Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Pretty Little Parade
Wesley comes around room the next day. My mom has run out to re-stock the kitchen (I wonder why, since I’ll probably die tomorrow. I don’t need a roast in my kitchen.)
“So Wes,” I say upon him entering my room. The conversation with Aria gave me the energy to shower on my own and put on a pair of kaki instead of pajama pants.
“Since I’m gonna be leaving you on your own if a few days,” I say, ushering for him to sit down on my bed, as I settle down into the recliner. “I have a few words of wisdom.”
“Okay?” I replies, half interested and half bored.
“There are a lot of cruddy people in this world,” I behind. “They’re gonna try and
clean up your looks with all the lies in the books to make a citizen out of you.”
“They already do that,” He points out.
“True. A lot of ‘adults’ will try and consider you a kid, even though you aren’t one. They consider you a teenager. And let me tell you, they’re gonna keep an eye on you and watch all the things you do. They’ll assume that if you’re tired or sick you’re doing drugs. And they’ll smirk at you and go on to rip you and your aspirations to shreds and use their worthless methods of keeping you clean.”
“In your dying days, this is what matters to you?” Wes laughs.
“Yes.” I reply, seriously. “You know when we were scared of the raccoon that always crept up onto our porch as kids?”
He nods.
“She told us that he’s more scared of us than we are of him. Listen, teenagers scare the living shit out of adults. So darken your clothes and they’ll leave you alone.”
I sigh. “But not me. I won’t leave you alone.”
“Until you’re dead.” He points out, and I even sense a tint of anger in his voice.
I chose to ignore it.
“You think clique’s are for high school but I promise they continue on forever. In the real world people will call you awful names. And no matter who you are, you’ll never fit in much. But it’s okay, you don’t need to. Fitting in is so over rated. So, Wes, when you grow up to be one of those middle aged men, be nice to the teenagers. They need it.”
“Ezra?”
“Yeah?” I take a deep breath. Talking is more exhausting than I remember it being.
“I don’t want you to die.” His eyes get cloudy.
His words take me back a bit. I knew he cared, but I didn’t think he cared enough to say it. I’m a bit at a loss for words.
“I’m sorry…” I finally end up saying. He shakes his head.
“No you aren’t,” He says, standing up. “If you were, you’d try harder.”
I throw up my hands. “I got a terminal cancer, how is that my fault?”
“Because you accepted it.”
Narrow my eyes at him. “I’m being realistic.”
“You’re being pessimistic.”
“You’re being naive.”
“You’re being suicidal.”
“I didn’t ask for cancer, Wes!”
He lingers in the open doorway, reaching for a response. He’s interrupted by the doorbell.
“Saved by the bell.” I mutter as he goes to answer it. I’m fully expecting it to be my mother, but it isn’t. I hear the familiar deep voice of my best friend in the whole world: Hardy. I feel a smile across my face. I haven’t seen him in so long. I go to get up, but I realize, I can’t. My legs won’t carry me. Not without help. My knees won’t straighten and pull me to my feet. So I sit and wait for him to come to me. I hear Wes telling him “He’s in his room.” Before he leaves. I hear quick footsteps coming towards my room.
“You bastard.” Are the first words he says to me as he storms in. “You have a terminal cancer and you didn’t think to tell me!?”
“Hey, nice to see you too.” I frown to myself. Although, he is right.
“The hell, man?!”
I sigh. “It was your honeymoon.”
“I can honeymoon whenever I want to,” He replies, softening up.
“Wesley called me and told me you may be dying and I should come and see you.”
“I’m sure he did.”
“Ezra…” He sits on my bed. “How bad is it?”
I pick at a loose thread on the chair. “I have a week… Maybe two.”
“IF you don’t go back and –“
“I’m not going to get chemo!” I respond, louder than he probably expected.
“What about Aria?”
I laugh at the irony. “We ended a long time ago, Harley.”
“You never told me.”
“It was your honeymoon.” I repeat.
“You were sick in the hospital for weeks, Ezra, without Aria or any family, and I visiting the Eiffel tower. Do you know how wrong that is?”
“It’s fine, Harley, it was your-“
“Yes, Ezra, my honeymoon with my wife. I’m gonna spend the rest of my life with her. If you die…” He shakes his head. “You could have died in surgery and my last words to you would’ve been ‘Bon Voyage, bitch!’”
I laugh. “Those would’ve been famous last words.”
“Ezra this is serious. You look terrible.”
“Thanks, and I even showered today.”
“I’m bringing you back to the hospital.”
“Okay,” I reply, knowing he won’t.
He stares at me for a few long seconds.
“B-26.”
My headache goes away instantly, my eyes close, my heart speeds up, and my legs go even limper than before. It takes me a second to catch my breath and respond. “What about it?”
“Read it.” He replies, leaving his advice lingering in the air, before leaving my room like Wes just had. I hear the front door slam shut, and I lean back into the recliner and sigh.
For the first time in way too long, I’m home alone. No nurses or other patients, no mothers or brothers or friends. Just me in my apartment. I take in the air that I don’t have to share with anyone else. B-26.
When I met Aria, it was a campus bar. She was eating a cheeseburger and I was drinking a beer and reading a book. We struck up small talk over the book, and a song called “Happiness” By the Fray came on the jupbox that rested over in the corner. “I love this song…” She had said more to herself than to me.
“B-26.” I respond, letting her know that I had thrown a few coins at the machine earlier to make it play that song. That became our song, and when we broke up, I poured my emotions into a poem with the title of B-26. It got published in a journal of poems from the college. I stare at the bookshelf from across my room. I know that reading the poem again will make me upset, yet again, I can’t keep myself from wanting to. After a bit of a struggle I get onto my feet, holding onto the furniture, making my way over to the bookshelf. I feel like I deserve a medal for reaching it. As a grab the book, I fall over like an unsteady toddler onto my bed. I take a breath and lay down, happy to have made it here. I open the book to page 77.
B-26
Ezra Fitz
It’s a number.
It’s a song.
It’s a girl.
Smooth, pearl joy packed.
Gold falafel,
As though ice.
It’s four thirty
morning with phone calls.
It’s deaf mute.
It’s like
A foreign car.
Maybe bingo.
Lucky night?
Something says
it smells bad.
I remember sitting at my desk writing this poem. About that song on the jupbox, Aria’s beautiful smile, four thirty arguments and silent phone calls.
I think about what Wesley and Harley said.
They were right. I am hopelessly inlove with Aria and I do not want to die. I want to live with and for Aria. I stopped fighting because I had nothing to live for.
And now, maybe I do. I have my mom, my brother and my best friend, and maybe even Aria. Wes was right.
The dang teenager was right.
“So Wes,” I say upon him entering my room. The conversation with Aria gave me the energy to shower on my own and put on a pair of kaki instead of pajama pants.
“Since I’m gonna be leaving you on your own if a few days,” I say, ushering for him to sit down on my bed, as I settle down into the recliner. “I have a few words of wisdom.”
“Okay?” I replies, half interested and half bored.
“There are a lot of cruddy people in this world,” I behind. “They’re gonna try and
clean up your looks with all the lies in the books to make a citizen out of you.”
“They already do that,” He points out.
“True. A lot of ‘adults’ will try and consider you a kid, even though you aren’t one. They consider you a teenager. And let me tell you, they’re gonna keep an eye on you and watch all the things you do. They’ll assume that if you’re tired or sick you’re doing drugs. And they’ll smirk at you and go on to rip you and your aspirations to shreds and use their worthless methods of keeping you clean.”
“In your dying days, this is what matters to you?” Wes laughs.
“Yes.” I reply, seriously. “You know when we were scared of the raccoon that always crept up onto our porch as kids?”
He nods.
“She told us that he’s more scared of us than we are of him. Listen, teenagers scare the living shit out of adults. So darken your clothes and they’ll leave you alone.”
I sigh. “But not me. I won’t leave you alone.”
“Until you’re dead.” He points out, and I even sense a tint of anger in his voice.
I chose to ignore it.
“You think clique’s are for high school but I promise they continue on forever. In the real world people will call you awful names. And no matter who you are, you’ll never fit in much. But it’s okay, you don’t need to. Fitting in is so over rated. So, Wes, when you grow up to be one of those middle aged men, be nice to the teenagers. They need it.”
“Ezra?”
“Yeah?” I take a deep breath. Talking is more exhausting than I remember it being.
“I don’t want you to die.” His eyes get cloudy.
His words take me back a bit. I knew he cared, but I didn’t think he cared enough to say it. I’m a bit at a loss for words.
“I’m sorry…” I finally end up saying. He shakes his head.
“No you aren’t,” He says, standing up. “If you were, you’d try harder.”
I throw up my hands. “I got a terminal cancer, how is that my fault?”
“Because you accepted it.”
Narrow my eyes at him. “I’m being realistic.”
“You’re being pessimistic.”
“You’re being naive.”
“You’re being suicidal.”
“I didn’t ask for cancer, Wes!”
He lingers in the open doorway, reaching for a response. He’s interrupted by the doorbell.
“Saved by the bell.” I mutter as he goes to answer it. I’m fully expecting it to be my mother, but it isn’t. I hear the familiar deep voice of my best friend in the whole world: Hardy. I feel a smile across my face. I haven’t seen him in so long. I go to get up, but I realize, I can’t. My legs won’t carry me. Not without help. My knees won’t straighten and pull me to my feet. So I sit and wait for him to come to me. I hear Wes telling him “He’s in his room.” Before he leaves. I hear quick footsteps coming towards my room.
“You bastard.” Are the first words he says to me as he storms in. “You have a terminal cancer and you didn’t think to tell me!?”
“Hey, nice to see you too.” I frown to myself. Although, he is right.
“The hell, man?!”
I sigh. “It was your honeymoon.”
“I can honeymoon whenever I want to,” He replies, softening up.
“Wesley called me and told me you may be dying and I should come and see you.”
“I’m sure he did.”
“Ezra…” He sits on my bed. “How bad is it?”
I pick at a loose thread on the chair. “I have a week… Maybe two.”
“IF you don’t go back and –“
“I’m not going to get chemo!” I respond, louder than he probably expected.
“What about Aria?”
I laugh at the irony. “We ended a long time ago, Harley.”
“You never told me.”
“It was your honeymoon.” I repeat.
“You were sick in the hospital for weeks, Ezra, without Aria or any family, and I visiting the Eiffel tower. Do you know how wrong that is?”
“It’s fine, Harley, it was your-“
“Yes, Ezra, my honeymoon with my wife. I’m gonna spend the rest of my life with her. If you die…” He shakes his head. “You could have died in surgery and my last words to you would’ve been ‘Bon Voyage, bitch!’”
I laugh. “Those would’ve been famous last words.”
“Ezra this is serious. You look terrible.”
“Thanks, and I even showered today.”
“I’m bringing you back to the hospital.”
“Okay,” I reply, knowing he won’t.
He stares at me for a few long seconds.
“B-26.”
My headache goes away instantly, my eyes close, my heart speeds up, and my legs go even limper than before. It takes me a second to catch my breath and respond. “What about it?”
“Read it.” He replies, leaving his advice lingering in the air, before leaving my room like Wes just had. I hear the front door slam shut, and I lean back into the recliner and sigh.
For the first time in way too long, I’m home alone. No nurses or other patients, no mothers or brothers or friends. Just me in my apartment. I take in the air that I don’t have to share with anyone else. B-26.
When I met Aria, it was a campus bar. She was eating a cheeseburger and I was drinking a beer and reading a book. We struck up small talk over the book, and a song called “Happiness” By the Fray came on the jupbox that rested over in the corner. “I love this song…” She had said more to herself than to me.
“B-26.” I respond, letting her know that I had thrown a few coins at the machine earlier to make it play that song. That became our song, and when we broke up, I poured my emotions into a poem with the title of B-26. It got published in a journal of poems from the college. I stare at the bookshelf from across my room. I know that reading the poem again will make me upset, yet again, I can’t keep myself from wanting to. After a bit of a struggle I get onto my feet, holding onto the furniture, making my way over to the bookshelf. I feel like I deserve a medal for reaching it. As a grab the book, I fall over like an unsteady toddler onto my bed. I take a breath and lay down, happy to have made it here. I open the book to page 77.
B-26
Ezra Fitz
It’s a number.
It’s a song.
It’s a girl.
Smooth, pearl joy packed.
Gold falafel,
As though ice.
It’s four thirty
morning with phone calls.
It’s deaf mute.
It’s like
A foreign car.
Maybe bingo.
Lucky night?
Something says
it smells bad.
I remember sitting at my desk writing this poem. About that song on the jupbox, Aria’s beautiful smile, four thirty arguments and silent phone calls.
I think about what Wesley and Harley said.
They were right. I am hopelessly inlove with Aria and I do not want to die. I want to live with and for Aria. I stopped fighting because I had nothing to live for.
And now, maybe I do. I have my mom, my brother and my best friend, and maybe even Aria. Wes was right.
The dang teenager was right.
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