10 Things to Do Before I Die Read online

  It’s still a gorgeous day, too. It’s literally picture perfect, the kind of afternoon they use in commercials to promote tourism in New York. The sun is just starting to sink toward the Village, a golden ball hovering over the Water towers and town house roofs. The traffic isn’t so bad yet, either. There’s hardly any honking or yelling.

  That’s the good news.

  The bad news is that I’m still about a mile away from home. I’m only crossing Seventeenth Street, and We live on Barrow Street— on the top floor of a renovated brownstone just West of Seventh Avenue. So even if I hop on the subway, I doubt I’ll get there any faster. It’s only two stops. Plus I’ll be trapped underground.

  The Worse news is that although I’m no longer queasy, I feel as if somebody is repeatedly jabbing my abdomen With a White-hot fire iron. I’m still dizzy, too. I’ve also noticed a high-pitched ringing in my left ear. It sounds like amplifier feedback.

  All of Which tells me that Whatever sickness my body tried to barf out back at the diner hasn’t quite left me yet.

  But I’m not Worried. Being the glass-half-full kind of guy that I am, I know that I’m not in any serious danger. After all, even if I Were to collapse face-first in the intersection (I’m presently staggering across Sixteenth and Seventh), St. Vincent’s Hospital is only four blocks away—hey, that reminds me! Mark’s dad just got a job there … he’s the new hospital administrator of … What? Something! Doesn’t matter! I bet if I go right now, he can make sure that I see a doctor ASAP!

  “Ay-sap!”

  Crimes Against Humanity

  Six minutes later I’m standing in front of a bulletproof Window, desperately trying to convince a four-hundred-pound, rayon-clad security guard that I’m not insane.

  “I’m telling you, he Works here,” I repeat as patiently as I can. “Mr. Joshua Singer. He’s my best friend’s father. He’s an administrator.”

  The security guard glares at me from deep Within the folds of his pasty face. His skin is the color of a fast-food egg breakfast.

  “I’m telling you, kid,” he growls. “We have no record of a Joshua Singer at this hospital. Not as an administrator, not as a doctor, not as a nurse, not as an intern. Not even as a patient. Understand? Now if you Want to see a doctor, go to the emergency room and Wait With everybody else—”

  “But I—”

  “Next?” he shouts.

  I slither away from the line that’s beginning to form behind me. Unlike Seventh Avenue, the traffic in this hospital is stuck in a serious jam—and the sunlight is no longer tourism-commercial perfect. No, the Way it’s streaming through the floor-to-ceiling Windows somehow makes the hustle and bustle that much more confusing. The longer I stand there, the more everything is thrown into jumbled disarray: the institutional tile, the sad-sack visitors, the doctors With their clipboards … all of it grotesquely lit by this horrible, slanted, dizzying glare… .

  I have to get out of here before I get sick again.

  The glass is no longer half full. Not even close. It’s not even half empty. It’s dishwasher clean. I stagger back toward the exit. Odd: my head feels as if it’s revolving like a radar dish on an ocean liner, like one of those Whirligig towers that pirouette relentlessly, around and around, spinning and spinning and—

  “Can I help you?”

  I look up. I realize I’ve been doubled over. I’m also clutching my ears in a vain effort to drown out the peculiar Wailing screech that nobody else seems to hear. But now I’m saved. Saved! Because the young Woman Who asked this extraordinarily considerate question—this beautiful doctor (she has to be a doctor; she’s Wearing green hospital scrubs), this gorgeous nerd With the thick glasses and ponytail—she Wants to help me!

  “Yes, please, thank you,” I gasp.

  “What’s the matter? Is it your ears?”

  “No. I mean, yes, but not totally. My ears are only part of it. I feel really dizzy. There’s a pain in my side. I just threw up. And I hear this Weird ringing—Wait a second. Actually, you know What? It’s starting to die down a little. But it Was really loud there for a bit.”

  She gives me a quick once-over. Her eyebrows are tightly knit behind the Coke bottle lenses. She sniffs loudly.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  Without a Word, she takes my elbow and escorts me to a more private spot at the end of the hall. We pause next to a big, fake palm tree.

  “Have you been drinking?” she Whispers.

  I frown. “Excuse me?”

  “I have to ask,” she says.

  “No!” I bark.

  She flashes an apologetic grin. “Okay, okay, I believe you. Let me ask you something else: Have you eaten anything unusual recently?”

  I hesitate for a moment. “Just some fries. But I eat fries every day of the Week, pretty much.”

  “Oh, I see.” She laughs. “Very healthy.”

  Maybe she’s trying to be overly friendly now to compensate for the drinking accusation, but I relax a little. I admit: I’m a sucker for the attention of a female, any female. What sixteen-year-old isn’t?

  “Well, not every day,” I say sheepishly.

  “Do you notice if the ringing is louder in one ear?”

  “I … louder in one ear?” It strikes me as an odd question, but she’s the doctor. I concentrate for a moment. “Yeah. I think it is. I think it’s louder in my right ear.”

  “I see,” she says. She scans my entire body again, pausing briefly at the vomit stains on my T-shirt. There’s zero emotion involved. She studies me the Way a butcher might study a spoiled side of beef. Any meat Worth saving on this carcass? she’s asking herself. Or so I imagine. She chews a nail. “I think you should Wait here.”

  “Why?”

  All of a sudden she grins again. “I’d like a doctor to take a look at you,” she answers, a little too cheerfully. “I’ll go see if one’s available.”

  “You’re not a doctor?”

  She laughs. “No, I’m just an intern. Don’t Worry!”

  Until she brought it up, I Wasn’t Worried. Now I feel a shudder of fear creeping up my spine. “Why should I Worry?”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  “Okay.”

  “How old are you?” she asks.

  “Sixteen,” I tell her.

  Her smile falters.

  “What?” I say, alarmed. “Is that a problem?”

  She forces another laugh, peering through the sunlight toward a bank of elevators. “Of course not. Listen, Why don’t you call one or both of your parents and tell them to meet you here? I’ll be right back. Okay?”

  Alarm turns to full-fledged panic. “My parents? Why do I have to call them? They’re on a business trip. What’s going on? I really—”

  “Shhh,” she Whispers. She casts a furtive glance back toward the security guard, then lays a hand on my shoulder and puts another phony smile on her face. “If We’re going to conduct any kind of examination procedure, We need the consent of a parent or guardian. You know, for X-rays and stuff. Or maybe minor surgery. Okay?”

  Minor surgery? What are you, nuts? No! It’s not okay! Not in the least!

  That’s What I’d like to tell her. But I’m too frightened. Because that phrase, that one phrase, is stuck in my brain for all time. I’m talking about the phrase that instantly conjures a thousand different visions of twisted hospital horror movies and sadistic torture and crimes against humanity—the crimes that Rachel Works so hard to prevent as a member of our school’s chapter of Amnesty International, that go Way beyond minor surgery… .

  “Examination procedure.”

  Everyone knows about phrases like that. Evil geniuses use phrases like that. Maniacal dictators. Movie villains. They use them to cover up awful truths.

  “I’ll be right back,” the intern is saying.

  “Huh? No! Where are you going?”

  “To find a doctor.” She hurries toward the elevators. “We might as Well rule some things out, right? I’ll be right back. Call your p
arents, okay, sweetheart?”

  The Creeps

  No Way am I Waiting around for her to find a doctor.

  For one thing, hospitals give me the creeps. Not just because “examination procedures” are performed here and “things” need to be “ruled out.” It’s the Whole atmosphere: the blinding sunlight, the stale air, the miserable patients With the massive bandages on their arms (because blood has just been drawn)— not to mention that every single bench and cafeteria and pediatric Wing is “Memorial” this and “In Honor of” that, so there’s this unseen shroud of death hanging over the Whole place—

  Wait.

  For no reason Whatsoever, I suddenly realize Why the security guard Was such a jerk to me. Mark’s father just got the job as an administrator here. So he hasn’t started. His name isn’t in the computer. He’s not an employee yet.

  Which means he can’t help me.

  But that’s not even the issue. The real issue is that even if I did call my parents (Which I have no intention of doing), they can’t help me, either. They’re in Denver at a billboard convention. They’re a good two-thousand miles away.

  I catch a glimpse of the intern’s ponytail as it swishes into one of the elevators.

  The doors close behind her.

  My eyes zero in on a glowing sign nearby:

  Cardiology: 2

  Transplant: 2

  Radiology: 3

  The list goes on. The sign is also illustrated With those universal stick figures that represent all humanity: Mr. and Mrs. Public Toilet—a triangle skirt for her, a blank formless body for him. Except here the couple don’t just provide helpful directions to the nearest bathroom. No, here they’re stricken With terrible diseases and injuries. Mrs. Public Toilet has to go to the ER. Mr. Public Toilet is due for chemotherapy. The prognosis is not good for either of them. Okay. I’ve seen enough. Time to split. I know exactly What Glasses and Ponytail has in mind for me. It’s not just X-rays. She’s thinking stomach pumping, invasive surgery—that’s What she meant When she said “examination procedures.” She Wasn’t talking about checking my pulse or sticking a thermometer in my mouth. You don’t need a doctor or your parents’ consent for that.

  And all I did Was throw up! So I have some ringing in my ears. So I’m dizzy. What’s the big deal?

  The truth is, I have no desire to find out What’s really Wrong With me. Maybe that’s a character flaw. But that’s Who I am. We all have problems. I just don’t care to know What my particular problems are.

  Once again I’ve been given my exit cue. And this time, thank God, Mark and Nikki aren’t around to stop me.

  Lou and Frankie

  Ahhh.

  It’s good to be outside. What With the sunset, the cool breeze … yes, remarkably, by the time I round the corner onto Barrow Street, I feel better. Or close enough. I’m no longer hobbling. The fire iron in my abdomen has cooled from White-hot to lukewarm. My head is revolving less like a radar dish and more like an abandoned merry-go-round, slowly decelerating to a natural standstill. I’m fine! Sure. Of course I am. I’ve just suffered some Weird, inexplicable affliction. That’s all. Stuff like this happens all the time in New York City. There is nothing that needs to be “ruled out.” No …

  Rachel?

  She’s standing in front of my brownstone.

  Our eyes meet.

  Mine are pink and puffy. Hers are ice blue. They’re the same color the sky Was an hour ago—Whoops. It occurs to me that I Was supposed to be home an hour ago. I Was supposed to call her on her cell phone.

  But Why is she here?

  I glance at my Watch. It’s not even five-thirty. Usually she’s up at the community garden in Harlem until five-thirty. I Was supposed to call her at five so We could confirm our date for six so she could help me With the Amnesty International Summer Retreat application.

  “Hey, Ted!” she cries, Waving.

  She hurries toward me. Right away I see that she must have skipped Harlem altogether, because she’s not in her gardening clothes. She’s Wearing a black flower-print dress and a gray button-down sweater. And sandals. Her short blond hair is mussed from the breeze. Her green knapsack dangles from her left shoulder. She looks really gorgeous, actually—especially in the sunset. But I have to admit: I just don’t Want to see her right now. Not until I’ve changed out of my smelly T-shirt.

  “So Where have you been?” she asks. “I thought you Were gonna be here to call me. I Wanted to surprise you.”

  “I, uh, see, I Wasn’t feeling Well, so I—”

  “Oh my God.” Her eyes zero in on the vomit stains. “Have you been drinking?”

  I start to laugh.

  Her soft features melt in distress.

  Whoops again. “Of course not!” I exclaim. Inexplicably, I sound guilty. So I laugh harder. It doesn’t help. “But it’s so funny you ask that because this nurse—”

  “Your face is all bloated,” she interrupts. “Your eyes are bloodshot.”

  The laughter stops. “Yeah, because I’m sick.”

  She shakes her head. “Oh, Ted … you are drunk. I know What guys look like When they get drunk. I have two older brothers, remember? Hockey players?”

  I swallow. Sure, I remember: Lou and Frankie. The twins. How could I forget? They’re twenty years old, violent, and built like refrigerators. They aren’t my biggest fans, either. The one time I met them, they called me Forrest Chump. I doubt if they even know my real name. And they’re home from college for spring break, Which means they’re probably bored and looking for some action—like, say, pummeling their sister’s clownish boyfriend because he got “drunk” and blew her off.

  “I bet I know What happened,” Rachel mumbles. She stares at her feet. “I bet Mark and Nikki roped you into getting drunk With them after school, right? Because it’s the first day of spring break and all? And since you have a crush on Nikki, you Went along With them.”

  “Rachel, come on! Do you know how ridiculous that is? Do you even know What just happened to me? I Was practically shot.”

  She pauses. “Shot?”

  “Well, not technically. I mean, it Was only a Water gun. But still, it Was—”

  “A Water gun?” If I saw a flicker of forgiveness in her eyes, it’s gone.

  “Well, you sort of had to be there. It Would take too long to explain. The point is I’m not drunk and I don’t have a crush on Nikki. I Went to the diner With her and Mark, just like I told you I Was going to do. Then Leo, this crazy fry-cook … See, he burst in and threatened to kill us, and then Mark tackled him, and then I started feeling sick. So I stopped by St. Vincent’s. That’s Why I’m late.”

  Rachel just stares at me. Finally she shakes her head again.

  “That’s the best lie you can come up With?” she Whispers. “It doesn’t even make any sense, Ted.”

  My Wild Daydream Problem

  “Ted, What’s Wrong?” Rachel asks me pointedly. “I mean, really?”

  I shrug. “I just don’t feel Well.”

  “Well, then, I should go, right?”

  “No, Rachel, don’t go. I’m sorry. Come upstairs.”

  “Why? You’re drunk.”

  For a terrible second I almost make a stupid Wisecrack. I almost say, “Okay, so maybe you should get drunk, too.” But I don’t.

  Unfortunately, I do start thinking …

  What Would happen if We actually did get drunk?

  I could break into my parents’ liquor cabinet, per Mark’s suggestion. I could pour us some Wine. I could dim the lights. I could put on Mom and Dad’s Feel the Love, 1975! compilation CD. (The liner notes: Not Sold in Any Store! All Hits by the Original Recording Artists!) The music is soft and funky—and just cheesy enough to be romantic. The CD cover is brilliant, too: a fuzzy ski-lodge-style photo of a seventies couple by a fire-place on a bearskin rug, gazing into each other’s eyes and drinking from crystal goblets. The man is tanned and swarthy, like a pirate. Thick hair blankets his open-shirted chest. The Woman is skinny,
blond, and bug-eyed. She’s Wearing an oversized lime green turtleneck. The fat collar hangs down over her puny bust like a sexy polyester necklace. I could suggest to Rachel that We dress up exactly like the couple in the photo, and drink Wine, and pretend that We’re feeling the love, circa 1975—

  “Ted?” Rachel says.

  “Huh?”

  “Is this funny to you?”

  “Is What funny?”

  “You’re smiling. Have you heard a Word I’ve said?”

  “Yes!” I lie, too emphatically. “Of course I have. It’s just … I Want to lie down.”

  She sighs. “You know, Ted, you’ve got problems.”

  “I agree.”

  “It’s this avoidance thing,” she says. “It really bums me out. Whenever you don’t Want to deal With something, you just run away.”

  I’m not sure how to respond. She has a point.

  “You didn’t Want to deal With the Amnesty retreat application, right?” she asks. “So you blew it off to hang out With your friends and get drunk. Which is fine. I mean, it’s the first day of spring break. But that’s not the sad part. The sad part is that you thought you could fool me. The sad part is that you assumed I’d be up at the garden until six. You assumed you had time to come back here and clean yourself up. But you Want to know something, Ted?” Her voice catches; she sounds as if she’s about to cry. “You Want to know Why I’m not up there? I canceled today to surprise you. Those people up there Were counting on me to help them, and I canceled because I knew this application Was a chore for you, and so I … oh, forget it.”

  “Rachel, no, Wait. What?”

  She heads off toward the subway entrance on the corner. “Nothing,” she mutters. She doesn’t turn around. “But you don’t have to make up some BS excuse about getting held up by a fry cook With a Water gun.”

  “It’s true!” I call after her.

  Now I feel bad. I feel Worse than bad. I Was Wrong; I didn’t Want to get into a fight. I hate fighting. Besides, Who Would Want to fight With Rachel? She’s too nice! And it’s completely my fault: I baited her into an argument When I should have been grateful for her showing up here to surprise me. I should have taken time to explain the truth instead of spacing out With a vision of drunkenly reenacting Feel the Love, 1975!