Then, out of the blue, Aaron Winer saved the day. He took her to some movie and made out with her in the back row. The next day at school, they were boyfriend and girlfriend. Bam! Problem solved. I pretended to be bitter about this, but in fact I was so relieved that I started laughing hysterically in history class and had to be excused to go to the nurse.
And that was that. During high school I didn’t even bother with girls or girl tactics. Frankly, the Mariah thing completely cured me of wanting to have a girlfriend. If it was going to be like that, then screw it.
Cameron “Cammie” Marshall is now captain of the Math League. She still has a Hello Kitty backpack, which might not be ironic. She is definitely not the hottest girl in her class anymore, although I think that does not really bother her all that much.
Madison Hartner is smokin’ hot and probably dates one of the Pittsburgh Steelers or something.
Leah Katzenberg has a shaved head and a bunch of metal embedded in various parts of her face, and four out of five Benson English teachers have given up trying to make her read books written by men.
Mara LaBastille and her two equally phenomenal boobs went to a different high school.
Mariah Epps is a theater girl now. She has a posse of 100 percent gay male sidekicks, including Justin Howell, and holy shit, do they do a lot of talking.
Rachel Kushner got acute myelogenous leukemia our senior year.
I found out about Rachel’s leukemia pretty much as soon as I got home.
So, just to repeat, the first day of senior year had been, if not awesome, then unexpectedly non-horrible. Everyone, from wealthy designer-nosed Olivia Ryan to Nizar the Surly Syrian, thought I was OK, and no one was actively plotting my downfall. This was unprecedented. Plus, in general things were a lot less stressful, now that there weren’t upperclassmen who could squirt mustard packets at my head or backpack. That is what being a senior is all about. My teachers were talking a lot of trash about how hard class was going to be, but by senior year, you realize that all teachers say that every year, and they are always lying.
My life had reached its highest point. I had no way of knowing that as soon as Mom walked in, the prime of my life was over. It had lasted about eight hours.
INT. MY BEDROOM — DAY
GREG is sitting on his bed. He has just gotten home from school and is trying to read A Tale of Two Cities for class, but it is difficult for him to maintain focus, because inside his pants he has AN INEXPLICABLE BONER. An image of some BOOBS on GREG’S LAPTOP, open nearby, is not helping things. There is a KNOCK at the door.
MOM
offscreen
Greg? Honey? Can I come in and talk to you?
GREG
quietly
Fuck fuck fuck
MOM
entering room as GREG conspicuously shuts his computer
Honey, how are you doing.
MOM squats down on the floor in front of the bed with her arms folded. Her eyebrows are scrunched, she has a crease in her forehead, and she is staring Greg in the eyes without blinking. These are all reliable signs that she is about to ask Greg to do SOMETHING ANNOYING.
GREG’S INEXPLICABLE BONER is in full retreat.
MOM
again
Honey? Are you doing OK?
GREG
What?
MOM
after a long silence
I have some really sad news for you, honey. I’m so sorry.
CLOSE-UP of Greg’s confused face as he considers what this news might be. DAD isn’t home. Maybe the university fired him? For weirdness? Can you get fired for weirdness? Or maybe all along Dad has led a secret double life as a CRIMINAL MASTERMIND? And now he’s been discovered, and the family has to flee to an undisclosed ISLAND in the Caribbean? Where they will live in a little hut with a rusty tin roof and AN ACTUAL GOAT? And will there be LOCAL GIRLS with coconut halves on their boobs and skirts made of foliage? Or is that Hawaii? Greg is mistakenly thinking of Hawaii.
GREG
OK.
MOM
I just got off the phone with Denise Kushner. Rachel’s mom? Do you know Denise?
GREG
Not really.
MOM
But you’re friends with Rachel.
GREG
Sort of.
MOM
You two had kind of a thing, right? She was your girlfriend?
GREG
feeling uneasy
That was like six years ago.
MOM
Honey, Rachel has been diagnosed with leukemia. Denise just found out.
GREG
Oh.
after a short silence, stupidly
Is that serious?
MOM
now starting to cry a little bit
Oh, honey. They don’t know. They’re doing tests, and they’re gonna do all they can. But they just don’t know.
leaning forward
Sweetie, I’m so sorry about this. It’s really not fair. It’s not fair.
GREG
sounding even more like an idiot
Uh . . . it sucks.
MOM
You’re right. You’re absolutely right. It does suck.
passionately, and also bizarrely, because parents don’t say that things suck
It does suck. It really, really
sucks.
GREG
still struggling to find something appropriate to say, and failing
This, uh, just sucks . . . really bad.
maybe if he keeps talking, he will say something that is not stupid?
It sucks so hard.
Jesus.
Man.
MOM
breaking down
It sucks. You’re right. It just really sucks so hard. Greg. Oh my poor baby. It sucks so very much.
GREG, feeling just insanely awkward, gets off the bed and on the floor and tries to hug his MOM, who is rolling back and forth on the balls of her feet, crying. They SQUAT-HUG for a while.
CLOSE-UP of Greg’s confused and kind of blank face; obviously he’s upset, but actually the really upsetting thing is that he’s not as sad as his mom—not even close—and he feels guilty and sort of resentful about this. Does Mom even know Rachel that well? No. Why is Mom FREAKING OUT SO MUCH about this? Although, at the same time, why isn’t Greg freaking out more? Is Greg a bad person for not needing to cry about this? Greg has a premonition that this is going to turn into some REALLY ANNOYING, TIME-CONSUMING THING.
MOM
finally crying less
Sweetie, Rachel is going to need her friends now more than ever.
GREG
uhhh
MOM
again, forcefully
Now more than ever. I know it’s hard, but you don’t have a choice. It’s a mitzvah.
“Mitzvah” is Hebrew for “colossal pain in the ass.”
GREG
umm
MOM
The more time you spend with her, just, you know, the more difference you can make in her life.
GREG
Huh.
MOM
It sucks. But you have to be strong. You have to be a good friend.
It definitely sucked. What the hell was I supposed to do? How would it make things better if I were to call up and finally offer to hang out? What would I even say? “Hey, I heard you got leukemia. Sounds like you need an emergency prescription . . . for Greg-acil.” I didn’t know, for starters, what leukemia was. I reopened my computer.
That was when, for a second or two, Mom and I were looking at boobs.
MOM
disgusted
Ugh, Greg.
GREG
How did those get there?!
MOM
Let me ask you—do you actually like looking at those? They look so fake.
GREG
You know what this is? They, uh, have these new pop-up ads on Facebook, and they’re basically just porn–they just appear randomly sometimes—
/>
MOM
Real breasts do not look like water balloons.
GREG
It’s an ad.
MOM
Greg, I’m not stupid.
So it turns out leukemia is cancer of the blood cells. It’s the most common kind of cancer that teenagers get, although the specific kind Rachel had—acute myelogenous leukemia—is not the normal kind for teens. “Acute” means that the leukemia basically came out of nowhere and is growing really quickly, and “myelogenous” has to do with bone marrow. Essentially, Rachel’s blood and bone marrow were being invaded by aggressive, fast-moving cancer cells. I was picturing her in my mind, with her big teeth and frizzy hair, under this invisible microscopic attack, with all these screwed-up things floating around in her veins. Now I actually was getting really upset. But instead of crying, I sort of wanted to throw up.
GREG
Does everyone know about this?
MOM
I think Rachel’s family is keeping it pretty secret, for now.
GREG
alarmed
So am I not supposed to know about it?
MOM
acting a little weird
No, honey. It’s fine if you know about it.
GREG
But why?
MOM
Well, I was talking to Denise. And, you know, we decided that you were someone who could make Rachel feel better.
starting to nag
Rachel can really use a friend, honey.
GREG
OK.
MOM
She can really use someone to make her laugh.
GREG
OK OK.
MOM
And I just think, if you spend some time—
GREG
OK OK Jesus Christ.
Mom gives Greg a sad and knowing look.
MOM
It’s OK to be upset.
I sat there, paralyzed by the problem of what to say. What can you possibly say to a dying person? Who might not even know that you know that they’re dying? I made a list of opening lines, and none of them seemed like they would be any good.
Opening line:
Hey, this is Greg. You want to hang out?
Probable response:
Rachel: Why do you want to hang out with me all of a sudden?
Greg: Because we don’t have that much time left, to hang out.
Rachel: So, you just want to hang out with me because I’m dying.
Greg: I just want to get in some Rachel time! You know! While I still can.
Rachel: This is probably the most insensitive conversation I have ever had with anyone.
Greg: Do-over time.
Opening line:
Hey, this is Greg. I heard about your leukemia, and I’m calling to make you feel better.
Probable response:
Rachel: Why would you calling make me feel better?
Greg: Because! Uh. I dunno!
Rachel: You’re just reminding me of all those times you never wanted to hang out with me.
Greg: Hoo boy.
Rachel: Right now, you’re screwing up my last days of existence. That’s what you’re doing.
Greg:
Rachel: I have just a few more days on this earth, and you’re smearing your barf on those days.
Greg: Fuck, let me try this again.
Opening line:
Hey, this is Greg. You, me, and some pasta makes three.
Probable response:
Rachel: Huh?
Greg: I’m taking you out on a date. Greg style.
Rachel: What?
Greg: Listen to me. Our remaining days with each other are few, and precious. Let’s make up for lost time. Let’s be together.
Rachel: Oh my God, that’s so romantic.
Greg:
Greg: Damn it.
There just wasn’t a good way to do it. Mom was asking me to resume a friendship that had no honest foundation and ended on screamingly awkward terms. How do you do that? You can’t.
“Hello? Who is this?” said Rachel’s mom over the phone. She sounded aggressive and was kind of barking like a dog. This was standard behavior for Mrs. Kushner.
“Uh, hi, this is Greg,” I said. Then for some reason, instead of asking for Rachel’s number, I said, “How are you doing?”
“Gre-e-e-eg,” oozed Mrs. Kushner. “I’m fi-i-i-ine.” Boom. In an instant, her tone had changed completely. This was a side of her I had never seen, nor had I ever hoped to see it.
“That’s great,” I said.
“Greg, how are you-u-u-u.” She was now using a voice that women usually reserve for cats.
“Uh, good,” I said.
“And how is schoo-o-o-o-ool.”
“Just trying to get it over with,” I said, then immediately realized what a colossally stupid thing that was to say to someone whose daughter had cancer, and I almost hung up. But then she said: “Greg, you’re so funny. You’ve always been such a funny kid.”
It sounded like she meant it, but she wasn’t laughing at all. This was getting even weirder than I had feared.
“I was calling to maybe get Rachel’s number,” I said.
“She. Would. Love. To hear from you.”
“Yup,” I agreed.
“She’s in her room right now, just waiting around.”
I had no idea what to make of that sentence. In her room, just waiting around. Waiting for me? Or for death? My God, that’s bleak. I tried to put a positive spin on it.
“Livin’ it up,” I said.
This was the second brain-punchingly insensitive thing I had said in about thirty seconds, and again I considered closing my cell phone and eating it.
But: “Greg, you have such a good sense of humor,” Mrs. Kushner informed me. “Never let them take that away from you, all right? Always keep your sense of humor.”
“‘Them’?” I said, alarmed.
“People,” Mrs. Kushner said. “The whole world.”
“Huh,” I said.
“The world tries to just beat you down, Greg,” announced Mrs. Kushner. “They just want to crush the life out of you.” I had no response to this, and then she said, “I don’t even know what I’m saying.”
Mrs. Kushner had lost it. It was time to ride the wave or drown in a sea of crazy.
“Hallelujah,” I said. “Preach.”
“Preach,” she crowed. She actually cackled. “Greg!”
“Mrs. Kushner!”
“You can call me Denise,” she said, terrifyingly.
“Awesome,” I said.
“Here’s Rachel’s number,” said Denise, and gave it to me, and thank God, that was that. It almost made me relieved to talk to my sort-of-kinda-not-really ex-girlfriend about her imminent death.
“Hi, this is Rachel.”
“Hey, this is Greg.”
“Hi.”
“Yo.”
“. . .”
“I called the doctor and he said you needed a prescription of Greg-acil.”
“What’s that.”
“That’s me.”
“Oh.”
“Uh, in convenient gel-tab form.”
“Oh.”
“Yeahhhh.”
“So I guess you heard that I’m sick.”
“Yeahhhh.”
“Did my mom tell you?”
“Uh, my mom told me.”
“Oh.”
“So, uh.”
“What?”
“What?”
“What were you going to say?”
“Uhhh.”
“Greg, what?”
“Well, I was calling . . . to see . . . if you wanted to hang out.”
“Right now?”
“Uh, sure.”
“No thanks.”
“Uh . . . you don’t want to hang out?”
“No, thanks anyway.”
“Well, maybe later then.”
“Maybe later.”
“OK, uh . . . bye.”
I hung up feeling like the biggest douchebag in the world. Somehow the conversation was 100 percent what I was expecting, yet I still managed to be blindsided by it. By the way, this kind of awkward fiasco was always what happened when Mom tried to get involved in my social life. Let me point out here that it’s acceptable for moms to try to run their kids’ social lives when the kids are in kindergarten or whatever. But I have a mom who didn’t stop scheduling play dates for me until I reached the ninth grade. The worst part of that was that the only other twelve and thirteen-year-olds whose moms scheduled their play dates were kids with mild to serious developmental disorders. I’m not going to go into detail about that, but let’s just say that it was emotionally scarring and is possibly a reason I spend so much time freaking out and pretending to be dead.
Anyway. What you’re seeing here is just part of a larger pattern of Mom-Greg Life Interference. She was without a doubt the single biggest obstacle between me and the social life that I was trying to describe before: a social life without friends, enemies, or awkwardness.
I guess I should introduce my family. Please forgive me if this sucks.
Again, let’s try and get this over with as quickly as possible.
Dr. Victor Gaines: That would be my dad, a professor of classics at Carnegie Mellon University. No human being is weirder than Victor Quincy Gaines, PhD. My theory on Dad is that he was a party animal in the ’80s, and drugs and alcohol have partially unraveled the wiring of his brain. One of his favorite things to do is sit in a rocking chair in the living room, rock back and forth, and stare at the wall. Around the house he usually wears a muumuu, which is essentially a blanket with holes cut in it, and he talks to the cat, Cat Stevens, as if he were a real human being.
It’s hard not to be envious of Dad. He teaches at most two classes per semester, usually one, and that seems to occupy a very small percentage of his week. Sometimes they give him the entire year off to write a book. Dad has very little patience for most of the other professors he works with. He thinks they whine too much. Dad spends a lot of his time at specialty food shops on the Strip, chatting with the owners and buying obscure animal products that no one else in the family will eat, like yak tripe and ostrich sausage and dried cuttlefish.
Me and Earl and the Dying Girl Page 3