seem to care the other day.” “Well hell, this isn’t high school. We don’t have to cheat.” “Ok, that’s fine.” She starts erasing god knows what all over the first page and then scoots the chair back to the other side of the room and writes quietly. I stare at the front cover of the book and think about all the things I want to do before I die. 1. Get liver. 2. Smoke again. 3. Never read this book. Meredith is no help at any of them, but I let her think she is the archangel of helpfulness. I let her fluff my pillows even though I prefer them flat. I let her read my survey, do her own, bring me books that make me feel depressed, sit in the corner and knit, yell at me about the Jell-O. When what I want her to do is bring me a dirty magazine once in a while and tell me to go to town. Or better yet, do it
herself. She eyes me from her corner of the room and puts her pencil down. “What are you doing?” “Writing my bucket list.” “In the book I just gave you?” “Yeah. I guess so.” “How I am supposed to give Ellie her book back if it has your bucket list written in it?” “Don’t give it back to Ellie for all I care,” I said. “It’s a stupid book to give to someone.” I can tell she’s going to cry. “You have no respect, Bernie. None. Not for me, not for yourself, not for the people who take care of you, not for anything.” “It’s just a book,” I say. She tosses the survey in the air very theatrically, her stacks of bracelets jangling down her forearm, and storms out. I stare at the yellow pages open haphazardly on the floor and analyze the dirty triangle her shoe left