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  “I don’t know. The story ends with Seymour shooting himself.”

  Wendy made a face. “So . . . the story is basically about some depressed guy who shoots himself? How is that even a story?”

  I should’ve known better. I was stupid for thinking she’d be interested. “You know what,” I said with a sigh, “never mind.”

  “One medium thin-crust, half pineapple, half sausage,” said the waitress as she put our pizza in the middle of the table.

  “Thank you,” Wendy said in a singsong voice as she gave the waitress a big smile.

  “Do you two need anything else?”

  “We’re good,” Wendy chirped. “Are we good Josh?”

  “Fantastic.”

  “We’re good,” Wendy told the waitress again.

  Wendy’s cheerfulness vanished once the waitress walked away. It struck me that she seemed a lot happier talking to the waitress than to me. She put a slice of pineapple pizza on her plate but sat looking off into the distance.

  “So, what about you?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood as I grabbed a piece of pizza.

  Wendy finally took a small bite of her slice before carefully setting it down and patting her mouth with her napkin. She stared at the same spot in the distance.

  “Have you enjoyed any good books lately?” I asked.

  She cleared her throat into her fist and looked at me sadly. “Josh?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m so sorry Josh.” She shook her head. “I just don’t think the two of us are working out.”

  “You’re breaking up with me?” I was surprised at how happy I sounded.

  “Please don’t take it personally. You’re a really great guy. I just don’t think we’re meant to be. We can still stay friends, right?”

  “Yeah, sure.” I knew we would never see each other again. And Wendy probably knew it too.

  She leaned over the table and looked into my eyes. “So . . . you’re not mad?”

  Was I mad? I thought for a minute. No. What I felt wasn’t anger. In fact, it wasn’t even sadness. It was more like . . . liberation.

  “No. We haven’t known each other that long. It’s fine.” We’d only been dating for about a month. “If you think it’s not working out then it’s best that we both move on.”

  Wendy breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. “You’re a smart guy Josh. I’m sure you’ll find someone else.”

  She was right. Meeting girls was easy for me. It typically took me less than two weeks to find someone else. It was staying with them that was the tricky part.

  “And you’re a beautiful, very sweet girl.” I was being sincere. She’d make a great girlfriend for some guy . . . just not me. I stood up. “I’ll pay and get to go boxes.” I didn’t want us to be uncomfortable for the rest of the meal.

  “Aw, that’s sweet. Thanks for being so understanding.”

  “Sure thing.” I gave her a kiss on the cheek before heading to the counter with a lightness in my step and a smile on my lips.

  FOUR

  Meg

  I walked out of the examination room in a daze. Everything was a complete blur. I don’t know how I managed to pay at the front desk, find my car in the parking garage, and pull into traffic without running anything over.

  My heart was thumping and I was gripping the steering wheel so hard that my hands hurt. I wanted to scream or cry or pound the steering wheel . . . something. But I couldn’t bring myself to do any of that. I felt strangely disconnected from my body, as if I was somehow watching myself drive home.

  How could there be no cure? I’d been so excited for today—so sure that they’d find the problem, treat it, and in a few weeks I’d start looking like my normal self again. It never occurred to me that they’d tell me there was nothing I could do. Doctors are supposed to tell you what’s wrong and then fix it. It’s 2017 for heaven’s sake. Doctors are giving people prosthetic arms and repairing broken spines. My freshman roommate in college had an uncle with lung cancer and they actually cut him open, removed one of his lungs, sewed him back up, and then he pretty much went back to his normal life. How come they could figure out how to cut major organs out of someone’s body but they couldn’t invent some sort of cream you could smear on your head to make your hair grow back?

  I deliberately drove at full speed toward the red light at the next intersection before slamming on the brakes. It was my little way of being defiant—of yelling and swearing at the universe. The universe had nothing to say in response which just made me angrier.

  The light turned green. There was a drugstore up ahead on the right. Without any conscious thought I turned into the parking lot. I pulled into a space, shut off the car, and sat for a moment.

  The doctor had mentioned Rogaine. What was it he said again? Sometimes it can stop the hair loss from getting worse. Wow, that sounded encouraging. Still, it sounded like the only hope I had. It was at least worth a look, right? I took a deep breath before getting out of the car and going inside.

  The second I entered the store the teenager behind the register asked, “Can I help you find anything?”

  “Uh . . . no, I’m fine.”

  I quickly turned and walked down the first aisle I came to. Where do I even find this stuff? I thought as I slowly wandered between the shelves packed with paper products. I made a U-turn at the end and headed up the makeup aisle. Is it by the shampoo and conditioner? Oh no . . . what if it’s one of those things they keep behind the pharmacy counter and you actually have to ask for it? There was no way I was going to ask a stranger for Rogaine. That would be like announcing my balding head to the world. The mere thought was absolutely mortifying. Fortunately, I didn’t have to open my mouth. I finally found the boxes of Rogaine on the shelf by the razors and shaving cream—like a perfectly nice product with no shame attached.

  Dr. Harris said it was safe, but were there any weird side effects he didn’t mention? I looked around nervously before I even dared to touch a box. I’m sure I seemed like I was thinking about shoplifting or something. Once I was sure no one was around I gingerly picked up a box and turned it over to read the directions and small print. Hmm, it looked like if there were any weird side effects they weren’t telling.

  My eyes widened as I saw the price on the shelf. Yikes. I’d have to use it every day forever and ever amen until I was either dead or too old to care what my hair looked like. I did some quick math in my head. I assumed each box lasts a month and multiplied the price by twelve. Then I multiplied that by ten. Holy crap. I could smear this junk on my head every day or save for a down payment on a house.

  “Save your money,” said a voice.

  Huh? Was someone reading my thoughts? Was it a divine message from above? I looked around. A woman in a magenta sweater—with matching lipstick and gold hoop earrings—was grinning at me as she picked up a can of shaving cream.

  “You’re thinking of trying it, aren’t you?” She set the can in her cart and took a few steps toward me. “I can tell by the way you’re frowning at it. Trust me, it doesn’t work. It smells icky, it’s a pain to constantly remember to put on, and it doesn’t do a darn thing. Don’t waste your money.”

  I stared at her in awe. She knew about this overpriced stuff. Someone else was going through this too. I couldn’t believe my luck. She could be my new bestie, a confidante, someone who would actually understand—unlike doctors who just spout off medical information that means nothing to them personally before they head down the hall to the next patient. Doctors always think they have all the answers, but real people are always finding out about stuff that doctors don’t seem to know about.

  “You’ve used it?” I asked, trying to check her out without being too obvious. She was a little older than me, maybe in her mid- to late-thirties. Her blond hair was shoulder-length and looked fine to me. Of course, I couldn’t see the crown of her head which was my worst spot. Maybe she’d found something else that actually worked. Maybe she was now a formerly balding woman w
ho’d discovered some wonderful combination of vitamins and holistic herbs or something that got her hair to grow back. “For how long?”

  She shrugged and her hoop earrings swung back and forth. “I dunno. Maybe four or five months. Long enough to know that it didn’t work one bit and I was just throwing money down the drain.”

  I put the box back on the shelf, glad that I’d been warned. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to hug this woman or bow down in reverence. She was my new hero, my fount of wisdom, the great guru on the mountain top. She’d battled female-pattern baldness and come out victorious—with a beautiful head of blond hair.

  “So what does work?” I asked, leaning toward her ever so slightly so I could catch every bit of her experience.

  She let out a burst of laughter. “Nothing! Absolutely nothing. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.”

  I was shocked. It felt as though she’d slapped me in the face. Was she joking?

  “Nothing works? But . . .”

  “Oh, don’t look so horrified,” she said kindly. “It’s not that bad. In fact, I’ve discovered that a bald man can be kind of sexy.”

  A bald man? What was she talking about?

  She took her phone out of her purse. She scrolled and held it up to show me a photo of her sitting in a restaurant next to a grinning muscular bald guy with his arm around her.

  “My husband finally got over being self-conscious about it. He decided to shave his head and rock the Patrick Stewart look. I don’t miss his hair at all . . . now. And neither does he.”

  “Your . . . your husband?” I said faintly.

  She nodded as she put the phone back in her purse. “Here’s what you should do. Go home and tell your husband that being bald makes him more masculine and he shouldn’t fight it.” She waggled her fingers at the boxes of Rogaine on the shelf and grimaced. “Don’t waste your time on this snake oil.”

  “Being bald makes him . . . masculine,” I repeated, stunned.

  “That’s right. Take it from me. You just let him know that you feel that way and you’ll both be just fine.”

  “Thanks. I . . . I won’t buy it then,” I said in a small voice. “Thank you.”

  I turned around and walked out of the store as quickly as I could, staring straight ahead the entire way. I got in my car and raced out of the lot so quickly that my tires squealed. I cried all the way home.

  FIVE

  Josh

  When I got to my apartment Darren, my roommate, was home. He was reclining on the couch in his usual spot, remote control in hand. Family Guy was on the TV. No big surprise there.

  “Hey, my date got cut short,” I said. “You want some pizza?”

  Darren scooted to a sitting position. “Pizza? Heck yeah.”

  He’d responded to an ad I placed a couple of years ago for a roommate. Our arrangement worked well despite—or maybe because of—the fact that we were so different. Darren was a few years younger than me. He’d dropped out of college after his first year and had no plans to return. He worked as a warehouse supervisor. To me, that’d be a miserable job. But he seemed to love it. And to be fair, he probably thought teaching English to middle-schoolers was the worst job a person could have. Our schedules were different and we didn’t see each other a whole lot. But when he wasn’t working or out with his sports buddies he was usually sprawled on the couch watching TV.

  I went to the kitchen. I slid a couple of pieces of pizza onto a plate and put it in the microwave.

  “So . . . Wendy just broke up with me,” I said as I walked into the living room.

  Darren aimed the remote at the TV and turned down the volume. “Which one was Wendy?”

  “You know, the one with the wavy blond hair. She wore pink a lot . . .”

  “Oh yeah, her.” He groaned. “Eh, you can do better. She wasn’t that great.”

  The microwave beeped three times.

  “You mean compared to your superior flock of women?” I snorted a laugh as I went into the kitchen. “You haven’t even had a date in over a year.” I got another plate from the cupboard and put a slice of steaming pizza on it.

  “Hey, I didn’t say I could do better,” Darren called from the couch. “I said that you could do better.”

  “See, now that’s an interesting comment.” I handed Darren a plate. “So, do you mean . . .”

  “Um, hello . . .” Darren held out his empty hand and looked around the room. “Since when can I have pizza without a beer?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Hang on your majesty.” I rolled my eyes and went back to the kitchen. I grabbed a can of beer for him and a soda for myself. “Anyway,” I said as I plopped back down on my chair, “what you do mean by better, exactly? Do you just mean prettier? Or do you have another type of girl in mind?”

  Darren shrugged as he took a huge bite of pizza. “I didn’t mean anything,” he said as he chewed. “I was just sayin’ stuff to make you feel better.”

  “But see, that’s the really weird thing. . . . I don’t feel bad at all. I’m actually kind of glad she broke up with me first. I was starting to feel like we didn’t really have anything in common. I could never talk to her, I mean really talk to her about anything that matters.” I felt like I was talking to myself. “You know why Wendy broke up with me?”

  “Nope.”

  “I was telling her about one of my favorites books and it was obvious that she was bored as hell. Then she started getting annoyed and said she didn’t think we should see each other anymore.”

  Darren shook his head. “Man, are you telling me that your idea of the perfect woman is one you can sit around and discuss books with? Get a freakin’ grip Josh.”

  “It’s not just that. I want a girl I really connect with. Someone who gets me. Aw geez, what am I talking to you about all this for? Have you ever even read a whole book?”

  Darren took a swig of beer. “You know what your problem is Josh? You think too much. Why don’t you just enjoy your life and not analyze everything to death? Knowing you, you’ll find some other girl before you know it.”

  “Yeah, I probably will. And just like always, it’ll be fun for a little while and then it won’t be fun anymore and we’ll break up. See, that’s the problem.”

  “And what an awful problem it is. My heart bleeds for you brother. A nonstop conveyor belt of women. You poor, poor baby. I don’t know how any man could survive that. My little violin is weeping for you.” Darren turned the volume back up on the TV.

  “Whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa!” said Peter Griffin on TV. “Lois, this is not my Batman glass.”

  Darren laughed so hard he almost lost a mouthful of beer.

  And I suddenly felt an aching loneliness.

  ***

  I’d been sort of sad since Wendy broke up with me. It was odd. I’d broken up with several girls over the last few years and I usually bounced back right away—mostly because I never felt particularly attached to any of them. Why was it different this time? Did Wendy maybe mean more to me than I realized?

  On Friday we were discussing The Tell-Tale Heart in my eighth grade English class. As I was cueing the clip from The Simpsons I heard Wendy’s voice in my head: It just seems strange that you let them watch TV all the time in a gifted English class.

  Once I heard Wendy’s words in my head I knew without a doubt that I was not feeling sad because I missed her. It was something much deeper. Like I’d told Darren that evening, I wanted to connect with a girl. But maybe that was asking too much.

  SIX

  Meg

  My two cats, Scooter and Pudding, greeted me as usual when I arrived home. Scooter ran right up to me and yowled while Pudding slightly raised his head to acknowledge me from his favorite perch on the couch.

  “Hey guys,” I murmured. “Don’t worry. Dinner’s coming.” I hung my purse on the hook next to the front door and went to the kitchen. I pulled two cans of cat food out of the pantry and dumped their contents into the cats’ bowls.
I crouched down, a bowl in each hand. “I have bad news,” I said as they scurried over. “I’m losing my hair. And it doesn’t sound like it’s ever coming back.” They started munching away. Neither one of them seemed the slightest bit concerned. “You won’t mind then? You’ll both still love me as long as I continue to pet and feed you?” No response.

  I sighed and leaned against the counter. I was starting to get hungry but the thought of food made me feel slightly ill. I realized with a start that this horrible day was forever etched into my mind as The Day I Learned I was Going Bald . . . and this evening would be no better. Whatever I did tonight—whatever I ate or watched or read—would be forever tainted as part of The Day I Learned I was Going Bald.

  I chuckled humorlessly. I decided I should eat something I already hated for dinner. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any Brussels sprouts or lima beans. I poured myself a bowl of Lucky Charms. If I was permanently damaging my happy associations with Lucky Charms, so be it. I’d just have to switch to Froot Loops.

  I kicked off my shoes as I flopped on the couch. Scooter, my big tabby cat, jumped up and climbed into my lap as I was picking a purple heart out of my bowl and slowly putting it in my mouth. Scooter’s my oldest cat. He’s always been a faithful friend to me. In fact, he was my official companion as I made the journey from college life to adulthood. Soon after Katie moved out of our apartment my parents’ neighbors’ cat had kittens. They were giving them away and I knew I needed some company so I jumped at the opportunity. “What do I do Scoots?” I asked as I stroked him.

  He meowed loudly as he reached up and whacked me in the face. That was his way of informing me that I needed to scratch him under the chin. Like any good cat owner, I immediately obeyed. I picked a blue diamond out of my bowl and popped it in my mouth as Scooter pressed his chin to my fingernails.

  I set my bowl of mostly-uneaten cereal down on the floor and sat scratching Scooter in a sort of trance. Pudding, my smaller and more docile black cat, eventually curled up on the other side of the couch. I thought about calling or texting Katie. But I dismissed that idea pretty quickly. I couldn’t bring myself to share my official diagnosis with an actual human just yet. And anyway, she was planning to visit in a few weeks. I decided I’d rather wait and tell her in person.