Me and Earl and the Dying Girl by Jesse Andrews Read Free Book Online Page A

hair bouncing, her biggish teeth grazing my cheek. Then we would have to make out, or talk about how much we loved each other. Just thinking about this was making me sweaty.
    And, of course, she had cancer. What if she wanted to talk about death? That would be a disaster, right? Because I had somewhat extreme beliefs about death: There’s no afterlife, and nothing happens after you die, and it’s just the end of your consciousness forever. Was I going to have to lie about that? That would definitely be way too depressing, right? Was I going to have to make up some afterlife for reassurance purposes? Did it need to have those creepy naked baby angels that you see sometimes?
    What if she wanted to get married? So she could have a wedding before dying? I wouldn’t be allowed to say no, right? My God, what if she wanted to have sex? Would I even be able to get a boner? I was pretty sure it would be impossible for me to get a boner in those circumstances.
    These were the questions running through my mind as I trudged, with growing despair, to her doorstep. But it was Denise who answered the door.
    “Gre-e-e-eg,” she purred, in her cat-voice. “It is so good to
see
you-u-u-u-u.”
    “Right back at you, Denise,” I said.
    “Greg, you’re a riot.”
    “I’m illegal in twelve states.”
    “HA.” This was a huge cackle. Then there was another one. “HA.”
    “I have a Surgeon General’s warning tattooed on my butt.”
    “STOP IT. STOP. IT. HA-A-A-A.” Why do I never have this effect on the girls I want to impress? Why is it only moms and homely girls? When it’s just them, I can really turn it on. I don’t know what it is.
    “Rachel’s upstairs. Can I get you a Diet Coke?”
    “No thanks.” I wanted to end with a bang, so I added, “Caffeine just makes me more obnoxious.”
    “Hang on.”
    This was in a completely different tone of voice. We were back to the old snappish, aggressive Mrs. Kushner. “Greg, who says you’re obnoxious?”
    “Oh. Uh, people, you know—”
    “Listen. You tell them: They can just
shove
it.”
    “No, yeah. I was just saying that as a—”
    “Hey. Nuh-uh. You listening to me? You tell them: They can shove it.”
    “They can shove it, yeah.”
    “The world needs more guys like you.
Not
less.”
    Now I was getting alarmed. Was there a campaign to get rid of guys like me? Because that campaign would probably
start
with me.
    “Yes ma’am.”
    “Rachel’s upstairs.”
    I went upstairs.
    Rachel’s room had no IV stands or heart-rate monitors like I was expecting. Actually, I had been picturing her room as a hospital room, with like a full-time nurse hanging out in there. Instead, I can sum up Rachel’s bedroom in two words: pillows; posters. Her bed had at least fifteen pillows on it, and the walls were 100 percent posters and magazine cutouts. There was a lot of Hugh Jackman and Daniel Craig, especially without their shirts. If you were to show me this room and make me guess who lived in it, my answer would be: a fifteen-headed alien who stalks male human celebrities.
    But instead of an alien, it was Rachel, standing sort of uncomfortably near the door.
    “Rachel-l-l-l,” I said.
    “Hello,” she said.
    We stood there, motionless. How the hell were we supposedto greet each other? I took a step forward with my arms out, for hugging purposes, but that just made me feel like a zombie. She took a step backward, frightened. At that point I had to go with it.
    “I am the Zombie Hug Monster,” I said, lurching forward.
    “Greg, I’m afraid of zombies.”
    “You should not fear the Zombie Hug Monster. The Zombie Hug Monster does not want to eat your brains.”
    “Greg,
stop it.
”
    “OK.”
    “What are you doing.”
    “Uh, I was going for a fist pound.”
    I
was
going for a fist pound.
    “No thanks.”
    Just to summarize: I lurched into Rachel’s room like a zombie, freaking her out, then went for a fist pound. It is impossible to be less smooth than Greg S.