The List

Most boys Isaac's age wake up to morning wood and sweat. Unfortunately, he only gets the latter. And it's sort of really fucking weird, because he doesn't dream of death; he dreams of living. He's dreaming of walking his dog (that he doesn't have), holding hands with the ambiguous hand of Seriously Are You a Boy or a Girl, and even of just carrying out activities. Like drawing, cooking, doing his taxes... All things he doesn't know how to do. It shouldn't be as stressful as his body is making it seem, because he's not going to be around when push comes to shove and it's time to Know.

Is this his body telling him to change his mind? Because no, too fucking late. An anxiety trick, "but what if you meet someone special? What if you learn to cook and end up as the next Gordon Ramsay?"

And no, okay. That dude's a douche-bag. A really cool douche-bag. Please, feel free to chop Isaac's tomatoes any day, you cool douche-bag, you.

What.

Isaac really is losing it.

All things considered, he's getting better and better at ignoring the bigger picture. Must be a symptom of dying.



"Hi."

"What."

"Uh... hi?"

Isaac peeled his head from the buss window to look at the person who was, apparently, next to him. He doesn't like to let himself do that, its flu season, but fuck. He's practically dying anyway. "Yeah. What?"

"Grumpy, dude."

"Yeah, cool." Isaac slammed his head back against the window. If he's going to spend his last month... months? going to school, it would've been nice to do it with, you know, a car. Dignity is still a thing and the green funk collecting on the corners of the windows of the bus say otherwise. He remembers the stick-up-her-ass bus-driver he had when he was in middle school and how she would scrape it off the windows. It almost made up for the fact that she was all "no gum is going to be chewed on my buss ya little shits."

Isaac had never understood that. He thought she'd of wanted the little shits to choke and DIE.
"Yeah, cool?" The dude regurgitates. Like a bird. "Cut the crap, I know you aren't that moody and, like... Mysterious!"

"What are you, a John Green novel?" Isaac wanted to say Meg Cabot but he wasn't about to admit that one aloud.

"I like to view myself as more of a, hm," he scratched his chin in thought, "Nancy Gilbert kind of guy."

"You made that up."

"Fuck you, she saved my life."

Isaac flinched, turning back to his disease-laden window.

One. Two. Three. Four.

"Uh, dude?"

"What."

"How many more stops are there?"

Isaac craned his head over the front of the seat (and ignored the sub driver yelling PLEASE SIT DOWN) to glance at the rows of seats - Creepy Carl hadn't gotten on the bus yet and Creepy Carl is always on the bus meaning there were at least five more.

"Just under forty-two, give or take."

"You're kind of a dipshit." Isaac knows. And that's reason enough for him to thunk his head back against the window (for good this time, he swears) because he really can't bring himself to care.

And he really wishes he could.

"I'm Anthony."

"V'noice." Gross, gross, gross. Isaac's mouth is some sort of stuck to the window but again, it would take effort and he'd have to care in order to lift his mouth away. And he'd promised himself he'd show no signs of life for the rest of the ride because he didn't want to see Anthony's face like ever. He didn't want to see anyone's face.

Ever, ever.

Isaac also couldn't help but silently agree when he hears Anthony grumble something about how chivalry is dead.