10 Things to Do Before I Die Read Online Free PDF Page B

really so Wacko about that.
    But at the end of this past summer, the day before school started, the following scene occurred. (Note: What you are about to Witness is entirely true. No artistic liberties have been taken. I only describe it in screenplay format because it provides me With the sniveling detachment I need to cope With it.)
    INT—BURGER FAMILY STUDY—DAY
    TED, a 16-year-old boy who rates a nine-point-five on the Afro Q-Tip meter, stands anxiously behind MOM and DAD, two forty-eight-year-olds in matching nylon sweat suits. Mom, a classic mother-in-advertising—expensive hairdo, slender build, deep wrinkles around her lips and eyes from the perma-smile—sits at a desk, typing on a laptop. Dad, a Distinguished Gray, sits next to her. He stares at the screen. Neither is aware that their only child is in the room.
    TED
    Hey, you guys? Sorry to interrupt, but can I have, like, twenty bucks? I really need to go shopping for school supplies.
    MOM
    Ted! I’m sorry we’ve been so busy.
    TED
    It’s okay, Mom. But I just—
    MOM
    Funny you bring up school supplies! Did you know that your father and I are doing the ad campaign for a school-supply company? We’re going on their corporate retreat next week.
    TED
    Yeah, you told me. Right now, though, I just really need to buy a notebook and some pens and stuff. School starts tomorrow.
    Dad whirls around to Ted, grinning.
    DAD
    Don’t worry. You don’t need a notebook this year.
    TED
    I don’t?
    DAD
    No. We’ve got you covered, kiddo! You need the Napkin.
    TED
    I need the … what?
    DAD
    The Napkin! It’s the latest digital organizer from the Y-Guys Company. Better than a PalmPilot, better than a notebook … it’s the ultimate high school study aid. No more wasting paper, no more worrying about your pens running out of ink—it fits into your jeans pocket, just like a napkin. And for safety’s sake, its memory can be backed up on any Mac or PC—
    TED
    Actually, I do sort of need a notebook, Dad. Okay?
    DAD
    I don’t think so, Ted. Wait until you hear what the ad slogan is. Or better yet, try to guess! Go on!
    TED
    Do I have to?
    DAD
    You’re really gonna love it. You’ll see.
    TED
    Can I guess after I get the twenty bucks?
    DAD
    Honey, should we tell him?
    Mom finally stops typing. She turns and beams at me.
    MOM AND DAD (in unison)
    “The best ideas are always written on a Napkin™!”
    They burst into laughter. Ted storms over and snatches Dad’s wallet out of his sweatpants pocket. Dad doesn’t seem to notice. He and Mom gaze proudly into each other’s eyes, laughing away. Ted removes a twenty-dollar bill and drops the wallet on the floor.
    FADE OUT
    Now do you understand Why I think they’re so out-of-their-gourds Wacko?

Glass-Half-Full Kind of Guy
    Anyway, back to the story of my death:
    The nausea subsides as I continue hobbling down Seventh Avenue toward my apartment. The burning in my eyes subsides as Well. Apparently I’ve escaped Whatever unseen animal hair is floating around the Circle Eat.
    It’s still a gorgeous day, too. It’s literally picture perfect, the kind of afternoon they use in commercials to promote tourism in New York. The sun is just starting to sink toward the Village, a golden ball hovering over the Water towers and town house roofs. The traffic isn’t so bad yet, either. There’s hardly any honking or yelling.
    That’s the good news.
    The bad news is that I’m still about a mile away from home. I’m only crossing Seventeenth Street, and We live on Barrow Street— on the top floor of a renovated brownstone just West of Seventh Avenue. So even if I hop on the subway, I doubt I’ll get there any faster. It’s only two stops. Plus I’ll be trapped underground.
    The Worse news is that although I’m no longer queasy, I feel as if somebody is repeatedly jabbing my abdomen With a White-hot fire iron. I’m still dizzy, too. I’ve also noticed a high-pitched ringing in my left ear. It sounds like amplifier feedback.
    All