandon asked.

“Becca asked me to do some things for her—”

“I thought you said there wasn’t anything we could do for her,” Eliza whined.

“Simmer down, Doolittle. This is stuff I can do for her. Only me. When your best friend gets cancer, then it’s your turn.” Dramatic sigh from Eliza. I always thought she would have been better on stage than behind it.

Number 14: Tell off Lottie McDaniels.

That should be interesting. I never really spoke to Lottie; she just yelled commands at me during my minuscule stint in stagecraft. Becca told me tales of sabotage, like when Lottie threw out Becca’s base makeup because she claimed it smelled weird. I never liked the look of Lottie. There was something messed up about a high school student who wore stiletto heels. How would she run if there was a zombie attack?

The lunch bell rang, and I went on my mission. My lunch friends attempted to push and prod me to tell them what I was reading off of, what Becca wanted me to do. But that list belonged to me and Becca. Plus, they didn’t need to see the items I had already checked off. Not that I felt ashamed of any of them, but I didn’t need to give out explanations either.

Eliza had gym with Lottie next period, and I found Lottie in the new girls’ bathroom outside the small gym. The administration was slowly redoing areas of the school, and a new bathroom meant automatic handles, toilets, and sinks. Soon they’d be pissing and shitting for us, too.

Lottie watched herself in the mirror as she applied a thick layer of reflective gloss to her plump lips. She smacked them together and then, as though I weren’t in there to berate her, winked at herself in the mirror. She had almost a foot on me in her heels, but I didn’t care. I don’t know if I would’ve cared much before Becca’s list, but having a mission and someone to answer to made me even bolder.

“Hey,” I said to gain Lottie’s attention.

“He-ey,” she sang to her own image in the mirror.

“You’re Lottie McDaniels, right?” I was 99 percent sure, but revenge was only best served if it was at the right dinner party.

“Of course.” She had yet to look at me. I had yet to actually figure out what I wanted to say. Was I supposed to tell her off in the name of Becca? As Becca herself? As just some random Lottie hater? A second bell rang, indicating we were both late for class. I didn’t care, since I had art next and for all Mr. Bowles knew, I was working in the darkroom.

“Shit,” Lottie said to herself, and stuffed her makeup into her purse. I never understood purses at high school either. Just carry a frakkin’ backpack. She brushed past me, as if we hadn’t been having a meaningful, “hey”-filled conversation.

“Hey!” I called to her loudly. This time she turned to look at me. Her expression read no recognition. “I have a message from Becca Mason.”

“Oh yeah?” She put her hands on her hips and waggled her head like a bobblehead version of herself. “What?”

Obviously, she hadn’t been informed of Becca’s cancer. Or maybe she was that cold of a skag. Either way, it was my job to tell her off. I said the first thing that came to my mind. “You’re a scene-chewing, talentless tart who needs to pull the jeggings out of your camel-toe.” I looked pointedly at her too-defined crotch area, then whipped around on my gym-shoed heels and walked out. She clacked after me.

“Becca told you to tell me that?” Her mouth was agape. I saw a gray pile of gum dangling on her tongue.

“Not in those words exactly. I put my own gentle touch on them. Becca would have been more eloquent, but, alas, she’s not here right now to talk to you. I hope I made a suitable replacement.”

Lottie sputtered and sighed, a look of disgust on her face. “You tell that bitch she’ll never make the lead roles this year now that I’m back.”

“You can tell her. When she gets done with chemo.”

“What?” Lottie’s head shrunk back, her eyes opened wide.

“Becca has cancer. She wanted me to tell you you suck, in case she dies and doesn’t have the chance to do it herself.”

“You’re kidding. That’s horrible. She said that?”

Sometimes I don’t realize how awful I can sound until I see the person’s face react to my words. Becca would never have the nerve to say what I did, and even if she did, would she have wanted to?

“You know what? Forget it. I just, like, went off my meds or something.”

I began walking away, cursing my social ineptitude. Lottie clacked after me and yanked me around by my arm.

“Does Becca really have cancer?” Her look was genuine concern, not actorly fakeness topped with perfect lip gloss. I shook away her gripping hand, met her eyes, and blankly answered, “Yes.”

“Tell her I hope she gets better soon. Tell her”—she considered her words—“there won’t be any competition without her.”

I gulped. “I will.” We stood looking at each other for a minute, until I’d had enough and turned away. “I gotta go,” I mumbled, and tripped over my feet, not getting away fast enough.

Apparently I was moving too fast, looking back over my stupid, insensitive, cold-as-ice shoulder, because I slammed right into the chest of Leo Dietz.

I LOOKED UP AT LEO, a tad out of breath.

“Running from some zombies?” he questioned.

“Something like that.” I looked down at his shoes, identical to my ratty black Chucks, except for the massive size difference. My expression must have been somewhat telling. Why was it that I never said the appropriate thing, but my face betrayed me and showed off every emotion?

“You okay?” He gently held his knuckle under my chin to raise my head. It was so strangely comforting and annoyingly masculine, I wanted to suck on his fingertips in the middle of the hallway.

“Just put my foot in my mouth. Maybe two feet. I can’t do anything right even when I’m trying to do right by someone.”

“I don’t know what that means. But I’m guessing you probably do a lot of things right.” He let go of my chin and stuffed his hand into his army jacket pocket.

“Sometimes it feels like if I really did things right, my dad wouldn’t be dead and Becca wouldn’t have cancer. I know that’s fucking stupid.” I cut myself off. I had a lot more to say on the matter, but I’d done enough talking earlier to fill my asshole quotient for the month.

“I don’t think it’s fucking stupid. I think shit like that all the time. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong person. What if? All that bullshit.”

We stood in the hallway, the cloud of my idiocracy hovering over us. “Come with me.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me along.

“I can’t leave school. I have a quiz in AP History this afternoon,” I told Leo.

“So do I. And we’re not leaving.” He spoke as he dragged me along. I didn’t know he took AP History.