by Rob Rufus
I never looked at that door again.
3
Stacey found a bed for my mom at the Ronald McDonald House, right across the street. The parents of sick kids could stay there for free—it wasn’t the nicest spot, but it was closer than any hotel. I could see it from my window.
I insisted she stay there. She didn’t need to keep sleeping in a chair or on the small ledge beneath the sill of the window. She deserved a rest—or at least a fucking bed.
So Mom stayed with me every second of every day. She sat with me through the mornings, and through the brutal hours of my treatment. She stayed with me until the sun was down and the shifts had changed and the hallways of the ward were silent. Then, exhausted, she would kiss me on the head and go across the street.
In the nighttime, I was alone.
And when I was alone, I was really alone.
It’s amazing how much having someone with me—just sitting in a chair reading, or watching the morning news—could normalize my situation. With no one to sit with or talk to, I had no way to guide where my mind went. . . .
The drugs helped my lonely thoughts, but only so much. My last round of pills came at nine in the evening, a few hours after the chemo effects began fading. As much as I hated the drugs, some nights I preferred feeling sick or stoned to facing the moments of total clarity that only came in those late hours.
* * *
Sometimes at night I plugged the cord back into the phone. I called home and said hi to Dad. I talked to Nat—always about the band. He told me that Brody had booked nine gigs around their Warped Tour dates. They were playing in Richmond, Buffalo, and all kinds of places. If he mentioned the other drummers waiting to audition for my spot, he always kept it brief. It seemed like things were rolling without a hitch. Maybe I wasn’t as crucial to the band as I’d thought.
The first night I called Ali, we got into an argument.
Junior prom was in a few days—things had been moving so fast that I’d totally fucking forgotten about it. Ali, however, had definitely not forgotten about the prom. She still wanted to go. She just wanted to hang out and dance with her friends, then hit the after-parties. And besides, she already had a dress.
For some reason, the thought of Ali going to the prom sent me into a rage.
It was pathetic—she wasn’t going with a date, or anything. She just wanted to have fun. All her friends were going. All the normal kids were going.
Maybe that’s what pissed me off.
“Go ahead—go,” I finally said. “I don’t want anyone putting their lives on hold because of me. Fuck it.”
Ali sighed. “I wish you were here to take me. I wish harder than you even know. But I can’t just sit in my house all day, every day, all the time. It’s driving me crazy.”
“WELL I FEEL SO SORRY FOR YOU!”
The line went dead.
Shit. Dammit. Fucking idiot.
The hesitant talk. The constant stress—I saw a conflict growing inside Ali, the same way I saw it grow in my brother. Every time they got a chance to do something—go on tour, go to a stupid dance—they hesitated. It was like they were afraid to be normal anymore, because they knew that I couldn’t.
The guilt of my existence was weighing down their lives. But I didn’t want to hold them—or anyone—back. I wanted them to do the things I wasn’t able to. I wanted them to do everything. I wanted them to live.
But that doesn’t mean it didn’t frustrate the hell out of me.
More and more, I felt myself becoming a resentful prick. The loneliness and sickness were no excuse. I always took my bad luck out on them. I always pushed those two the hardest. . . .
* * *
And where did it get me? Sitting in a room with a phone in my hand, listening to a dial tone.
Sitting in a room, alone.
* * *
Two nights later, when I was trying to sleep, I rolled over and ripped the IV from my arm. I jumped out of bed and flicked on the bathroom light to see what I’d done, and the reflection back was straight out of a horror movie.
The fluorescent lights made my face look translucent, but what really drove the image home was the blood squirting out of my arm and soaking my hospital gown. I pressed the call button and held my arm over the sink. Blood was everywhere. I thought I was going to faint. I didn’t. I just stared at the ghost in the mirror and watched the blood spiral down.
4
On Saturday, as the nurse was hooking up my chemo, Mom said that Nat called to let her know he was driving up to visit. I said I wasn’t in the mood to see anyone.
“Your brother is driving all the way up to see you. If you want to turn him away, you can do it yourself.”
I didn’t answer her. The nurse had started the drip. I felt the sensation spread through my throat and gut.
Concentrate NOW—nothing, nothing, nothing.
* * *
It was eight thirty at night. Mom was already gone. When I heard the knock I was in bed reading, waiting on my last dose of pills.
“Yeah?”
The door opened. Ali stood there alone. I put my book down and stared at her. She didn’t have on a prom dress—only ripped shorts, and my Bad Religion T-shirt.
“Whoa. What are you doing here?”
Ali shrugged and smiled. She walked toward my bed.
Why hadn’t I wanted her to go to prom? Why did I have to scream and bitch and guilt her to the point that she ended up here, wasting her night in this horrible place just wasting away with me?
I wanted to tell her that she’d made a mistake. I wanted to tell her that she should have gone with her friends. She shouldn’t be in some cramped, puke-smelling hospital room with this jaded prick. . . .
But all that I said was—“Where’s Nat?”
“In the hall. He said he’d give us some time alone.”
I cleared my throat.
“Well, you still wanna dance?” I asked. My words came out hoarse.
Ali laughed. “In here?”
“Why not? Help me up.”
I pushed my feet down onto the floor. Ali held my shoulders until I steadied myself. I put my hands loosely on her waist.
She ran her hands over my shoulders and back behind my neck. She moved closer. When she pressed against me, my hospital gown draped over the curves of her body. . . . She eased her head onto my shoulder.
We swayed—slow.
Back. Forth. Back. Forth. Slow—like branches moving together in a breeze.
I breathed in the smell of her hair. I memorized her heat.
“What about music?” she said softly. “Don’t we need some music?”
“I can hear it if you can,” I said.
And I could.
THIRTEEN
A/S/L
1
Life at home picked up speed. Everyone seemed so damn busy.
Nat was rehearsing alone in the basement. Finals were approaching, and that was something even my friends took semi-seriously. Dad was working crazy long hours.
He and Mom were stressed about money. They didn’t say anything, but I knew. One morning, I found them going over my medical bills at the dinner table. I was on Mom’s insurance plan, the one she got through work—aka the job she hadn’t gone to since she started taking care of me.
But that same evening, she told me she was thinking of going back to the office until my next round of treatments. I said that it was fine.
So now, I spent most of my day alone. Before Mom went to the office in the morning, she put my medications out and left a fresh trash can at my bedroom door in case I got nauseous.
I spent most of my time sleeping or watching daytime TV. The “A Transvestite Hooker Got Me Pregnant”–type shit. I think it was comforting to see people whose lives were even more fucked than mine.
I spent more
time online than I used to, assuming our modem would connect. America Online was an amazing thing—there was nothing like it. I could look up band sites, I could look up porn—the Internet kicked total ass.
AOL also allowed me to meet new people, or kinda meet them, at least. There were chat rooms—thousands of them—where I could talk to perfect strangers about anything I wanted. Day by day, I started snooping through them.
There were punk rock chats and skateboard chats. There were tons of sex chats, pretty much any kind I coulda dreamed up, but the people in them were a little weird. Okay, a lot weird. There were chats about anything and everything.
One day, I found a chat room called CancerKidz. I moved my arrow over the tab, hesitating for just a moment before I clicked it. The chat opened. There was only one other user inside. It was a girl.
Nocomply11: Hey, what’s up?
CynamnGirl84: hi A/S/L?
Nocomply11: 17/M/WV U?
CynamnGirl84: 16/F/IL
Sixteen? The number filled me with twisted excitement. There wasn’t anyone on the cancer ward my age. It was beginning to feel like I was the first person in history to get cancer who wasn’t either a little kid or a geriatric. The prospect of finding a teenage cancer patient to talk to—even one I couldn’t see—was something that I’d pretty much given up on.
My new 16/F friend’s real name was Babs. Babs, from the suburbs of Chicago. Babs, in the fucking cancer chat room.
I was online for the next three hours, chatting with her about normal stuff . . . music, the city, whatever. It took a while for me to ask why she was in CancerKidz.
Babs told me she didn’t have cancer. It was her friend who was sick. They’d been chatting together right before I entered the room.
Part of me was let down, as messed up as that sounds. She asked why I was in the chat room. My fingers moved before I realized I was typing. I told her the whole story—I may have exaggerated how famous my band was, but the rest of the story was true.
I didn’t know how bad I’d needed to talk about cancer to someone who wasn’t a friend, brother, girlfriend, or parent. I couldn’t speak openly with those close to me—because the words hurt. So I typed it all out to this girl, fifteen paragraphs of rants, frustrations, and fears. . . .
Before she could respond, my Internet cut out.
Shit.
It took me fifteen minutes to get the modem to reconnect. The chat room was empty. Double shit. My 16/F/IL was gone.
I leaned on the desk, frustrated. I wondered if I’d ever speak to her again. I decided to wait it out for a while.
I left the chat window open and surfed over to my favorite website—HTown Punx. It wasn’t really a website, more like a message board. This kid Kris made it to help let people know what shows were coming up around town—Paul, and every other promoter, posted show info and band websites.
But anyone could post on HTown Punx. Kids wrote show reviews, band suggestions, lineup changes, rumors, and anything semi-interesting going down in Huntington.
I wanted to see if Brody had posted anything about a fill-in drummer.
I scrolled down the message thread until I saw our band name. This is dated three weeks ago, I thought. He sure didn’t waste any time.
I clicked it. The post opened—wait, what?
Posted by: FUCKU-182
Defiance of Authority is such fucking lame fake punk. They fucking SHOULD be called DOA because they have a drummer who is going to fucking die of cancer before they even get the chance to sell out, and I hope he does. I hope his fucking brother drives their van off a cliff and kills every poser fuck inside it.
I reread the post, confused. Who would ever say this crazy shit? Why would anyone say they hoped I died?
My mind drew a blank.
I didn’t recognize the user name. I went back to the main thread and continued to scroll down.
Since I was diagnosed with cancer, FUCKU-182 had posted about our band three times. Each post was worse than the last. Surprisingly, I wasn’t really hurt. Only pissed. The words turned red in my mind.
I was so mad I was shaking. My fingers made the keyboard keys chatter like teeth. I read the posts over and over. I committed them to memory. I looked for clues. I was going to find out who wrote these words and then shove every single syllable back down their fucking throat.
2
It took three days to unmask the anonymous poster.
My friend Angela—an older chick who basically lived on that message board—had started asking around for me. I logged on one day to find her e-mail waiting.
I’m pretty sure FUCKU-182 is Frank Parker. He goes to school with you guys, right? Hope you are feeling better, I miss you!
Frank Parker—nope, I still didn’t recognize the name.
I looked through my closet, until I found last year’s HHS yearbook. I scanned our entire class—no luck. I flipped up to the class ahead of us—nothing. I flipped to the grade below mine—pay dirt.
A photo of a chubby, hook-nosed kid peered at me. His mouth was half open, in what I assumed was a smile. His black hair hung over his zit-marked face. I recognized this kid—barely.
We’d never talked. I’d never hung out with him. He was a stranger.
I wasn’t sure what to think. Why would a stranger say that stuff? Why would anyone say that kind of stuff?
More important—what was I going to do about it?
Normally the answer would be nothing, of course. I was never one to stick up for myself, even under the worst circumstances. I’d get beat up, shamed, and humiliated before I would ever take a stand.
But for some reason, this felt different. I don’t know, maybe I’d simply had enough. The cancer, the band, my hair, my life—and now this?
I couldn’t get over it. I just couldn’t fucking let it go.
3
I kept my plan simple.
First, I would find out Frank Parker’s class schedule. I’d drive to the school and wait outside his second-period class (for maximum hallway traffic). When Frank came out of class, he’d see me—standing right in front of him.
Before he could collect himself, I would calmly yell, “Who’s DOA now, motherfucker!,” spit on him, punch him in the face (breaking his nose and knocking him unconscious), and then disappear into a cheering crowd of onlookers.
It seemed pretty cut-and-dried.
* * *
I knew that I shouldn’t tell Nat about any of it.
He would never let me get into a fight. Nat would want to deal with Frank himself, and that didn’t seem fair to me. I wanted to be the one. Frank needed to see my hairless, shrunken face before I knocked him on his ass.
So I enlisted Paul. He came with all the loyalty of a brother, but only half of the guilty conscience. And he was totally into my plan.
Because of his gig on yearbook staff, Paul could roam the school as much as he wanted, come and go as he pleased. He’d be able to do recon on Frank, pick me up, cheer me on, and drop me back at my house before Nat even knew what had happened.
The plan was fucking foolproof.
* * *
“Who’s DOA now, motherfucker!” I shouted at my bathroom mirror.
I scowled. I cleared my throat.
“Who’s DOA now, motherfucker!”
I’d spent the morning hyping myself up. I skipped my first dose of medication—I didn’t want the pills to make me groggy. I could take them when I got home. This beatdown wouldn’t take long.
I wasn’t wearing a hat or a sweatshirt—I wanted Frank to see me. I wanted him to have visions of me while he lay unconscious and bleeding on the floor.
A car horn sounded from outside.
Beep, be-be, beep-beep, beep beep—Paul.
I hurried out the door. I kept running my lines. . . .
* * *
We were pushing it on time.
Frank had Algebra second period. Room 237. Class ended at nine fifty-five. But by the time we got to the school and parked, it was already nine forty-seven.
Paul rushed into the building. I did my best to keep up. I had to stop and catch my breath before we made it to the stairwell.
Nine fifty-three—we were on the second floor. I was panting. I willed my legs not to buckle. I looked from left to right—Room 228, Room 233 . . .
“Dude!” Paul hissed.
He pointed. I looked—237. Bingo.
I collapsed against the wall.
“Time?” I wheezed.
Paul checked his watch. We had thirty seconds to go.
I clenched my left fist. I stared at the door of 237. I caught my breath.
A surge of adrenaline hit me. My exhaustion became nothing but background noise. Something inside called my messed-up body to action!
The fucking bell rang. I didn’t fucking flinch.
I moved toward the door. I felt like a boxer entering his first round.
Kids walked out. A girl with a pink backpack nearly ran into me. Another moved past me to get to her locker. I didn’t fucking flinch. I clenched my fucking fist tighter.
I didn’t see Frank Parker anywhere.
I waited. Nothing.
I backed up a little, fading into the hallway’s growing crowd.
Then, all of a sudden, there he was.
Frank fucking Parker.
He was taller than I expected. His eyes were too close to his nose. His hair was as black and messy as an oil slick.
He didn’t look at me. He didn’t look at anyone. He kept his eyes fastened downward, the same way I used to do.
I took a deep breath.
“Hey!” I yelled.
Frank Parker fucking stopped.
Those beady eyes met mine. If he recognized me, it didn’t show.
“Who’s DOA,” I began. But I froze. I couldn’t remember my fucking line! The chemo brain hit me at the worst possible time!
I winged it—it came out as “Uhhh . . . um . . .”
