Me and Earl and the Dying Girl

Like I said, once Rachel found out we were on drugs, she was more amused than anything else.

“Greg, I didn’t know you were such a bad-ass,” she said.

“I’m not.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“Oh.”

We were at this ridiculously good ice-cream-and-waffles place in Shadyside where they mix things into your ice cream with a blender or something. The ice cream itself is unbelievable. The list of things that they mix into the ice cream, moreover, is insane. Example: bee pollen. Second example: habanero peppers. Did I get both of those? Yes. Did I have them in the weirdest flavor of ice cream available, namely, Kahlúa? The answer to your question is on board the S.S. Yes. When I ordered bee pollen, was I actually thinking of honey? Perhaps the actress Yessica Alba can answer that for you.

Anyway, I lost all control when I got my ice cream, and I spent five minutes completely oblivious to the outside world, because oh my God was that ice cream delicious. When I emerged, everything had changed, and also a lot of parts of my body were sticky. For example: both ankles. Earl had trouble dealing with this.

“Dude. You gotta learn . . . not to eat . . . like that.”

“Mmmh sorry.”

“That was so nasty,” said Earl, unable to eat his own ice cream. “Dag.”

“Mmmnh kinda want another one,” I said.

“You should get one,” suggested Rachel.

“Naw. He shouldn’t.”

“Mmmngh.”

“We should get back anyway,” said Earl, shouldering his backpack. “If we gonna watch something before dinner.”

“Nnnh yeah? What are we watching?”

Earl and Rachel stared at me.

“Dude.”

“Greg, we were going to watch a few of the films you guys made.” Rachel said this like it wasn’t a big deal.

“Did you not even hear us or some shit?” asked Earl.

“Uh.”

“Dag.”

From nowhere, Earl produced a lit cigarette and angrily started puffing on it. Meanwhile, I think Rachel was sensing that I was freaking out. “Greg, Earl said it would be fine—do you really not want me to see what you’ve worked so hard on?”

The answer to that question was locked in a vault deep within the hull of the Starship Holy Fuck Definitely Not.

Ideally, I would have been able to take Earl aside and make these points:

I. What the hell are you doing.

A. Did you just offer to show Rachel our films?

1. That seems to be what happened, while I was eating ice cream.

2. Correct me if I’m wrong.

B. The films that we long ago agreed never to show anyone?

1. They’re not good enough to show people.

2. Maybe someday we’ll make something worth showing to people.

3. But we’re definitely not there yet.

C. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. Dicksmuggler.

II. Why the hell are you doing this?

A. Is it because she’s dying?

1. That shouldn’t have anything to do with anything.

2. Goddammit! Earl.

B. Or maybe you’ve just changed your mind about whether or not our films are good?

1. Because, they’re not.

2. Right?

3. We don’t have a budget or good lighting or anything.

4. We’re just fucking around in a lot of them!

5. We’re basically morons.

III. Earl, you jackass.

A. You’re really being a douche right now.

B. A huge douche.

C. Please don’t windmill-kick me in the head.

1. OW

2. FUCK

But I wasn’t able to say any of that. Instead, I just sort of nodded and went along with it. It was two against one anyway. I didn’t really have a choice.

We walked home. On the bright side, I was starting to feel like myself again, but it didn’t really compensate for the total betrayal of Earl, and the humiliation that we were both about to endure. I guess it goes to show that being around a dying girl will make some people do anything. Even foul-tempered, height-challenged filmmakers.