Authors: Julie Halpern
“I think it means he’s going,” Becca suggested.
“He didn’t say anything about seeing me.”
“He didn’t say anything about your thoughtful use of the word ‘hi’ either. Maybe he was in a hurry.”
“Maybe he was in the middle of fucking some other girl.” My brain went to a terrible place.
“Alex, I’m sure he wouldn’t stop having sex just to answer your text. And besides, the two of you were never just fucking.”
“I don’t feel any better,” I admitted.
“He bothered to write you back. That’s something.”
“You’re reaching, Becca.”
“Maybe. But what’s wrong with that? If we don’t reach for things, think of how much we’ll miss.”
Then Becca fell asleep.
Her words were generically profound, like a Hallmark card I’d skim over to get to the check. But they made sense, too. How far I was willing to reach for Leo, I just didn’t know yet.
THE WEEK LEADING UP
to Dead of Winter Con, Becca was up and down. Radiation every morning at 6:30, then she pushed herself to go to school. She said she wanted to feel normal, which I got and I didn’t. She was hardly normal, with her fuzzy hair and extra-special treatment from everyone around her. But it had been months of bed rest, puke, and pajamas, making school a diversion. Wednesday I was supposed to drive her home, but she had to be picked up early by her mom. Becca fell asleep on her desk in French class. Her teacher let her sleep the entire time. I was surprised at how kind everyone was to Becca. So many shitty things happen to so many people; somehow cancer is the thing that made other people change their behavior. Maybe it was that Becca’s illness had been so visible; not only in her diminished physical appearance, but in the gaping hole of her absence, too. I quelled the bit of jealousy I had, trying not to remember how few people acknowledged my dad’s death when I came back to school after the summer.
Becca stayed home the rest of the week by order of her mom, who gave her the choice of going to school or Dead of Winter Con. She also offered her a home visit from Rabbi Schulman, but Becca feigned a headache to get out of it. Her mom had been spending a hell of a lot of time with Rabbi Schulman. Becca didn’t mind, since it meant her mom was out of her (minuscule) hair and Caleb could homeschool Becca on all kinds of matters. It pissed me off, though, that her mom would be gone so much. What if Becca were to die? And her mom missed out on all of that time with her, just to ask God that she live? Nothing made sense.
Thursday afternoon, I received a text from Becca.
#22 completed
Becca took a bath at someone else’s house.
So you’re breaking and entering,
I texted.
Is that what we’re calling it now? ;) Caleb’s house has very small bathtubs, FYI.
I wanted to be happy for Becca, as jazzed about her sexual exploits as she always was for mine. But did that mean my time with the list was over? That she didn’t need me anymore? If she didn’t, who did?
Try not to get stuck,
I texted, and tried to laugh at the possibilities of misinterpretation. But nothing felt funny when I was laughing at it alone.
Friday morning, I made another Fuck-It List attempt.
Today is #20.
You’re dressed like a prostitute?
Yes.
How?
I’m wearing hoop earrings.
Whore.
At lunchtime, I wasn’t in the mood for the ultra-vapid conversation, so I took my hot pretzel and Coke and snuck my way down the quiet halls.
Pulling my key ring out of my pocket, I gingerly inserted the key Leo had given me, my first and only present from him. The door to the book closet clicked open, and I entered the forbidden space.
It was a shithole.
The last time I had been there was after Leo’s brother’s funeral, and I had managed to nicely destroy any semblance of order the room held. I picked up the first book my shoe hit.
Fahrenheit 451.
I reached over and placed it on a shelf.
One down, thirty trillion to go.
I worked this way through the lunch hour, then, upon hearing the bell ring and the hallway fill with students, decided to stay through art. Then calculus and history.
When the bell rang signaling the end of the day, I continued to work. I felt like Bastian, up in the attic of his school in
The NeverEnding Story
. If only I had a sandwich to nibble on, so I could say to myself, “No. Not too much. We still have a long way to go.…”
The floor was cleared and the shelves filled around six o’clock. I felt not only a sense of accomplishment, but that somehow putting this room back together signified something great. Not great meaning good, but great in that there were possibilities. Even good ones. Which was new to me and scarier than the prospect of living on top of an Indian burial ground.
BECCA HAD A BREAK
from radiation for the weekend, and she was determined not to let her wobbly legs stop her from achieving her butt-touching dreams.
“The plan is,” she explained on the drive to Dead of Winter Con, “we scope out the joint first. Get the lay of the land. We’ll find Jamie Bamber’s booth, see how long his lines are, and assess the most optimum time for an autograph. When that time comes, I’ll play up the cancer angle and lure him out from behind his table for a close-encounter picture. Then, while you pretend you don’t know how to work my camera, I’ll put my hand on his butt.”
“Why do I have to pretend that I can’t work a camera?”
“It adds tension. It’s how I envisioned it.” Becca vibrated with excitement in her bubblegum pink wig.
“I hope you don’t freak him out,” Becca added, looking me over. I woke up extra early to ensure my blood was distributed in a grotesque, yet natural, fashion.
“Me freak him out? This is expected. It’s a horror convention. I’m not the one grabbing genitalia.”
“I’m not grabbing genitalia! Butts are not genitalia!”
“Calm down. I just wanted to use the word. I didn’t know you’d have an aneurysm over it.”
Speaking of aneurysms, I also spent a good portion of the morning and previous night pre-enacting scenarios of running into Leo. What if he ignored me? Pretended he didn’t know who I was?
What if he was with another girl?
We arrived at the convention center and followed the herd of costumed kindred spirits into the hall. The walls were lined with vendors selling everything from bootlegged DVDs to homemade dead babies. D-level celebrities with huge, fake boobs attempted to lure lonely fanboys in for a photo and fifty-dollar autograph. We watched a twenty-something girl break down crying after meeting the star of
Gremlins
. The place was a freak show, and I reveled in it. The spirit of horror filled me, and I immediately plunked down forty dollars for a
Children of the Corn
DVD, signed by Malachai himself. “You were totally scary,” I told him. He thanked me, although as I walked off I wondered if that was a compliment. He was mostly scary because of how naturally creepy-looking he was.
Becca’s mom asked me to watch over her, make sure she sat down to rest even before she needed to. We made a habit of popping a squat at every corner of the hall, where others congregated to sift through their swag. People-watching at cons was one of my favorite parts of the experience. Grown men who spent their days as personal bankers changed into Rick Grimes and Freddy Krueger. Mild-mannered secretaries shed their clothes and showed off their stretch marks to the world. Nobody judged. My favorite costume at the con was a man wearing a psycho rubber baby mask, a tiny t-shirt, and a giant diaper, his hairy legs and oversized white gym shoes adding to the dementedness. I had Becca take a picture for my Facebook profile, and we moved on to the Fuck-It List quest.
No Leo sightings yet.
Jamie Bamber’s booth was in a row amid other actors from horror and sci-fi TV shows. I usually had to look at the signs behind them to figure out who they were, if I recognized them at all. Jamie looked different from the military Apollo, even after his character turned into a politician and wore a pin-striped suit and longer hair. Bamber’s con hair was wild and outgrown, as though to prove to the world that he was nothing like his somewhat tight-assed TV character. Of course, that show ended years ago, so maybe he grew his hair out for a role. I always wondered what it was like for actors signing at cons; was it a happy occasion, greeting fans, or did they feel pathetic in some way that their fame was stuck in a past life? What if I made one horror film that everyone loved, and then a bunch of movies most people hated? Would I be okay, signing Blu-ray covers at horror conventions, only to be remembered for my single triumph? Hell yeah, I would. It’s better than not being remembered at all.
We camped out on a floor spot with optimum Bamber vision and pulled out the snacks Becca’s mom forced us to bring. Becca was so enchanted with Jamie Bamber that she missed her mouth every time she attempted to insert a pretzel stick. “He’s cute, right? Definitely not Fat Apollo.” Bamber looked to be in excellent shape, wearing a t-shirt that showed off his efforts at the gym. “Why is his line so short?” Becca’s eyes remained fixed on Bamber.
“Chewbacca’s next to him. That’s hard to compete with. Plus, Chewbacca’s like two feet taller than him.” One thing you learned going to cons is that most celebrities, unless they were playing a Wookie, were much shorter than they appeared on screen.
“When there are two people in line, we’ll go.” I was about to ask her how she chose that arbitrarily small number, but she sprung into action mode instantly and announced, “Two! There are two! It’s go time!” I helped her off the floor, and she adjusted her wig and I
♥
Fat Apollo t-shirt before we stepped into his line. Becca gripped my hand as we waited and watched him smile for the fans in front of us. He looked rather darling, and I was sucked in, thinking of the countless hours I’d spent watching him on TV. Soon it was our turn, and I was glad this was Becca’s show. She deserved something this great in her life. Becca strode right up to Bamber’s table, and drew his attention to her shirt with a flourish of her hands.
“I will never live that down,” he laughed. I had completely forgotten he was British.
“You do an amazing American accent,” I told him as Becca fished some money out of her wallet. Another hilarious aspect of cons was how you were talking to someone you admired, but at the same time you had to ask them how much money it cost to pay for their autograph. Jamie was smart and had a handler to take the money. Some celebrities were alone at their booths and looked mortified every time they had to interrupt a gushing fan to collect cash. I stood back and let Becca charm him with her crazy fangirl chatter. He politely smiled and said things to make her laugh. When it came time for the picture, it was Jamie who asked if Becca wanted him to come around his table. Some celebrities would only lean over a table, so the pictures turned out to be you leaning backward against a table with a celebrity torso next to you. The cool ones came out, put their arms over your shoulders and acted like your best friend for thirty seconds. I played my part of bumbling photographer. “Is this where I press?” I asked, like a ninety-year-old woman. Becca took her cue, and I watched as she slowly, subtly moved her hand into position. “One, two, three!” I cried, and just as the picture snapped, Becca offered her hand on Jamie Bamber’s ass.
“Whoa!” He jumped forward. I took picture after ass-groping picture to capture the hilarity of the moment. Stunned but not angry, Jamie looked at her in a jokingly scolding manner.
Becca gave her sweetest grin and told him, “Sorry! I have cancer and just had to do that.” He looked confused, so she rambled on, “I wrote this bucket list, but we called it the Fuck-It List, and one of the things on it was to touch your butt and I never really thought I’d have the chance to do it especially because I got cancer but then you were here and I’m in radiation now and thank you—” I pulled her away as she finished. “You have a really solid butt!”
Jamie, ever the British gentleman, nodded a “you’re welcome,” and we ran off. I was laughing so hard that I didn’t realize Becca sat down to rest somewhere behind me. I stopped walking and turned around to sit with her. Together, we panted and laughed and flipped through the pictures to relive the moment we just had. I hadn’t noticed that two Chuck-wearing feet approached me until someone tapped my heel with his. I looked up, and there was Leo.
“HEY.” LEO NUDGED
my shoe. I stood up so his towering height was a bit less towering. Not seeing him for so long, I thought I was over the magnetic quality his body had with mine. Not so much. He looked really good. “You shaved your head,” I noted, and reached up to feel it. He only slightly recoiled.
“We match.” Becca smiled. Leo forcibly smiled back.
“I’m Brian, by the way. Thanks for introducing me, bro.” Leo’s friend extended a hand for me to shake, then down to Becca. He didn’t go to our school, but I had seen him with Leo once or twice on stalking expeditions. And Jason’s funeral. He wore a slight pompadour in his dyed black hair and carried a friendly rockabilly vibe.
“That’s a good look for you.” Leo reached for my face, and it took me a melty second to realize he was talking about my fake blood. He touched a dangling bit of flesh, but none of my own. I smelled cigarettes on his hand.
“Thanks. It’s not real, in case you were worried,” I told him.
“Worry about you? I’m sure you can handle yourself,” Leo quipped. I didn’t know if he thought that was a good or bad thing.
“Did you guys go to any panels?” asked Brian. The conversation turned lighthearted, or as lighthearted as one can get when talking about
Deathbox 4
. I tried to stop myself from staring at Leo. Had he really said he loved me once? Where would we be now if his brother hadn’t died? If Becca didn’t have cancer? If my dad hadn’t died? Would he have stayed a distant object of my imagination? Tragedy is what brought us together. And then pushed us apart.