Part 22 (1/2)
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doing. Lucky for me, I guess, Becca had a more attainable list that I could help her with. Except for number 21. And maybe the one about the hobo.
When I arrived at her house, Becca's mom answered the door.
She hugged me like we hadn't seen each other in months. The same hug she gave me after my dad died. I was lucky she didn't gouge out my eye with the bedazzled Star of David she sported. The only reason I ever regretted being a Jew was the fact that I couldn't wear big crosses around my neck like Buff y. Not that I'd ever wear the big star, either.
It was the fi rst time I noticed it on Mrs. Mason, but it wouldn't be nearly the last.
I quickly retreated to Becca's room. Becca was camped out in her bed; vases of voluminous fl owers and crinkly balloons were every- where. Wadded up b.a.l.l.s of wrapping paper littered the fl oor, and boxes of shrink- wrapped DVDs were scattered over her bed.
”Holy s.h.i.+t. It's cancer Christmas,” I declared.
”Even my dad sent something. Six missed birthdays, but the pos- sibility of his kid dying and he gets sentimental. Not that this thing is very sentimental.” Becca held out a blocky stuff ed animal hamster.
”Watch this,” she said, and squeezed its hand. ”You're a toolbox dou- checake,” she spoke at the beast. It repeated back her words fi ve times the speed, high pitched and eerie. The worst part was the way its tiny mouth moved, as though it was really calling me a douchcake.
”This is the fi rst time I have ever liked your dad,” I told her.
”You can have it.” She tossed it to me, but the throw was short.
”I have a younger brother to terrify with this, thank you.”
”Anytime. What do you think your dad would have gotten me?”
Becca asked. The question froze me, repeated back in the chitter of --1 the chatimal.
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”I don't know. I mean, I never thought about it. Do you?”
Becca looked exhausted, and her initial excitement at my visit faded from her voice. ”I think about how he would probably say funny things. Maybe he'd come visit me in the hospital. Buy me a viper stuff ed toy instead of a talking rodent.”
It wouldn't have felt as bad if the dead dad we were talking about weren't mine. I was jealous. That my dead dad would bring things to my sick friend in her imagination. The subject needed changing immediately before I said the wrong thing, like, ”What right do you have to get gifts from my dead dad?” came to mind.
”Somebody bought you Kim Kardas.h.i.+an's perfume?” I noticed a bottle on her desk.
”That's the a.s.s of my dreams,” she sighed.
”To look at or to have?” I asked.
”Maybe just to look at. Or, like, squeeze just once.”
”You think if you squeeze Kim Kardas.h.i.+an's a.s.s, her perfume comes out?” Once upon a time, we would have laughed our not- nearly- as- ample a.s.ses off . But I didn't want Becca to start a coughing jag.
”Come sit down and share in my spoils.” Becca patted the blan- ket. I sat down next to her and looked toward the TV.
”Where are you?” I asked, regarding which season of Battlestar she was on.
” 'Unfi nished Business.' I just love that Lee and Kara fi nally have s.e.x.”
”Of course you do,” I said. ”This is a good episode. I love watch- ing Starbuck kick Hot Dog's a.s.s.”
”That is good.”
-1- ”If you were a pi lot, what would your call sign be?” I asked.
0- We'd had the conversation a million times, but it was one of our
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favorites. Battlestar Galactica pi lots had really cool ones, like Athena, or truly dorky ones, like Narcho. ”I've got one for you: Vixen.”
”Ooh. That's a new one. But it's too much like Blitzen. I don't want to sound like a reindeer.”
”What do reindeer sound like?” I joked. Becca nudged me softly.
The top of her hand was poked and bruised. I willed myself not to gag. Real- life gore was so much more gorey than the fake stuff . ”Okay.
How about k.u.mquat?”
”That's horrible!” she squealed.
”No worse than Hot Dog. What about me?”