The F- It List Part 22

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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 Kardashian'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 Kardashian'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?"

"Yours would be Blackie."

"What?" I demanded. "That sounds kind of racist."

"I meant because you wear black. Like the color of your heart.

Geez. I'll think of another one. How about Sleazy? Like the Ke$ha song."

"You and your Ke$ha." I had an epiphany. "You should totally make that your Make- A-Wish. Meeting Ke$ha."

"That's really good. But what about Jamie Bamber?" she mused.

"True. There's no way he could say no to you touching his a.s.s if that was your Make- A-Wish wish," I claimed.

"So I should tell them my wish is to touch Jamie Bamber's a.s.s?"

she asked.

"I wonder if people ever make wishes like that. You know there's some twelve- year- old girl with cancer asking to fl ip tongues with Justin Bieber."

"You're sick."

"No, you're sick. I'm just trying to make your wishes come true."

--1 A light tap sounded from Becca's bedroom window.

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"What was that?" she asked. The same sound, louder next time, pinged off the gla.s.s. "Go see."

I slid off the bed and walked over to the window. Caleb stood in his bedroom with his window open, holding an envelope in his hand and waving. I slid open Becca's window.

"Hi?" I questioned.

"You're not Rebecca. Is she there?" Caleb's voice was power- fully low, his muscles so large it looked like his church retreat t-shirt could barely contain them.

"I'm Alex." I looked back at the bed to see Becca waving her hands no at me. "Becca is ... indisposed at the moment. Can I be of ser vice to you?"

"I have something for Rebecca. Becca? If you wouldn't mind giving it to her."

I fumbled with the screen until it rose up, and Caleb and I leaned out our windows toward each other. His arms were long and mus- cularly veiny. I bet if I fell from the window, he would have eas- ily reached down with one arm to catch me. I grabbed the white envelope and landed back on Becca's fl oor. "Make sure she gets it, okay?"

"Sure. I will."

"Thank you." He nodded and closed his screen, then his win- dow. I did the same, then dove onto Becca's bed.

"Holy s.h.i.t. I bet it's a marriage proposal. He wants you to run away with him to an Amish village or something."

"He's not Amish, or he wouldn't be my next- door neighbor,"

Becca reminded me. "Open it. Last time I opened a letter I got a paper -1- cut, and it's taking forever to heal."

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I gingerly ripped open the plain envelope. On the front was writ- ten, "Rebecca."

"I like how he called you Rebecca. So formal. I'm telling you, he's going to ask for your hand in marriage. Wait, there would need to be some courting fi rst."

"The last time his mom talked to my mom was probably fi fteen years ago when she insisted on calling me that. They're not the friend- liest neighbors to have, and my mom is too uptight."

"All this makes the proposal so much more romantic."

"Oh my G.o.d stop. Give me the letter."

Together we read it in silence.

Dear Rebecca, I know you don't know me, but I have seen you coming and going from your house lately in less than your usual shape. I wanted to check in and ask if you are okay and if you need anything. As you know, I'm right next door and almost always home. Just throw something at my window.

Sincerely, Caleb P.S. I want to thank you for your visit to my window a few weeks ago. I hope that wasn't a lone incident.

"Ha!" I blurted. "He totally wants to see your b.o.o.bs again! 'Lone incident.' I bet he had a lone incident after that, if you know what I'm saying."

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