Side Effects May Vary

“I forgot my change of clothes in my locker. I didn’t think you would mind,” she said, her skin pink and raw. “I left the wig in the tub. We’ll have to throw it out later. I need to sit here for a minute.”

I sat down next to her on my bed and handed her half of my sandwich. We took turns taking sips from the glass of milk I had poured. When we finished the sandwich, Alice leaned her head on my shoulder and sighed, saying thank you without saying anything at all.

“I’m going to lay down for a few minutes,” she said.

“Sure. Okay.” I took the empty glass to the kitchen and threw out the wig while she slept. I wanted to ignore these moments and pretend like this wasn’t happening, but the truth was that her dying had become too real.

On Monday morning, Alice was called into the principal’s office. No one besides Celeste knew for sure that it was her, so they couldn’t really prove anything. In the end, it didn’t matter. The next day her white blood cell count plummeted, and she had to spend the next month in the hospital.

When I’d visit her, the nurses would give me this look that was all pity and knowing as they handed me a blue surgical mask to wear inside her room. If she was awake, she’d ask me about school and if people were talking about her and what they were saying. Anytime I brought up Celeste or Mindi she’d look at me, her eyes lighting up for a moment, and say, “Bitches.” And that gave me a strange sense of comfort. In mid-May, Alice’s fever broke long enough for them to send her home. We threw a little welcome home party, like this was a good thing, and she hadn’t been sent home to die.

Harvey. Now.

This time last week I’d stood in Alice’s entryway asking her to choose me. She stood there in that idiot’s jacket while I waited for her answer, but it never came. How could it be that she and I were at our best only when her health was at its worst? How did that make any goddamn sense?

The nice thing about the Grocery Emporium was that it was never quiet. There was always a constant cycle of cash registers, bar-code scanners, Muzak, and the nonstop thrum of voices. This morning, Dennis and I had been assigned to stock the canned food from the pallets in the back.

“Sardines.” Just the taste of the word in my mouth made me want to gag.

“I know, man,” said Dennis as we filled in back stock, pulling the oldest cans to the front of the shelf in a neat row.

On Monday, I’d asked my manager Collin for extra hours, and because Dennis was a good friend he’d done the same. I didn’t need free time. I needed mind-numbing work that got me through the hours when I wasn’t at school or asleep.

“Why do we even sell these? Hasn’t society mutually decided sardines are gross?” I asked.

“Who even buys these things?” he asked, not answering my question. “I mean, obviously someone does, or we wouldn’t be filling stock. The better question is why.”

“The only people who buy sardines are people like Luke and his dumbass friends so they can dump ’em in kids’ lockers and gym bags.” It was true, happened all the time.

“It’s like the solution is so obvious. Stop selling sardines and no more sardine-ing,” said Dennis, like he had solved world hunger.

“Sardine-ing?” I laughed.

“Just invented a word,” said Dennis. “That just happened.”

This was why Dennis was my best friend, because everything else in my life could be shit, but he would still be Dennis.

We’d finished the crate of sardines and moved on to tuna.

“I saw Alice looking at you yesterday,” said Dennis.

“That’s like saying I saw lockers in the hallway. It was probably coincidental. Plus, she made herself perfectly clear about where we stand.” It sucked, but at least she finally did it.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe it’s for the best. You’ve done some pretty extreme shit for her and—”

An old woman made a “hmph” noise from behind us at Dennis’s swearing.

“Crap,” he said. “I meant to say crap,” he called over his shoulder. “Man, I hope she doesn’t say anything to customer service. I’m on my second write-up.”

I shrugged, watching the old lady go.

“Dennis! I’ve been waiting outside for ten minutes,” called a voice from the front of the store.

Debora speed-walked down the aisle of canned food, headed straight for us with an armful of dry cleaning. Her corn husk bob swished with each step. She wore a teal, fitted oxford shirt tucked into a straight black skirt that tapered in at the knees and hugged her hips, with a pointy pair of shoes that made my feet hurt just from looking at them.

Dennis turned to me and tilted his head to the ceiling, letting out a loud groan.

Without any sort of greeting, Debora shoved the dry cleaning into Dennis’s chest and said, “Here. You’re going to make us late. We’re supposed to be at the portrait studio in ten minutes, and unless I hit all green lights, it takes me fifteen.”

Dennis looked at me. “Family pictures. Totally forgot.”

Debora squinted her eyes and leaned in closer. “You didn’t even shave, did you?” She shook her head and sighed. “Go change.”