The F- It List

by Julie Halpern

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.

  CHAPTER

  32

  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.

  CHAPTER

  33

  “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.

  Where were we now?

  I’ve heard countless people say bad things happen in threes. That never made sense to me. Shit happened all the time; how could anybody determine where the pattern of three ended and the next one began? Maybe Leo’s brother dying had nothing to do with my first two bad things. Maybe Becca was going to die. Or my mom. Or one of my brothers. Or both. If both of them died, did that count as one or two bad things?

  No, I didn’t believe in the “cycle of three bad things” any more than I believed in love at first sight and giving people the benefit of the doubt. Love was never going to be something you could find in the split-second glance of judgment we make on people we don’t know, and if people seemed like they were up to no good, chances are they were. My dad taught me that.

  Just because three horrible things happened, that didn’t mean more weren’t to come. Better to protect yourself than kick yourself later for being an asshole. Now, that was something I believed in.

  “Can someone help me up?” Becca asked, and before I could reach for her, Brian extended his hand. While they made with the niceties, Leo and I looked at each other, on the verge of words. I must have opened my mouth five times while trying to think of something to say. We looked like two fish in an aquarium.

  I studied Leo’s face, the straight lips, the too-sweet freckles, his translucent eyelashes. In that moment I hated myself for not trying to be there for him.

  Fish mouth again.

  Brian broke the underwater moment. “You guys want to come to the screening of Reanimator with us?”

  “I’m sure they’re busy,” Leo informed him.

  “Yeah,” I agreed out of obligation. “We can’t. I promised Becca’s mom I’d bring her home for dinner. She’s hardcore about making her eat her vegetables.” I looked at Becca, whose mom told her to stay out as long as she wanted.

  “Yeah.” She presented her best disappointed face, always the actress. “Maybe another time?” she asked.

  “Sure.” Brian smiled, googly eyed. If he only knew Becca was attached to a homeschool beefcake.

  Not knowing how to say good-bye, nor really wanting to, I blurted, “Want to get coffee sometime?” at Leo, a line direct from the list of top asshole-isms.

  “Maybe,” Leo answered, kind of sounding like an asshole himself.

  “That would be great,” Becca pushed. That he would maybe want to get coffee with me? I felt like I was morphing into one gigantic asshole as we spoke. Like, literally a human-sized hole in an ass.

  “Better get in line so we can get seats. Nice meeting you guys.” Brian winked. I always said never trust a winker.

  Or anyone else for that matter.

  Leo and Brian walked away, and Becca and I headed for my car. “What happened?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?” I played dumb. Or maybe I just was.

  “That was your big chance to charm Leo back into your evil clutches, and you totally choked.”

  “I didn’t choke. He didn’t want to see me. Or watch Reanimator with me. Or drink hot caffeinated beverages with me.” I stomped ahead of Becca, who called after me, “Slow down!”

  I stopped and waited for her to catch up. “I need to sit down,” she said. We plopped down on a parking block, so Becca could rest.

  “I fucked this up, didn’t I? Not just today, but, like, forever.”

  “Possibly not. Leo did say maybe. He could have flat-out said no and called you a twat.”

  “Leo has never used the word ‘twat’,” I guessed.

  “Well, more people should.”

  “Do you think I’m a twat?”

  “Not all the time.” I flicked Becca’s arm. “Watch it. I bruise easily. What I meant was, maybe you are a twat sometimes, but Leo already knew that. Maybe he understands. I mean, you just lost your dad, and then his brother goes and dies. People deal with death in all sorts of weird ways.”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed, Davis Humper.”

  “Did you seriously just use the word ‘hump’?”

  “Don’t forget Davis.”

  “Wish I could.”

  That night, as I replayed every detail of my debacle with Leo, my phone buzzed on my nightstand. It was a text. From Leo.

  Yes to coffee. Tomorrow?

  Fuckbaskets. What made him change his mind? Was this his opportunity to tell me off? To make up? To introduce me to his fiancée?

  I didn’t want to wait and give him a chance to change his mind.

  Have to work tomorrow.

  After work

  OK. 7:30 @ Brew Town?

  OK

  I waited for more texts, felt like I should say something else but lacked the words to express anything. What would I express if I had? I wished my mom had homeschooled me, so I had the gall to write sappy love notes like Caleb. But Leo wasn’t the sappy love-note type. I didn’t think. Whether or not he was, I wasn’t. I couldn’t even handle those three little words.

  I handled liking the guy who said them even less.

  CHAPTER

  34

  I WAS A JANGLY BALL of stress all day at Cellar. Too many hunks of turkey and plops of mayonnaise missed their bread, and my feet were surrounded by casualties.

  “Are you on the rag or something?” accused Doug. “You’re surlier than ever today.”

  “Maybe. Want me to pull out my bloody tampon and show you?” That shut him up. Guys seemed much better equipped at handling the hypothetically hormonal aspect of menstruation than the actual act.

  My shift ended at seven. Brew Town was only two stores away, and I used the extra half hour to change out of my subby shirt and into one that didn’t smell quite as much like roast beef. At 7:25, I ascended the stairs and walked out the door of Cellar. There, two doors down, leaning against the storefront with a cigarette in his hand, was Leo.

  He wore a heavy
black down jacket and a black winter hat over his buzzed hair. He looked around nonchalantly, either not in a rush to find me or really just taking in the sights. When our eyes met, he brought the cigarette to his lips, took a long drag, blew out the smoke, then stamped out the rest of the cigarette with his shoe. It could have been a calculated move to show me that he was smoking again, that I had no influence over him. Or maybe he started smoking again because of other reasons. Because the world was oh-so-far from revolving around me.

  I approached Leo, and he eased himself out of his window lean.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey,” he repeated. He held the door open for me with his back, hands in his pockets. Without taking off his coat, he slid into a table near the window.

  “What do you want?” I asked, standing next to him. He looked at me, almost annoyed. “Coffee?” I pushed.

  “Oh. Large. Black.”

  I didn’t bother asking him which brew. I guessed that wasn’t something he cared much about. At the counter, I ordered him a medium roast and hoped it was the right choice. I selected a mocha for myself. When the barista asked for the name on my order, I told him, “Ash,” the name of Bruce Campbell’s character in the Evil Dead movies. I thought maybe it would soften the situation. I waited by the counter for the drinks, and when the barista called, “Ash,” I looked over at Leo for approval. He watched passersby at the window. I was pissed at myself for bothering.

  “Your black coffee.” I delivered the cup in front of Leo, drawing his attention back inside. I shook off my coat but left on my gloves, fingerless ones that converted into mittens.

  “Thanks,” Leo offered flatly, and poured a heaping amount of sugar into his cup.

  I felt like I was supposed to talk. But what about? The easiest segue into conversation was Dead of Winter Con, so I took it.

  “How was Reanimator?”

  “The same as it always is.” Leo didn’t look at me when he answered.

  He stirred his coffee. I blew on mine. An imaginary clock ticked loudly in my brain.