Part 9 (1/2)

”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.

1-

52.

105-54406_ch01_1P.indd 52 105-54406_ch01_1P.indd 52 4/17/13 8:57 PM.

4/17/13 8:57 PM.

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.

-0 -+1

53.

105-54406_ch01_1P.indd 53 105-54406_ch01_1P.indd 53 4/17/13 8:57 PM.

4/17/13 8:57 PM.

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.

-1- 0-

1-

54.

105-54406_ch01_1P.indd 54 105-54406_ch01_1P.indd 54 4/17/13 8:57 PM.

4/17/13 8:57 PM.

CHAPTER.

1 0.

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.