Avi Cantor Has Six Months to Live Read online

  Ian has been chewing cinnamon gum, and this close the spicy scent makes my eyes water. It burns my mouth when he kisses me, and I pull back with a strangled scream.

  “Oh my god, I’m sorry,” he says, not knowing what he’s sorry for.

  “Why is your gum made of fucking chemical weapons?”

  “I’m so sorry!” Now he’s laughing at me and my watery eyes.

  “I’m going to push you in,” I tell him, pointing at the banks of the reservoir beneath our feet.

  “It’s a public water supply. That’s a huge crime.”

  “Next time just brush your teeth.”

  There’s an extra month in the Hebrew calendar this year, and the High Holy Days don’t come until October, and it’s cold. Ian asks me about Rosh Hashanah, the week before. Do you have plans? I never talk about my family. I can tell from the way he looks at me that he’s worried he isn’t allowed to ask.

  I have plans. My plan is to listen to Barbra Streisand on the retaining wall, and maybe let myself tip over, disappear into the water, poison the whole town. Avi Cantor has six months to live. It’s more like five, now. Inscribe us in the book of life. Imagine if I took that decision out of God’s hands.

  I don’t tell Ian any of that. I say, “No plans. I mean, I’m skipping school. That’s it. No plans.”

  “Come over?”

  He skips class with me. His mom, Rosa, makes apple cake. His sister, Gabriella, who I like because she never tries to make eye contact with me, rattles off a bunch of facts about apple-growing, and I reach out to give her a gentle high-five, because I know if she went to our school, people would pick on her, and Ian’s sunny confidence wouldn’t stand up to the contagion of our combined not fitting. Gabriella’s room is full of potted plants and it looks like a jungle. Somewhere in there, Ian tells me, she has a terrarium full of frogs. I’ve never been in there, because her room is off-limits to boys.

  It’s magic, their house. The way they’re all obsessed. Rosa with her cooking. Alice and Gabriella with their music, Gabriella’s plants and frogs. If I believed in magic, I’d believe that they have it.

  I wish I had the energy to be obsessed with something.

  I come home late in the morning, on the second day of Rosh HaShanah, and mom is at the kitchen table, drinking coffee.

  “Where were you?” she asks me. Her eyes are tired. Her eyes are always tired. Both of us, we have these smudges of shadow, like bruises. Ian tells me in the right light it looks like it’s on purpose.

  “I stayed over with somebody.” I sit, pull one knee to my chest. “You didn’t text me.”

  She shrugs. “I hoped you were having fun somewhere. I told the school you had a holiday.”

  I forgot to ask, beforehand. Usually I just skip, and let them think I’m a delinquent. They think that anyway.

  “You’ve been out a lot,” she says.

  I hadn’t realized that she’d noticed.

  I plug in my headphones and walk down to the reservoir. Barbra Streisand wails in my ears. I sit on the retaining wall and the cold from the concrete creeps into my bones. Mom always says if you sit on the cold ground, you’ll never have kids. I wish, I think. I wish. I wish curses were that easy.

  I take out a notebook that’s supposed to be for homework, and I write down everything I haven’t told my mother. At least, everything good. Everything that I hope won’t upset her.

  Ian comes by after school, walking a dog. I’m confused, because he doesn’t have a dog.

  “Picking up more strays?” I ask him.

  “Jesus, Avi, you look frozen,” he says. “It’s my neighbor’s, I get paid ten bucks a walk, it’s a total scam. You weren’t in school. I thought you said you’d be back today.”

  “I changed my mind. It’s a two-day holiday. I was with my mom.”

  “Let’s go get something hot,” he says. “You’re shivering.”

  “You’re shivering,” I tell him, even though he isn’t, even though he’s wearing shorts. “Your mom is shivering.”

  “In sympathy for you, probably,” he says. The dog jumps up and licks me behind my ear. I shudder and push it away.

  “Do you just not like kisses?” Ian asks, tugging on the leash, looking nervous. Since his cinnamon gum made me cry the first time, he has limited himself to hand-holding and playing with my hair. I think he thinks if he touches me wrong, I’ll break. I think he’s right, but I kind of want to, anyway.

  I haven’t tried to kiss him, because I’m convinced if I did, it would look sarcastic somehow. I wouldn’t know what expression to use, and he’d think I was making fun of him. I don’t want my face to hurt his feelings.

  “I like kisses fine,” I tell him. “Just not from dogs, or mouths full of chemical weapons.”

  He opens his mouth wide, like, look, it’s empty. Shuts it. Shifts from foot to foot a little, awkward.

  “I honestly thought it would be better,” he says. “I mean, clean, you know?”

  I like that he did it on purpose. I like that he fucked it up. I like that he apparently didn’t care if my mouth was clean or not.

  “Teshuvah,” I tell him, getting to my feet and brushing gravel off my jeans. “Today is all about teshuvah, repentance. There’s three steps to teshuvah. You apologize. You mend your ways. You do a better job next time.” I put my headphones over his shoulders. “Here’s a song about being really sorry, for you.”

  “You’re so weird, Avi,” he says, like it’s a gift I’ve given him.

  We sit on his bed and watch cartoons. Rosa made us tea, and there are cookies. It’s like living in an alternate universe.

  “What were you doing out there, anyway?” Ian says, out of nowhere.

  I tell him I was contemplating suicide, and he tells me I’m never allowed to make a joke again. I wasn’t joking, but I pretend like I was, because I don’t want to upset him.

  This time when he kisses me it’s rosehips and chocolate, and nobody cries.

  I leave my note for mom on the kitchen table. I give her the number for Ian’s house, in case she wants to make sure. I’m staying over again.

  His moms don’t seem to mind having me on a school night. They don’t mind me staying in his room, even. In his bed. I don’t know what to think of the idea that they’re ok with all the things we aren’t actually doing. Of the idea that maybe they’d be less ok with it if they didn’t think I need looking after.

  Ian throws his shirt on the closet floor and struggles out of his binder. “Ohhh, my god.” He hates being constricted, but he passes so well when he’s wearing it, he can’t get away with not. When he’s at home he skins himself as soon as possible. He’ll even go down to eat in front of his family in nothing but a tank top. I can’t imagine feeling that comfortable, but I know now that he isn’t all confidence. In a way, I think I’m better off, not knowing how comfortable feels, having nothing to contrast against the discomfort of being looked at in public.

  My apartment is always too hot, and there’s no point in blankets. Ian’s house is kept cool enough that we can sleep together under a down comforter and it feels like cozy, not like dying. I burrow under the covers and only then take off my shirt. I’ve borrowed a pair of his sweatpants, too tight at the hip and too long in the legs, but the shirts he likes won’t fit me.

  Maybe his moms know all we do is kiss and hold hands under the covers and kick each other in our sleep. Maybe they know Ian’s never seen me with my clothes off. Maybe he even told them. I can imagine the conversation. Rosa telling him not to pressure me. Ian saying he likes me in my clothes anyway, he understands. Trying it out with his moms before he tries it on me.

  “You’re going to break a rib, though,” he tells me, whispers it like it’s a secret. His breath stirs the hair that’s fallen over my forehead. “You’re not supposed to bind while you’re sleeping.”

  “That’s fine,” I tell him. “I’ve only got like five months to live.”

  He grabs my hand and smacks me in th
e face with it. “What did I tell you about jokes?”

  I sleep with my head on his shoulder and I dream that I’m on a soft, green planet where no one exists who can hurt me.

  My mom texts me in the middle of the night. I like that you chose your grandfather’s name.

  I sit on Ian’s windowsill in the moonlight. I can feel a layer of warmth, Ian’s and my shared body heat, shielding me from the cold night sky. I love you, I text my mom.

  She responds immediately. Go to sleep, Avi.

  On the Friday after Yom Kippur, someone introduces the idea that Ian has gotten me pregnant, or else given me an STD that’s going to kill me. I think they’ve forgotten that we didn’t know each other until after the rumor started. I have closer to four months, now. I can’t believe they’re not sick of it yet.

  I’m sick of it. I feel queasy all day, avoid Ian in the hallways, nearly throw up in the same bathroom where I saw the message. I tell myself I’m imagining the smudges of eyeliner still on the mirror. I tell myself you can’t get morning sickness just from a rumor, and holding hands.

  Mom and I make shabbat, because she has a shift off, for once. I don’t check my phone, because I know Ian will be texting, all worried about me, and I want to pretend he has no reason to worry.

  Mom doesn’t ask if I’m ok. She never does, because if she asks, then I’ll have to ask, and she’ll have to answer.

  “I can’t believe they’re not over it yet,” Ian says, slamming his locker. The noise echoes down the hallway, and it makes me flinch. “Like, you know how many memes have been born and died on the Internet since–you’d think they’d be over it.”

  “They’ll get over it when I’m dead,” I tell him, faking cheerful, and he makes a strangling motion at me with both hands. If you make one more joke about dying, I’ll kill you.

  I grin at him and point my fingers. Bang, bang. You’re right, it’s a joke. Of course.

  “I’m telling them to stop,” he says.

  As if that’s not the worst idea in the world.

  At lunch, someone I barely recognize comes up to me. “You know he started it, right?”

  If I blink and move backwards a little, his face comes into focus. He’s on the track team with Ian. Ian has described him as, I quote, a massive douchehole, which is not the kind of language Rosa and Alice encourage in their pristine art gallery of a home.

  “Hi, Bryce,” I say. “How’s it going.”

  “Ian,” he says. “You know it’s him who started it, right? So if it’s such a big deal to you, why don’t you complain to him.”

  I didn’t complain to you, either, douchehole. “I’ll take that into consideration.”

  “Jesus,” he spits. “You’re such a freak.”

  I turn up Ofra Haza in my headphones and ignore everyone else who tries to talk to me.

  “So that guy Bryce decided to talk to me today.”

  Ian kicks a handful of leaves into the air. “Bryce! That douchebag!”

  “Guess what he wanted me to know.”

  He stops, just for a second, and I realize that he has guessed.

  Which means it was true.

  “What am I exactly?” I ask him. “Am I, like, a social experiment?”

  “You’re my boyfriend.”

  “Yeah? So you didn’t start a rumor that I’m going to die and then use it as a weird excuse to talk to me?”

  “I mean–”

  “That’s a yes,” I snap. “If it wasn’t a yes, you’d have said no.”

  “Avi–”

  I flip him off and keep walking. He doesn’t follow me.

  Text messages.

  I’m sorry! :( :( :(

  Plz don’t ignore me I can explain! :(

  Aviiiiiii

  Text message.

  i m not a stray kitten

  On the third day I’m not at school, Ian knocks on the door of our apartment. Mom and I are eating quesadillas. There was nothing to eat at home but sour cream and old cheese, turning hard in the drawer. My dad used to do all the cooking, before he decided he hates us. I thought if I got tortillas it would be easy. I’ve had them at Ian’s house. But the taste makes me think of him, and I’m angry all over again.

  I open the door and don’t even bother to glare, just stare at him, dead-eyed.

  “What’s that?” he says, tapping the mezuzah with his fingertip.

  “Are you, like, planning to murder me?” I ask. “Do you need a human sacrifice to maintain your perfect fucking family life?”

  “Avraham,” mom says, behind me, as if she’s been saying it that way my entire life. The same tired tone she used to use for April. She doesn’t mind if I swear in front of her, but it bothers her in front of guests. I feel bad immediately, for embarrassing her, and wish I knew better words to be angry with.

  My mother has never met Ian. These are not the ideal circumstances to introduce them.

  “Please, Avi,” he says. “I’ll buy you something that’s not coffee.”

  It starts to snow on the way into town. Ian spreads his arms and skips a little and then stops, self-conscious, correcting himself to a more masculine posture. He reaches for my hand and I elbow him in the ribs. He doesn’t try again.

  He tells me it was an accident. He was trying to get them to stop. Stop being so nasty to her, he said. She’s only got six months to live.

  But why, I want to know. Why would you say that. And how come they knew my name.

  “I had a dream,” he says. “It was on my mind. I was worried about you. It just slipped out.”

  I stare at him. He fidgets with his mug of coffee. The mugs they give you here are real ceramic. Heavy. They feel satisfying in your hand, like breaking one would mean something.

  I don’t think Ian needs to be drinking coffee.

  “It’s–you’re not going to believe me,” he says. His voice is tiny. I’m so used to Ian being the loud one, the solid one, the one who’s in control.

  “I don’t believe you already,” I tell him.

  “You’re eating the cake I got you, though.” He tries to smile. “That’s a good sign, right?”

  The smile withers off his face when I meet his eyes.

  “Ok,” he says. “I’m sorry. It’s weird, though. It’s this weird thing in my family.”

  “What? Spreading rumors and then pretending to be all nicey-nice? What are you, like a cult? Have you been brainwashing me? Were there drugs in your mom’s Israeli salad? Those herbs she’s always burning?”

  “No! No, I told you, I didn’t mean it, I was trying to fix things. But you really are going to die, Avi. I had a dream. Like a prophetic dream. So I’m trying to change your future. And anyway, you seemed lonely. I wanted to talk to you. I thought maybe we were the same, you know? And I was right, and I’m so glad.”

  “We’re not the same,” I tell him. “We’re not the same at all.”

  I shove my chair back and leave, not even caring that everyone else in the cafe, all these people with their four-dollar pastries and six-dollar drinks, the woman with the laptop and the girls with the fleece boots and the guy with the beard, all of them are staring at me, probably wondering who brought this wild animal into their little oasis of warmth and light and good manners.

  He sends me a word document. It’s instructions for summoning a demon. He says he tried it, and the demon told him to fuck off. He says maybe if I try, she’ll show up, and she can talk to me, and then I’ll believe him.

  I tell myself I’m doing it to be passive-aggressive. That if I go and sit at a crossroads in the middle of the night, in the snow, then maybe I’ll get sick, maybe I’ll even die, and then he’ll be sorry.

  I tell myself it isn’t because if I believe in any kind of magic, it’s got to be the kind that hurts.

  It seems right to bring a candle. It seems un-Jewish to summon a demon, but my options for ritual trappings are limited. I dig the havdalah candle out of the drawer where it’s been gathering dust since last time we made havdalah, bef
ore my dad left. I find Ian’s lighter in my sock drawer, where I hide the things I don’t want mom to know I’m keeping. I go to the crossroads.

  The thing about a crossroads. It’s just an intersection, that’s what we call it now. I go to the one by the cafe, where Ian always takes me for cider. At the middle of that intersection, at the crossroads, there’s a tiny island of withered grass and a bench where no one ever sits, because who wants to sit in the middle of traffic?

  I sit there now and light my candle, hunching over to protect it from the wind. Wax drips onto my fingers and snow collects in my hair, on my shoes, on the road around me. There’s not much traffic, because of the snow, and everything sounds hushed. I don’t have a real winter coat, and I’m shivering. I sit and stare at the candle and it occurs to me that I don’t know if there are words one is supposed to say to summon a demon. Ian’s instructions have gone out of my head. If I try to picture the file he sent me, all I see is the look on his face when I told him we’re not the same.

  I whisper the only word I know for sure is magic. Please.

  Please, I just want to know.

  For a minute, there’s nothing. Somebody crawls by in their car behind me, cautious on the slushy pavement. My candle-flame shudders. I stare at it until I imagine myself as part of it, insubstantial, pouring heat out into the universe, running out of time.

  And then there’s a woman. Between one blink and the next, she’s there, or maybe I dozed off, drowsy with cold. She’s wearing pumps, bare-legged. That’s the first thing I notice, because I’m staring at the candle, held over my knees. She’s older than my mom, I think, but less tired. She looks trim, professional. She doesn’t have a winter coat either, but she doesn’t look cold. She’s frowning at me, not like she’s angry, but like she doesn’t know what to do with me. It’s almost like the look Ian has when he doesn’t understand why I’m doing something that he knows should hurt.

  My lashes feel heavy, wet. I’m not sure if it’s snowmelt or tears. “Are you the–” I don’t want to call her demon to her face, not when that face is wearing such a familiar expression of troubled concern. The weird thing is, I recognize her. She’s the laptop lady. The one who’s always halfway watching us in the cafe, every time Ian decides to treat me to expensive cookies. “Are you the person in charge of the crossroads? The lady with the magic?”