10 Things to Do Before I Die Read Online Free PDF

guitar strings out of your knapsack? And you couldn’t prove it because he threw the strings in the sewer, and everyone laughed at you? Remember?”
    Yes, I remember—but Why bring it up? I shoot a quick glance at Nikki. This is one Ted Burger anecdote she doesn’t need to hear.
    Mark’s elation just as suddenly fades. “Damn. There’s only one problem.” He chews on my ballpoint. “I don’t know Where Billy Rifkin lives or goes to school or anything. He switched schools after sixth grade. But Whatever. You’ll track him down.”
    And do What? I Wonder. Barf on him?
    “Hey, Mark, maybe We should let Ted go,” Nikki says.
    She’s eyeing me now With genuine concern. This time there’s nothing maternal or nannyish about it. It’s more the concern of someone Who’s face to face With a volcano that’s about to erupt. She starts pushing away from me in her seat, mashing her back into the vinyl.
    “But I’m on a roll,” Mark says. “It’s all coming together!” He chuckles. “I promise you, Burger: this is gonna be the sickest spring break of your life. This spring break is gonna be ill—”
    “Don’t say those Words,” I moan.
    Mark stares at me. But it’s too late. He’s already triggered some sort of reaction inside my intestinal tract. Bad, bad, bad. Now is the time to leave. No doubt about it. I gather What little strength I have. For once I have to follow Mark’s advice and get off my butt and do something. I grab my knapsack and hightail it out of the booth— dizzy, half blind, and With my stomach on the verge of exploding.
    “Burger, Wait!” he shouts.
    His hand clamps down my shoulder.
    Uh-oh. My head swoops down fast. My eyes are blurry. I feel as if I’m on a roller coaster. I cover my mouth.
    Mark spins me around to face him.
    “Burger, listen, I only—” He breaks off. “Wow, you’re really pale. Jeez. Maybe you should call a doctor.” Then he brightens. “Oh, hey, I forgot to tell you! My dad just got a job at St. Vincent’s. He’s going to be the administrator of the pediatric—”
    “Mark, I don’t feel so Well,” I croak.
    He responds With a typical easygoing laugh. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. But hey, at least take the napkin.” He shoves it into my knapsack. “And don’t lose it. I’m serious. We’re only up to number four. Besides, you know What they say. You know What they say, Burger, don’t you?”
    He escorts me to the door and opens it, accompanying me onto the sidewalk. I can feel the fries swimming up toward my throat… .
    “The best ideas are always Written on a napkin,” he concludes.
    And With that, I puke.

Twenty Bucks
    No need to go into the gory details, obviously.
    But once I escape—after apologizing to Mark for nearly throwing up on his sneakers, after promising him that yes, I’m fine, so he should just go back inside … after thanking him again for saving our lives (true, technically it Was only a Water gun, but none of us knew) … after lurching away from him With vomit on my T-shirt … after all that, the full impact of Mark’s last Words hits me.
    “The best ideas are always Written on a napkin.”
    You see …
    Often I refer to my parents as “out-of-their-gourds Wacko.” Sometimes even to their faces. You might think that this is kind of harsh. After all, everyone’s parents are Wacko in a Way. Just look at Mark’s dad, With his obsession about having a “thing.” Wackoness comes in a zillion different colors. The mere fact that my parents say everything With an implied exclamation point isn’t all that Wacko. Nor is the fact that they occasionally nag me to stop playing guitar to Watch an “important commercial!” That’s just typical parent stuff. (Sort of.) Even taking into consideration that every square inch of our apartment is smothered in framed photos of us and every single person We’ve ever met (I’ll get to this later), … you still might ask: What’s so Wacko about that?
    Good question. Nothing is