Dessert First

by Dean Gloster

  When they stopped chemo-drip-poisoning him, Hunter got better. Then all he had to deal with was cancer. He felt so good, he even asked me to a dance.

  Hunter, it turned out, was going to his senior prom by phone, and would get the streaming video and audio on his computer, while he sat in his hospital room. That way, he could see his friends and classmates, and they could see him, and he could have the feeling of normal life. (Which is what? Sorry.) He also, though, had this goofier idea he should virtually bring me. “You can be on Google Hangouts or on Skype on the other computer,” he explained. “And I’ll pull up the video of the dance on a big window on one screen, and you can look at it at the same time I do, and people can see you in your video window along with me, and we can go together.”

  “I don’t know anyone there,” I said. “And I’m not sure how fun it’ll be watching you dance by cell phone with ex-girlfriends and other girls.”

  “It’ll be fine. I’ll introduce you to everyone. My friends. By video.”

  “Yeah. Great. ‘Hi, dressed-up dancing friends having fun. Here’s a tiny video of my friend Kat, who’s randomly sitting at a computer in California, not having fun. What’s she doing here? She doesn’t know either.’”

  “I want to take you,” he said.

  “And I want you to get all better, but that’s not exactly on schedule either. You go, and tell me about it after.”

  In the end, he played the I’m-dying-of-cancer-so-you-have-to card, which was totally unfair. “Otherwise, I might not ever get to take you to a dance, Complicated Girl.”

  “Fine,” I agreed after he wore me down. But I wasn’t sure it’d be fine at all.

  51

  I didn’t get a new dress for the big event, but I did put on the fanciest one I had, deep blue silk with a semi-plunging neckline. The hem was long, more go-to-funeral-and-be-solemn than go-dancing-and-get-flirty, but I wasn’t planning to dance anyway. My hair was still a freakish disaster. Now that it had grown out a little, amazingly, it looked even worse—like my head had suffered some horrible lawn-mower accident while I was sleeping in a park, but they’d missed a tuft at the top, which flopped over, now that it was too long to stick up. But I bought a blue-and-purple silk headscarf with gold highlights at Sari Palace on University Avenue, which covered the whole scene-of-the-hair crime. The colors made me look semi-interesting. I thought Hunter’s friends might even cut me some slack, figuring I was another bald cancer patient Hunter had met. I helped myself to part of Rachel’s vast collection of eye shadow, eyeliner, and blush, and I worked my way up to a dramatic look, trying to stop short of Kayla-Southerland-style scary excess.

  At about the last possible moment, I signed on, and sat in front of the little camera in my computer.

  “Wow,” Hunter said. “You look great.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “Completely covered up is my hair’s best look. But you look terrific.”

  He did. His mom had rented him a blue tux, which he’d put on from the waist up. (The rest of him was under the covers of the hospital bed, so never mind.) He looked radiant—maybe a little loopy from a fresh morphine dose, but happy and excited.

  Hunter’s mom, standing by his bed, made a fuss, and insisted on taking a “prom picture” of the two of us, on split screen, in a computer window. Hunter couldn’t stop smiling, and for a couple of minutes I thought the whole remote-prom thing would actually be okay-weird instead of awful-weird.

  Then his mom set up the last bit of the technology bridge, to get Hunter to his prom by phone, with me tagging along, and excused herself. “I guess I should leave you two to your dance . . .” she said uncertainly, like she’d be happy to be invited to stay and hover.

  “’Bye, Mom,” Hunter said. “I’ll text if there’s a problem.”

  And then there was the boom of thumping bass and jostled wobbly video, and we were at his prom, carried around as a phone. The music blared in the background, too loud, and people had to yell over it into the phone to be heard. Hunter yelled back, and they could barely make him out. No one could hear me at all.

  “Dude!” his friend Michael yelled, his face close in the phone. “Welcome to prom!”

  “Michael, here’s my non-Canadian girlfriend—” Hunter pointed, I guess, toward me on the computer screen propped up beside him on his bed.

  “So great to see you!” Michael bellowed. But he was yelling to Hunter, not to me.

  Different guys and girls kept carrying the phone out to the lobby, where the music wasn’t quite so loud so they could have holler-conversations about who was there with what girl or boy and what different colleges they were going to next year, and how basketball season went. After the first couple of pointless tries to introduce me to people who could barely see my picture on the tiny phone screen, Hunter gave up introducing me at all.

  I sat, with my hands on my lap, wearing a frozen smile. This was so fun. From that point on, the fact Hunter had “brought a date” went completely unnoticed. Different girls took turns dancing with the phone, doing full body scans of their skimpy prom dresses, spinning in awkward circles to the music, shaking the phone in nausea-making wobbles.

  Then different girls took turns kissing the phone. From what I saw, while I was mostly trying not to look too much, so many girls kissed that phone it probably caused a schoolwide mono outbreak.

  Then a couple of them went all "girls gone wild" on Hunter, putting the phone down the front of their prom dresses. What was the point? With the plunging necklines, there wasn’t much mystery to begin with.

  “Got to go,” I said, after the third glimpse of bra and one actual nip-slip. I disconnected.

  I’m sorry, I private-messaged Hunter on Facebook. I’m glad you got to go to your prom. And I want you to get to hang out with your friends. But I had to go. It was hard for me (really hard) watching a bunch of other girls taking turns showing you their ta-tas. After kissing you by phone.

  I waited five minutes, but there was no reply, so I added. I mean, after _they_ kissed you by phone.

  Five more minutes. No reply. I tried for funny. On the plus side, you won’t have to all weird them out at Make-A-Wish, trying to get into a strip club, ’cause now you’ve basically (1) been there; (2) seen that. Also, you don’t have to ask the girls at school what’s shaking, ’cause they’ve already shown you.

  I waited fifteen minutes, but there was no reply. I guess Hunter was still promming out by phone, and someone else’s bra or nipple or tonsils up close was a lot more interesting than my mere words.

  Good-night, Hunter, I finally sent by message, wondering what they were showing him by then.

  Twenty minutes later, still no reply. It was 11 P.M. Hunter’s time, but still early in California, 8 P.M., so I had a long wait before anything resembling bedtime. I posted on Facebook and my blog, Having a miserable time, then I signed out of Facebook as Kat, to keep from going all stalker girl and sending Hunter six more unanswered messages.

  It was a painful reminder about where I really stood with Hunter, even though he typed “DBF” and claimed he was “in a relationship.” He was eighteen and cute and a basketball star. I was sixteen and me, and 3000 miles away. He had lots of friends and knew lots of girls who would be happy to be more than just friends, at least if his hair grew back and his guy equipment started working again.

  Maybe I was better than them at hanging out with someone who was sick. Maybe I sent funnier emails. But I wasn’t okay with sending him pictures of my boobs. Which, for the record, looked small and undernourished compared to the down-the-dress look he was getting from those senior girls at prom.

  I was just words. And I couldn’t compete with live girls, once he got out of the isolation unit. If he got well, he’d turn back into a cute basketball star, and I’d turn into what’s-her-name who used to send funny messages when he was sick. (“What was her name? Wait. I’ll think of it. An animal, with a K. Kitty or something . . . ?”)

  I logged back into Facebook as Cipher. Put a stat
us message up for her. Even virtual girls have difficult times with boys. Evan was online, so as Cipher, I shot him a private message.

  C: Hey, Skinnyboy—am having a bad night. (Really bad.) How ’bout you entertain me, while I untangle my poisonous tentacles?

  E: Boyfriend trouble?

  C: Not exactly, Skinnyboy. Noticed from your Facebook profile you’re still single. Whew! So what could be wrong?

  E: I think you’re having boyfriend trouble.

  C: More like, figuring I’ll never have a real boyfriend. We elusive online creatures are like that. But then, the real world is full of broken glass and razor wire, so it’s probably safer to drift through as an invisible, virtual girl. (And less scary for everyone else, since my poisonous tentacles don’t show.)

  E: You’ve never had a boyfriend?

  C: Not exactly. Had a massive crush on a guy last year. Won’t tell you details. He broke my heart, but probably didn’t notice. Maybe he was my boyfriend. He just didn’t know. Somehow, I forgot to tell him about the crush.

  E: I’m sure he saw it. Too late. Then wished he could have undone the damage.

  I wish. Was he speaking from experience there? Scary, especially if Evan ever figured out Cipher was me.

  C: Never, Skinnyboy, underestimate the ability of a guy to miss seeing how he’s stomped the female heart, right in front of him.

  That was a good description of Evan last year and tonight with Hunter. But I should add something reminding him I wasn’t real, or predictable.

  C: Also, you don’t know what you’re talking about, with all that certainty. I’m a mystery.

  E: Probably not as mysterious as you think.

  C: I’m more mysterious than I think. I have no idea how I manage to screw up my life. But I am, clearly, more talented at that than even I can imagine, and I’m partly imaginary.

  As soon as I hit send on that, I knew I’d gotten the tone wrong. Gone all grim instead of flirty. So I speed-typed a follow-on.

  C: Sorry. Ignore that last. Honesty leaked through. Going back to Snark n’ Flirt mode. We don’t do reality here. Too limiting and depressing.

  E: I wish I was your boyfriend. In the real world.

  What? Great. Now Evan was throwing himself at an online girl who didn’t really exist. And, unfortunately, I had real-world experience with Evan being someone’s girlfriend who wasn’t me.

  C: Ah! On to fantasy. Well played, Skinnyboy. But no, you don’t. I’m funny and flirty, but only online. You’re one of the closest things I have to a boyfriend. (Pretty sad, since all we do is email and Facebook messaging.) I don’t want to crash this beautiful, secret online thing into the tall wall of reality. In the real world, I’m a mess.

  E: You’re not that much of a mess.

  Okay. I’d already posted way too many facts resembling Kat.

  C: You have no idea, SkinnyB. My poisonous tentacles are so tangled right now, I’ll have to comb them out with human bones for an hour, before I can use them again to spear more trolls online.

  E: Can you be serious for a minute?

  C: Yes. As serious as death and heartbreak. But not this minute. This minute I want to be all virtual, where none of the pain of the real world can reach me. I just want to flirt with Skinnyboy, without leading him on to any discussion that's not G-rated. ’Cause I’m a flirt, not a tease.

  E: How about a friend? I think you count as a friend. You even sound like one of my friends.

  Danger. Damn it.

  C: Skinnyboy has it wrong, but breaks Cipher’s heart anyway. She can only exist virtually. As he tries to shove her into the real world, even in the wrong place, she is nearly destroyed. She does the only thing she can do. She disappears.

  I logged off. Oh, crap. Was Evan figuring out I was Cipher?

  52

  I terminated Cipher’s Facebook account out of panic, which I felt bad about, because before Drowningirl disappeared, Drowningirl used to occasionally post on that page. I still had Drowningirl’s email address, though, and Facebook lets you reactivate a deleted account for thirty days.

  The next day wasn’t carpool, but Evan met me at my locker at the beginning of lunch, and I messed up the combination twice, trying to open it, while he distracted me with a butchered version of how he drove my friend Cipher off Facebook.

  “Do you have her email?” he asked.

  “You’re asking me for another girl’s email address?” I guess the movie pass in my birthday card was not a hint to take Evan to the movies. Also, I wanted to lay it on thick, separating Cipher from me in his mind. “Seriously?”

  “Umm.” He looked worried. “Maybe?”

  I gave up trying my locker combination. “I have it on the computer at home.” Also, in my brain, but I wasn’t telling Evan that. “How about I send her your email address and tell her you want an email back, since you drove her off Facebook.”

  “Thanks. Uh, Kat? I—”

  “Sorry.” I cut him off. “I’m having a bad day. Like, beyond even my usual bad hair day. Maybe we could talk some other time.”

  He looked at me, searchingly. “I’d like that.”

  53

  Apparently, after spacing out and ignoring me completely for an hour, Hunter eventually fell asleep and missed the end of his prom. He woke up and got evaluated during morning rounds before he figured out his “girlfriend” in California was unhappy about the dance. The day after the fiasco, Hunter sent me a pile of messages apologizing, and wanting to Skype. I was not, actually, in the mood. We could do it by text, I sent, and I was in hiding anyway, not being as photogenic as some girls he’d seen—a lot of—recently.

  So we texted back and forth and partly smoothed things over, and in the evening I finally emailed:

  K: How about, in the future, the one of us who’s not on narcotics gets to plan outings?

  H: Fine. Your turn. What’s our next date?

  K: Next? Date? I’ll get back to you. I’m not in a planning mood right now. But we could browse the Victoria’s Secret bra collection online, to remind you of our last one.

  H: Wasn’t our last date. Will be more. I promise.

  K: Ha. Don’t send checks your fatigue level can’t cash. And I’d have to agree. Also, let’s not count that disaster as our first date, ’cause it sucked.

  H: Of course not. Our first was exchanging sweet emails. About vomit.

  K: Really? You romantic devil.

  H: Yes. And dozens of movies we saw together.

  K: Sitting 3000 miles apart.

  H: See? ‘The ultimate big screen experience.’ Sorry about the dance. I screwed up. Will make it up to you somehow.

  K: Excellent! Now you have to live for decades, ’cause that’ll take time.

  H: Great. Will work on it. (*Sends Kat a virtual kiss*)

  K: (*Sends back the taste of ice cream*)

  H: Yum. Why ice cream?

  K: Sweet, but a little cold right now. Bye, DBF. Type to you later.

  Yeah, Hunter. Chew on that.

  54

  To: ciphergirl2@gmail.com

  Re: Facebook and my friend Evan

  Hey Cipher—

  My friend Evan thinks he accidentally drove you off Facebook. He asked for your email so he could un-drive you away. I told him I’d send you his email instead. Could you email him? He tried to say sorry to me for something last year after he mashed my heart, but I didn’t let him, because I was so bruised, so I owe him one on the let-him-have-a-chance-to-say-sorry front. Also, he’s a great guy, and my best friend, so could you go easy on him?

  Kat

  P.S. You’d totally think he was cute, in person, if that makes a difference.

  Then I listed Evan’s email address.

  That was pretty clever. I didn’t say I thought Evan was cute, just that Cipher would think so (same thing, of course). And I mentioned enough other stuff so, when “Cipher” forwarded the message with her cover note, Evan would know I’d mostly forgiven him for the year before and I appreciated his being m
y friend, without getting mushy. In person. Or directly. Which somehow I have a problem with.

  A few hours later, as Cipher, I forwarded that to Evan with a cover email.

  Hey, Skinnyboy—

  Your friend Kat says I should let you apologize. So get to it, and maybe I’ll tell you the stipulations and limitations about communications. If any. Communications, that is. (*Her poisonous tentacles quiver in anticipation.*)

  Cipher

  Dear Cipher—

  I’m sorry if I drove you off Facebook. I promise not to pry anymore, if that’s what you want. Can we be friends? Again?

  Evan

  Skinnyboy—

  *Sigh* Was hoping for at least one grovel, to show you missed me. (If I drove you off Facebook? Yes. You did. Do you see me on Facebook? No.) You’re a guy, so even if you don’t know what you did wrong, you should make a sincere, deep, abject apology, in general. Face it: You must have screwed up somewhere, sometime. This could be your make-up apology opportunity. So: Maybe. I’ll think about it. But even if the answer’s yes, we’re having Rules. Which I’m busy coming up with.

  Cipher (who might come up with mysterious Rules, because yes she is. Mysterious.)

  Dear Cipher—

  I’m sorry. (*Grovel. Abject apology.*) And: You rule. Seriously, but mysteriously.

  Evan

  Skinnyboy—

  That’s better. So, here are the Rules: (1) I’m not a real person, so you don’t try to make me one, or confuse me with one you know. You don’t push or pry or guess. (2) We get to talk and joke, even flirt, but we’re not crossing lines into racy stuff like “send me a picture of your boobs” or even “what are you wearing?” Not happening. (3) Turns out, even my tangled swirl of poisonous tentacles can’t protect my tender self. So if you break any of these rules, I disappear in a cloud of invisible ink. Immediately, forever, no coming back. Delete my Facebook account and never use this email again, which will be a huge pain in the poisonous stinger, because it’s how I keep in touch with other people I know online. Also, no talk about being my boyfriend. I’m juggling enough already. Besides, with my poisonous tentacles, you should probably only date within your species, even online.