Part 4 (1/2)

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CHAPTER.

6.

”You want to shave your head? Why? Is your hair defi nitely going to fall out?” Cancer had so many preconceptions, so many things that I've heard about through pa.s.sing Yahoo! articles I never bothered to read, movies I didn't want to watch. Why depress myself?

And here I was, living it. Or, not living it. Instead, watching it pos- sibly devour my best friend.

”My hair will fall out. Fact. I don't want to wake up with chunks of hair stuck to my pillow. This way, I control things.”

I understood that. Control in any situation is important; in one where you pretty much have none: imperative. ”But maybe it won't fall out,” I tried to reason, with no logic behind it.

”It will, and it will suck.” She stood up slowly off her chair. She moved more cautiously than I was used to. ”What ever they inject in me during chemo is attacking my cells, including the cells that do this.” She fl ipped the bottom of her bouncy, thick, nearly waist- length --1 -0 -+1 105-54406_ch01_1P.indd 27 105-54406_ch01_1P.indd 27 4/17/13 8:57 PM.

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hair. A vacant and gla.s.sy expression let me know that as cool as she was being, she was not entirely one with the cuc.u.mber.

”Do you have a razor? Not, like, the leg kind, but for your head?”

”My mom bought one for me yesterday. She was totally crying because my soul lives in my hair, apparently. I'll go get it.” Was that supposed to be funny? Was there a manual for this somewhere, How to Respond to People with Cancer, because I didn't know what was appropriate and what was just plain off . Like when my dad died, and every person said they were sorry. I get that that's the polite thing to say, but after a while it sounded so insincere. Just once I wanted someone to be honest, tell me that they couldn't imagine what it felt like to one second have a dad, and the next second have a pile of body parts and insurance money that'll pay for the college of my dreams.

Would Dad even know if I went to college now?

I almost said something to Becca then about my dad, how I missed him or felt confused or even hated him sometimes for leaving just when I really needed him to lean on, but how did that make sense when the reasons I needed him all had to do with the cancer suff erer standing in front of me with a brand- new electric razor in her hands?

”Where should we do this?” she asked. I noticed a twitch in her hand, and I didn't know if it was nerves or something to do with the cancer. I guessed nerves were technically something to do with the cancer. ”Seeing as you're the expert and all.”

That made me feel guilty. The fact that I'd shaved my head before, just to change things up, made me feel like a d.i.c.k, as if it was insensitive of me. Did Becca see it that way? That only people who have to shave their head should be allowed to do so, otherwise it was -1- just belittling the magnitude of losing one's hair?

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I chose to believe the latter and that, of the two of us, I techni- cally was closer to being a professional head shaver than Becca was.

”Do you have any garbage bags? The big black kind?”

”In the kitchen.” She sat down heavily on a rolling desk chair.

”Would you mind getting them?”

”No, of course not. Need anything else?” She shook her head.

”Why don't you check in on your humping game pals, and I'll be right back.” That got a smile out of her.

Becca's mom stood in the kitchen cradling a steaming mug in her hands and staring out the window. In days BC (before cancer) I wouldn't have hesitated to barge into the room, ask were the garbage bags were, and go on my merry way. But what if she was crying? And all I could off er her was a ”sorry”? Thankfully, Mrs. Mason turned around and saw me, a drooped but tearless look on her face. ”Hi, Alex, does she need something?” Obviously, Becca was at the forefront of her brain.

”We're about to shave her head, and I came to get some black garbage bags for the mess. Under the sink, right?” I let myself into the cabinet and pulled out several bags. When I stood up, Becca's mom was close by with a gallon Ziploc bag in her hands.

”Save some of it, please. In here.” If this were a horror movie, the moment could have been so creepy: the obsessive mom wanting to save lost locks of her daughter's hair. Instead, it forced a lump to my throat.

”Thanks.” I grabbed the bag before the two of us lost our s.h.i.+t and ran back upstairs. Becca was in the same hunched position in her desk chair, no romping computer people to be seen.

”Got the bags. And your mom wants me to save your hair in this.” I held up the Ziploc.

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of hair for cancer patients, but, s.h.i.+t, it's my hair. And I'm already a cancer f.u.c.king patient.” She seemed angry for the fi rst time today.

If it were me, anger would have been my fi rst, second, and third response to every step of this. Becca was still so composed.

”It is your hair. You should make a coat out of it or something,”