Ryan sat slumped on the tattered plaid couch in his parents’ basement, his eyes half-lidded and glazed over, looking like he had just wandered out of a Civil War field hospital. His skin had the pallor of microwaved chicken, and he was draped in a moth-eaten blanket that he claimed had “healing properties,” though it smelled faintly of Doritos and despair. Never mind the mystery stains from it having never see the inside of the washing machine. White crust gave his trusty blanket a fine sheen and texture. Across from him, Matt sat cross-legged in an armchair with the poise of someone ready to preside over a tribunal.

“You look great,” Matt deadpanned, folding his bony arms behind his head. “Very vibrant. Like the ghost of a Victorian child who drowned in a well.”

Ryan, shorter than Matt with spiky blonde hair, lifted a hand in a weak attempt at a middle finger but lacked the energy to fully commit. Instead, his wrist went limp, and the gesture resembled more of a half-hearted blessing.

“Thanks. It’s called mono, Matt. Maybe you’ve heard of it? It’s a serious illness.” Matt was tall, lanky, with a mop of brown curly hair. “Weakens the immune system, swells the spleen, makes you regret being alive.” He coughed wetly into his blanket and then made direct eye contact as he wiped his hand on the couch cushion.

“Yeah, I read the pamphlet, Dr. Fauci.” Matt leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’m just trying to visualize the exact moment when you decided to swap bodily fluids with the dirtiest human person in the tri-county area.”

Ryan’s face, already pale, flushed pink. “Oh, come on. She wasn’t that dirty.”

Matt nodded, his expression grave. “Of course. Not that dirty. Just...what? Dirty-adjacent? Filthy-adjacent? She lives in the part of town where the grass gave up and just became dirt, Ryan. She hangs out by a dumpster and has green teeth. Wife material if you ask me. Jesus, are you that horny, dude?”

“Shut up.”

“No, really. Walk me through it.” Matt steepled his fingers in mock sincerity. “At what point did you look at her and think, ‘You know, I could use a good, solid case of glandular fever’?”

Ryan groaned, clutching his stomach. “I swear to God, my spleen is going to rupture if you keep talking.”

“Can’t hear you over the sound of your terrible life choices.”

Ryan tossed a wadded-up Taco Bell napkin at Matt’s head. It missed by several feet and tumbled listlessly to the floor, where it joined an army of similar napkins that had died in vain.

“Close, you dickhead.” Matt said, shrugging off the attack. “So, remind me. Was this the same girl who tried to sell you a fake concert ticket last summer? Or the one who bit your collarbone during a dance-off? Or was it the girl who actually lives in the dumpster like Oscar the Grouch you found last winter? You disgust me.”

Ryan pointed weakly. “That was Jennifer.”

“Ah, right. And this one? The mono fairy? What was her name again?”

“Becca.”

Matt clutched his chest as though shot. “Becca?” His voice cracked. “Ryan, you got mono from Becca? The girl who chain-smokes menthols outside of the Wendy’s? You might as well have just licked the floor of the men’s room.”

Ryan exhaled heavily. “She’s actually really nice, you know. Heart of gold.”

“Oh, sure. I bet. Super nice. Sweetheart, really. Heart of gold and mouth of Satan’s ass.” Matt placed a hand over his heart. “Tell me, was it before or after she pulled out her own loose tooth with a pair of pliers that you decided, ‘This. This is the girl I want to exchange saliva with’?”

“First of all,” Ryan wheezed, adjusting himself into a slouch so profound it looked physically unsound, “it was an accident.”

“Oh, right. An accident.” Matt widened his eyes in mock innocence. “Oh no, I tripped and fell mouth-first onto her nicotine-laced face. I hate when that happens, ya know.”

Ryan grimaced and shifted deeper into the couch cushions, as if trying to merge with them. “I hate you.”

“Good,” Matt said brightly. “Hate is a powerful emotion. Keeps the immune system strong. You could use some of that.”

Ryan stared at the ceiling in despair. “I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying. You look like shit, but no, you’re not dying. You just made out with a girl who vapes while she sleeps. A girl who brushes her teeth with pee-pee poo-poo.”

Ryan’s stomach growled loudly. He shot Matt a miserable look. “I haven’t eaten in, like, three days. It hurts to swallow.”

Matt’s eyes sparkled with glee. “You mean to tell me that the same guy who made out with a girl who once dipped a Taco Bell burrito into her Mountain Dew is suddenly concerned with what’s going in his mouth?”

Ryan groaned, folding deeper into his blanket. He resembled a greasy eggroll wrapped in shit.

Matt leaned in closer, adopting a tone of mock tenderness. “Listen, buddy. I know this is a difficult time. But you have to stay strong. You have to fight. For all the other morons out there who want to make out with girls named Becca behind gas stations. They’re counting on you.”

Ryan’s eyes narrowed. “I am seriously going to pass out.”

Matt sat back and crossed his long, lanky legs at the ankle. “That’s fair. You’ve been through a lot. The fever. The fatigue. The indignity. But hey, at least you can say you’ve learned a valuable lesson.”

Ryan closed his eyes. “What lesson?”

Matt leaned in, his voice soft, reverent, almost gentle. “Never make out with someone whose Instagram bio just says, ‘Cashapp: $BeccaRocks69.’”

Ryan didn’t open his eyes. “That’s not her handle.”

“No? Hmm.” Matt tilted his head thoughtfully. “We can’t confirm or deny that. However, still. Good policy. But, here Insty is probably something like that.”

For a long time, the only sound was the faint hum of the basement’s dehumidifier and the occasional wheeze from Ryan’s labored breathing. Matt watched his friend, who was now half-asleep and drooling faintly into the blanket. His eyelids fluttered and a soft snore escaped.

Matt sat quietly for a moment, then smirked slightly. He leaned forward and, in a low, gentle voice, said, “Hey. Wake up.”

Ryan cracked one eye open and groaned. “What.”

Matt’s grin widened. “Do you know why the spleen broke up with the immune system?”

Ryan stared, blinking slowly. “What?”

Matt’s eyes twinkled with malicious delight. “Because it was tired of dealing with all its toxic relationships.”

Ryan made a soft choking sound, then turned his face into the couch cushion. “I hope you get a paper cut on your eyeball.”

Matt leaned back in the chair, looking immensely pleased with himself. Somehow they had only been friends for a few years, but had gone through enough together to fill a book. He picked up the nearest Taco Bell napkin and delicately dabbed at an imaginary tear. “Oh, don’t worry about me, buddy. I’m healthy as an ox. An ox that doesn’t make out with people who once got banned from a Petco for theft.”

Ryan didn’t respond. He was already snoring softly, his body sagging into the couch like a forgotten gym bag. “Dude, I need medicine, man. My parents are out of town. Kinda for the best. I don’t want them to see me like this and start asking question.”

Matt nodded, “Right, this would be the first time they saw you hook up with a bag of garbage, right?” Eluding too Ryan’s track record.

“Please dude, go get me some asprin and something for my throat, dude!” Ryan gave a exhale and curdled into the corner of the couch.

Matt shook his head, but agreeing, grinning as he pulled a Sharpie from his pocket and leaned over. It was going to be a fantastic day to give Ryan a Sharpie unibrow.

At the tender age of fifteen, when most of my peers were discovering the joys of acne and algebra, however Matt found myself on a mission that would have made even the most seasoned of Boy Scouts quiver in their khaki shorts. His friend, Ryan, had contracted mononucleosis—a disease that, despite its exotic name, was less about European intrigue and more about excessive napping and a throat that felt like sandpaper. The culprit? A girl named Becca, whose reputation was as murky as the puddles outside the local 7-Eleven.

Ryan, ever the optimist, believed that a cocktail of over-the-counter meds would expedite his recovery. And so, armed with a crumpled ten-dollar bill and a sense of duty that bordered on the masochistic, Matt ventured into the fluorescent abyss of the local Drug Store.

The bell above the door jingled as he entered, announcing my arrival to the sparse congregation of shoppers. Mrs. Henderson from down the street was perusing the adult diaper section with the intensity of a bomb defusal expert, while Mr. Jenkins, our perpetually sunburned mailman, was engaged in a passionate debate with the cashier about the merits of spearmint versus wintergreen gum.

Matt navigated the aisles with the precision of a seasoned cartographer, my lanky frame dodging precariously stacked displays of discounted Halloween candy (it was March) and an ominous pyramid of prune juice bottles. Finally, he reached the "Cold and Flu" section—a veritable smorgasbord of promises in colorful boxes - which Matt had no idea which to choose.

As he pondered the differences between "Maximum Strength" and "Extra Strength" (a conundrum that has plagued mankind for centuries), a familiar, yet course, voice drawled from behind him.

"Well, if it isn't Matt. Fancy meeting you here. Where is your butt-buddy, Ryan?"

He turned slowly, as one does when confronted with a specter from their nightmares. There stood Becca, leaning against a shelf stocked with laxatives, which felt poetically appropriate. Her dark hair was pulled into a greasy bun on top of her head, and she wore an oversized leather jacket that looked like it had been liberated from a Hell's Angels' yard sale. A toothpick dangled from the corner of her mouth, completing the ensemble. Who the hell even uses toothpicks as an accessory anymore?

"Becca," I replied, my voice attempting (and failing) to mask my disdain. "Didn't expect to see you here, but I can imagine your a regular in the penicillin aisle."

She smirked, twirling the toothpick with her tongue like a circus act. "You’re funny.” She blew a air kiss, “Needed to pick up some essentials."

He glanced at the items in her basket: a bottle of cough syrup, a pack of Newports, and a pregnancy test. The holy trinity of teenage rebellion - and regret - and filth.

"Stocking up for a fun afternoon?" He quipped.

She chuckled, a low, throaty sound that made me question the structural integrity of my eardrums. "Always quick with a joke. Something like that. What brings you here?"

He weighed his options: lie and escape unscathed, or tell the truth and brace for impact. His innate sense of martyrdom chose the latter.

"I'm picking up some meds for Ryan," He admitted.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Oh yeah? What's wrong with him? I just saw him not that long ago."

He took a deep breath, channeling the spirit of every tragic hero who had come before me. "Mono. He has mono. Like the kind you get from a skank."

Becca's expression remained unchanged, as if he had just informed her that Ryan had taken up knitting. "Bummer," she said, inspecting her chipped black nail polish.

He waited for more—a flicker of guilt, perhaps even a token apology. When none was forthcoming, I decided to expedite the process.

"You do realize he got it from you, right? Like, you are the skank. He contracted mono from you."

She tilted her head, feigning innocence. "Is that so?"

"Yes, that's so," he replied, his patience wearing thinner than the drugstore's generic toilet paper.

Becca shrugged, the universal sign for "I couldn't care less." "Not my problem," she said, popping her gum with a finality that suggested the conversation was over.

He stared at her, slightly dumbfounded but not surprised. This is how skanks act. "Not your problem? You gave him the 'kissing disease.' He's bedridden, miserable, and currently binge-watching soap operas because he lacks the energy to reach the remote."

She raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like a personal issue."

He opened his mouth to retort but realized he was engaging in a battle of wits with an unarmed opponent. Exhaling sharply, he turned back to the shelf and grabbed the first box of throat lozenges he saw.

"Well," he said, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace, "it's been enlightening as always, Becca."

She grinned, revealing a set of teeth that could benefit from less nicotine and more fluoride. "Likewise, Matt. Give Ryan my... regards."

“I don’t think he wants to catch anything else from you, you bag of dirt.” He may have been a liability, but he was Matt’s best friend.

He nodded curtly and made my way to the cashier, feeling the weight of her gaze on his back. As he paid for the lozenges, he couldn't help but marvel at the cosmic injustice of it all.

Stepping out into the crisp afternoon air, he allowed himself a moment of reflection.

Adolescence, he mused, was less about self-discovery and more about surviving encounters with people like Becca - and navigating who to shack up with.

And as he walked back to Ryan’s house, clutching the small bag of medicine like a talisman, he made a silent vow to myself: the next time Ryan decided to swap spit, or any other fluids, with the town's resident dumpster-girl, he could fetch his own damn lozenges.

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