Part 12 (1/2)

4/17/13 8:57 PM.

CHAPTER.

12.

I arrived home from work around nine thirty. Cellar Subs closed at nine, and it was my job to mop the fl oor with a seventy- fi ve- year old mop that weighed 600 pounds. I don't know if the fl oor ever actu- ally got clean because the lighting was so bad at the restaurant, and the mop was so decrepit. Strings of meat and vegetables slid between the dreadlocks of the mop, long past the expiration of the fi ve- second rule. It was also my job to clean the bathrooms, but n.o.body actually did that. Cellar had infamously nasty bathrooms, which somehow made the place cooler. Unless you had to use them.

When I walked into my house, AJ and CJ were watching Wipe- out and laughing uncontrollably at the big b.a.l.l.s. I wished I had the ability to be as ridiculously airheady as they did. Not that they were stupid, but as seventh- grade boys they didn't yet feel the weight of the world on their shoulders. Or in my case, my pocket. The only thing I -1- had to show for Becca's list was self- pleasuring before breakfast, and 0-

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I didn't even know if she knew about that yet. We hadn't talked about due dates or expectations of numbers. The list was as vague and overwhelming as the cancer itself.

”You smell like a sandwich,” AJ told me without looking away from the watery carnage on the TV screen.

”OOOH!” AJ and CJ practiced synchronized cringing at the TV.

”Here.” I threw a bag containing two subs to CJ, who dexter- ously caught it without turning his head.

”Thanks, sis.”

”No prob, bros.”

I walked into the kitchen for a gla.s.s of water. I did smell very sandwichy. It wasn't so bad compared to my fi rst job as an ice- cream scooper. Ice cream may be delicious when you eat it, but it rots when stuck to your s.h.i.+rt. Was.h.i.+ng it never got the rank smell out either. The sandwich smell did come out of my clothes, but sometimes it took for- ever to excrete from my nose.

I pulled the blue Brita pitcher out of the fridge and poured myself a tall gla.s.s of water. I placed the pitcher back, and my eyes focused on a jar that I never paid much attention to: jalapeno peppers, which my brothers ate for sport. They never appealed to me. Food and pain together seemed like a weird combo.

”AJ. CJ. Come here,” I called into the other room. I pulled out the f.u.c.k- It List from my pocket, and as I remembered, #7, an early one, read: Eat a hot pepper. Great. Couldn't I just have s.e.x with a member of the chess team or something?

”We're watching Wipeout!” they chimed in unison.

”Pause your big b.a.l.l.s and get in here!” I demanded.

The clumsy shuffl ing of my twin brothers arrived in the kitchen.

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”What?” CJ held his sandwich in the brown paper bag like some drunk on the street. He took a sandwich swig and chewed lazily.

”What's it like to eat a hot pepper?”

”What do you mean? You just stick it in your mouth and bite it,”

AJ explained helpfully.

”That's what she said,” CJ chuckled.

”Are you guys really this corroded?” I glared.

”No, sorry. You did bring us sandwiches,” AJ conceded.

”I wanted to try an experiment.” There was no way I'd tell my brothers about the f.u.c.k- It List. ”But I'm a little scared.”

”You can watch The Texas Chainsaw Ma.s.sacre, but you can't eat a pepper?” CJ asked. He couldn't stand horror fi lms, especially after Dad died. It was kind of sad and sweet at the same time. One of the traits that made him slightly human. Plus, it was fun watching him run away from the TV when I had a movie on in the family room.

”Those movies aren't real. Well, actually, The Texas Chainsaw Ma.s.sacre was based on a true story,” I explained.

”Don't tell me that!” CJ covered his ears, one with a hand and the other with the sandwich in a bag.

”Dudes, help me here. I have to eat one, and I just want to pre- pare myself.”

AJ walked over to the jar I pulled from the fridge. ”This one's for p.u.s.s.ies. You have to try ghost chiles instead. They'll burn your but- thole for days.”

”I don't eat with my b.u.t.thole.” I eyed them.