Me and Earl and the Dying Girl (11 page)

Finally, the cafeteria is extremely crowded, meaning if you accidentally slip on a slick of pizza cheese and mashed-up Tater Tots, you will probably be trampled to death.

Basically, it’s like a low-security state prison.

And so I had to sit there with my backpack perched awkwardly on my lap, because you do not want your backpack down there under the table accumulating greasy food stains and families of insects, and I was eating my weird but probably healthful lunch that Dad had packed because if I ate pizza and Tater Tots every day I would be even more overweight and my face would have a pimple somewhere the size of a human eyeball. And Naomi was loudly talking about how Ross Said Something Ignorant and I Was Like Don’t Even Go There, and I was attempting to listen politely and probably had some kind of dumb smile or grimace on my face. And that’s the state I was in when Madison Hartner came over to sit with us.

So in case you don’t remember, Madison Hartner is the insanely hot girl who probably dates one of the Pittsburgh Steelers or at least a college student or something. She’s also the girl that I relentlessly antagonized in the fifth grade, with the Madison Fartner nickname, the Booger ChapStick accusation, etc. That’s all water under the bridge now, of course, and in October of senior year, we were on vaguely friendly terms with each other. We would say hi to each other in the hall sometimes, and maybe I would even make some kind of bland inoffensive joke, and she would smile or something, and I would daydream for a couple of seconds about nuzzling my face in her boobs like an affectionate panda cub, and then we would both get on with our lives.

Did I want to get with Madison? Yes. Of course I did. I would have given up a year of my life just to make out with her. Well, maybe a month. And obviously she would have to be doing it voluntarily. I’m not suggesting that some weird wish-granting genie would force her to make out with me in exchange for a month of my life. This entire paragraph is a moron.

Look: If you asked me, Greg, who do you have a crush on, the answer would be Madison. But most of the time I was able to not think about girls, because in high school guys like me are completely unable to get with the girls they actually want to get with, so there’s no sense in dwelling on that like a pathetic idiot.

I asked Dad point-blank about girls in high school once and he said that, yeah, high school is impossible, but college is different and that once I get there I “should have no trouble making whoopie,” which was embarrassing but reassuring at the
same time. Then I asked Mom and she said I’m actually very handsome, and that statement immediately became Piece of Evidence #16087 in the case of
Mom v. The Truth
.

Anyway. Madison, a hot and almost universally popular girl, came strolling up to us and plunked her tray down next to Rachel’s. Why did she choose to do this? Here, let me give you another long-winded explanation of something. I am like the Joseph Stalin of narrators.

There are two kinds of hot girls: Evil Hot Girls, and Hot Girls Who Are Also Sympathetic Good-Hearted People and Will Not Intentionally Destroy Your Life (HGWAASGHPAWNIDYL). Olivia Ryan—the first girl in our class to get a nose job—is definitely an Evil Hot Girl, which is why everyone is terrified of her. Periodically she will just randomly destroy someone’s life. Occasionally it’s because that person wrote something on Facebook like liv ryan is a btichhhh !!!! but most of the time, there’s no reason for it. It’s like a volcano suddenly erupted in someone’s house and melted their flesh. At Benson, I would estimate that about 75 percent of hot girls are evil.

But Madison Hartner is not evil. Actually, she’s like the president of the HGWAASGHPAWNIDYL. The best evidence of this is Rachel. Madison and Rachel were, at best, distant acquaintances before Rachel got cancer, but when the cancer happened, this triggered Madison’s Friend Hormones.

Let me also tell you that the problem with HGWAASGHPAWNIDYL is, just because they’re not intentionally out to destroy your life, doesn’t mean they don’t sometimes still destroy
your life. They can’t help it. They’re like elephants, blithely roaming the jungle, occasionally stomping a chipmunk and not even noticing: hot, sexy elephants.

Actually, Madison is a lot like Mom. She’s obsessed with doing Good Deeds, and she’s awesome at persuading people to do stuff. This is just an incredibly dangerous combination, as you will see later in this book, if I can even finish it without freaking out and throwing my laptop out of a moving car and into a pond.

All right. So Madison’s leukemia-activated Friend Hormones had begun pumping through her system, and now she was showing her friendship by sitting with us during lunch.

“Is anyone sitting here?” she asked. She has this dark honeyed kind of wise-sounding voice, which doesn’t quite fit how she looks. That is also hot. I feel like an assclown writing about how hot she is, so I’ll stop.

“I DON’T THINK SO,” said Naomi.

“Sit with us,” said Rachel.

So she sat there. Naomi was being quiet. The balance of power had shifted in ways that none of us yet understood. There was tension in the air. It was a moment of great opportunity, and greater danger. The world was about to change forever. I had beef in my mouth.

“Greg, that looks like an interesting lunch,” said Madison.

Lunch was leftover beef slices, bean sprouts, and lettuce in a plastic container. There was also teriyaki sauce and scallions and stuff. It basically looked like an alien came to earth and took
a class in salad-making but didn’t do all that great on the final exam. Anyway, this was my opportunity, and I seized it.

“I already
had
lunch,” I said. “This is the barf of a space alien.”

Rachel and Anna snorted, and
Madison actually giggled a little bit.
I did not have time to truly register the boner-generating ramifications of that, because Naomi was clearly about to make a loud irritating attempt to reclaim the center of attention, and I had to prevent this at all costs.

“Yeah, for extra credit in Mr. McCarthy’s class, I’m doing a documentary on the barfing habits of space aliens. I follow them around with a camera, and I collect their barf in containers like this. You thought I was going to
eat
this? No way. Madison, you must think I’m perverted. I’m a
barf historian
, and you need to have some respect for that. That’s why I have this beautiful specimen of barf in this container here.
I’m
going to do some
research
with it.”

Naomi was periodically trying to cut in by bellowing “GROSS” and “YOU DID NOT JUST GO THERE,” but to no avail. I was getting some momentum and had some decent laughs going, especially from Rachel, who at that point was the Duchess of Snortsylvania.

“I am
not
going to eat this precious barf. Let me explain something to you guys. When an alien barfs, it’s a sign of trust. I have spent a
ton
of time with aliens, gaining their trust so that they can bestow their wondrous barf on me, and I am
not
about to sabotage that trust by eating the barf. Even though it looks nutritious and like it would taste awesome. Check it out. Look
at these weird sperm-looking thingies. Do they make me want to just go to town on this barf? And eat it in my mouth?
Obviously.
But this is about
trust.
Next question. Rachel.”

Rachel was helplessly snorting and honking away, so I knew if I gave her the opportunity to speak, it would let me reload a little bit without letting Naomi talk. I was also trying not to focus on the fact that I was making probably Benson’s hottest girl laugh. This was easily the only time anything like this had ever happened.

“Where do you even
find
space aliens,” Rachel eventually managed to ask.

“Awesome question,” I said. “Space aliens generally disguise themselves as people, but if you know what to look for, you can identify them pretty easily.” I was sort of looking around the cafeteria for inspiration. For some reason I was focusing on Scott Mayhew, one of the Magic-card-playing gothy dorks from eighteen thousand words ago. He was wearing a trench coat and he was clumsily loping around with a school lunch tray.

“Aliens have an unusual fashion sense revolving around trench coats,” I continued, “and they haven’t really figured out how to use human legs to walk normally. Like, don’t look now, but Scott Mayhew over there? Yeah. He is a textbook alien.”

My heart was racing. On the one hand, I had just committed a cardinal sin of my whole way of being:
Never make fun of anybody.
Talking shit on people is probably the easiest way to make friends and enemies in high school, or really anywhere, and as I have noted like a billion times, that is the opposite of my goal in life.

But on the other hand, I had three girls cracking up, and one of them was Madison, and another was Rachel, and I had to keep it going.

“You’ve probably seen Scott running around all weird and stuff, and you’ve thought to yourself, what is his deal. Well, he’s from outer space. His home is on some fucked-up meteor or something. And it’s taken a really long time for us to get to the
level of trust
where he’ll let me carry around his barf. You don’t even want to know how much alien poetry I’ve had to sit around and listen to. It’s mostly about centaurs. And finally this morning after he read me some of his poetry, I was like, ‘I’d like to thank you for that, that was really beautiful,’ and then he was like, ‘
I’d
like to honor you with my
barf.
’ And that’s when he barfed in this thing here. It’s been a wild ride.”

And then I shut up, because Scott had sort of stopped what he was doing and was staring at us from across the cafeteria. He can’t have liked what he was seeing. Anna, Rachel, and Madison were all looking at him and laughing. And I was saying things with a big dumb grin on my face. He knew we were making fun of him. It was obvious. He gazed at me coldly and angrily.

“GREG, YOU’RE WEIRD AND GROSS,” announced Naomi, stepping eagerly into the void.

“Greg, you’re being mean,” said Madison with a sweet smile on her face.

How the hell was I going to get out of this. “No, no, no!” I yelled. “Naomi, alien barf is not gross. That’s the whole
point.
It’s rare and beautiful. And Madison, what I’m saying is not
mean
. It’s like the opposite. I’m
celebrating
this magical bond that Scott
and I have. With his barf. That I’m holding right now in this container.”

But I was freaked out. I had temporarily lost control of myself and talked shit on Scott Mayhew and made him probably hate me. And also now I had created a reputation for myself as a guy who talks shit on people. I was so freaked out that I didn’t even really say anything else until the bell rang for next period, and of course in the weeks to follow, I did not return to the cafeteria. I couldn’t even think about eating lunch down there without my armpits getting all hot and prickly.

Later, Rachel confided to me that Scott Mayhew had a big crush on Anna.

“Ohhh. That makes sense.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. She’s always reading books about centaurs and stuff.”

“I think he’s too weird for her.”

“He’s not that weird.”

I was still feeling guilty and sensitive about the whole Scott thing.

“Greg, he’s pretty weird. And his hair is gross.”

“Well, he’s not as weird as
me.
”

“I guess you’re the one making the space alien barf documentary.”

“Yeah.”

“Are your other films documentaries?”

I think Rachel was trying to give me an opportunity to go on some open-ended riff about something here, but honestly I was
too freaked out to really say anything. There was the Scott thing, and now there was Rachel bringing up my films, and I just didn’t know what to do.

So I kind of just said, “Uhhhhh. Not really. Uh.”

But fortunately Rachel understood what this meant.

“Sorry, I know they’re secret. I shouldn’t ask you about them.”

“No, I’m being stupid.”

“No you’re not. It’s important to you that they’re secret. I don’t want you to describe them to me.”

I have to say this: In that moment, Rachel was awesome. Meanwhile, I guess I probably have to describe the films to
you
. You’re being less awesome than Rachel, you stupid reader.

I mean, I’m the one who’s deciding you have to read about them, so really it’s me who is being a human poop factory right now.

This should come as a surprise to no one.

This is obviously just a partial list.

Earl, the Wrath of God II
(dir. G. Gaines and E. Jackson, 2005). Yes, I know. The
II
makes no sense. It should have been either
Aguirre, the Wrath of God II,
or
Earl, the Wrath of God I.
Whatever. At the time,
Earl, the Wrath of God II
just seemed to work. Also, we were eleven. Give us a break.

Anyway, Earl’s bravura performance as a psychotic fake-German-speaking Spanish conquistador was overshadowed by a near-total lack of plot, character development, intelligible dialogue, etc. In hindsight, we probably should have used less footage of Cat Stevens flipping out and attacking one of us. We also should have added subtitles, because there is no way to tell what Earl is trying to say.
“Ich haufen mit staufen ZAUFENSTEINNN,”
for example. It sounds great, but literally translated, it means “I pile/cluster/accumulation with [nonsense word] ALCOHOL-DRINKING-STONNNNE.”