Part 17 (1/2)
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She has cancer.” I hoped just laying it out there would clam the old lady up, but then it turned into a bloated pity fest.
”OH MY G.o.d! MY POOR ALEXANDRA. WHAT CAN I DO? ARE YOU OKAY? IS SHE OKAY? OH MY G.o.d!”
”Aunt Judy!” I had to yell several times until she took a break to exhale and grab a tissue from her bra. ”I have to go. She's calling me on Skype right now,” I lied.
”YOU TAKE CARE OF YOUR-”
I hung up on her. I hoped she'd get the hint to give me s.p.a.ce from Skype, but it could also go the way of the concerned check- in, too. I liked Aunt Judy, though. She sent fat checks for birthdays and was actually the fi rst person to show me a horror fi lm when I was eight. My parents had dropped me off at her house for a dinner date, and Aunt Judy put in a tape of one of her favorite childhood movies, Heidi, so I could watch while she made dinner. Turned out it was not Heidi, but Carrie, and by the time Aunt Judy came to tell me dinner was ready, Carrie was being scolded by her psycho mom and getting her period in the shower. Such sweet, innocent times those were.
Becca's icon, a headshot of the gorgeous Number Six Cylon from Battlestar Galactica, showed that she was signed on to Skype, but that didn't mean she would answer. I clicked on the video call b.u.t.ton and let it ring. No answer.
That gave me time to think about to night. I didn't want to call it a date, didn't want to think about the attachment and attention and commitment that came with having a boyfriend. I needed all of that for Becca, not some guy I only knew in my dreams until last week. So far it had been easy enough, fun even, and defi nitely fulfi lling in cer- tain areas. That's where I wanted it to stay.
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I decided not to change clothes.
In ten minutes, I'd leave to pick Leo up at his house, a house I'd driven by dozens of time with Becca riding shotgun when I fi rst got my license, in hopes of catching a glimpse of him. I liked those glimpses. Nothing serious about a glimpse. I didn't need any more serious.
Just as I was about to leave my room, my Skype rang. I thought it might be Aunt Judy checking in, but happily it was Becca. My view of her was skewed, her laptop on her stomach as she lay awkwardly on her bed with her neck propped up. I forgot for a minute that she had no hair, and her skin was almost chartreuse.
”Hey! How are you?” I asked like a dumba.s.s.
”Gurgle,” was all she said, not the sound but the actual word. ”I have a puke bucket next to my bed. A bucket of puke,” she slurred.
I didn't know if she was tired or pumped full of drugs or both.
”Speaking of buckets,” I tried to sound cheery, ”I've been work- ing on your list. I draw the line at wearing two diff erent shoes, though.”
She attempted a smile but could barely hold up her head.
”And I'm going to wait until you're better so we can hop a train like a hobo together.”
Was Becca asleep?
”I better let you go. I'm going to see Bruce Campbell to night with Leo Dietz. Wish it was you, though.” Did I really, or did I feel obligated to add that? G.o.d, she looked like s.h.i.+t.
After Becca didn't answer, I started to say, ”Well, bye. I'll talk to you-”
”Alex. Alex.” B came back to life and spoke urgently. ”You gotta -1- do something for me,” she breathed.
0- ”What? Anything.” I meant it, too.
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”Find out if he's circ.u.mcised.” And then she defi nitely was asleep.
Even sick as f.u.c.k and pumped with meds, Becca was a complete pervert. She better not die on me.
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