Libba Bray Read online

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Wherein, Now That I’m Officially Screwed, a Pep Rally Is Celebrated on My Behalf, and Staci Johnson Gives Me the Time of Day

  What happens to us when we die: an informal poll.

  Theory #1: The Christians are right. There’s a big guy with a white robe and a long, flowing beard and a devil with a pitchfork, and depending on whether you’ve been bad or good (oh, be good, for goodness’ sake!), you’ll wind up playing a harp with the angels or burning in the everlasting fires of hell, both of which sound sucktastic.

  Theory #2: The Jews are right, and when you die there’s nothing, so you better have gotten plenty to eat in this life.

  Theory #3: The Muslims are right, and I am in for some serious black-eyed virgin time. Then again, I’ve got black eyes and am a virgin, so I may be in for some serious trouble once I kick.

  Theory #4: The Buddhists and Hindus are right. This life is one of many. You just go on working through your karmic baggage till you get it right. So be nice to that cockroach. That could be you someday.

  Theory #5: The UFO crazies are right, and we are all one big experiment for a race of superaliens who like to sit around in the alien equivalent of the Barcalounger, sipping a brew and watching those wacky humans get up to the nuttiest sorts of hijinks. And when we buy the farm, they swoop down in the mother ship and take us back to Planet Z and the primordial ooze.

  Theory #6: Nobody knows shit.

  This is just one of the many nifty lists I’ve been making up over the weekend since I got my diagnosis and entered it into that devil’s playground, the Internet. Turns out I’m in for a fun ride. I’ve learned a lot of spiffy new information.

  For instance, if you want the technical term for what I have, it’s Creutzfeldt-Jakob variant BSE. BSE stands for Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy. Should I tell our studio audience more about it, Jim? Sure, let’s tell ’em what I’ve won. Well, folks, it’s a fatal virus that eats holes in your brain, turning it into a sponge. The tying-shoes brain cell? Sorry, this item permanently out of stock. We regret to tell you that your gross motor skills and neurological functioning will no longer be in your control. Here’s your econo diaper pack. Watch out for those hallucinations, and have a nice day.

  It’s all got a sort of pathetic, TV-movie-of-the-week treatment. How our hero started off as a good kid/under-achiever-with-promise/hardened-by-life-but-marshmallow-soft-in-the-center type who managed to get hooked on drugs/make the debate team/tutor a disabled kid and everything turns around the minute he accidentally kills his best friend in a car accident/scores the winning point/nearly loses the kid to “the system” and comes to realize how much he loves the little tyke. Cut to denouement, where everyone has learned a lesson and comes out a stronger, wiser person for it. The kind of shit that makes parents and politicians coo over the “positive,” “life-affirming” message that gosh-darn-it our young people need more of today. Insert Theme Tab A into Plot Tab B, fold and fluff, and you’ve got yourself a nice little book that also makes a beautiful display for your holiday table.

  Yeah, fuck that.

  You know what works? Denial. As a coping tool, denial is severely underrated. Hey, maybe it’s a mistake and I’ve just got a wicked bad flu. Doctors make mistakes all the time. Psych—just kidding!

  For a long time, I thought it would be cool to die young. Honestly, things weren’t going so well in the life department. Death seemed infinitely more glamorous and, you know, kind of hard to fuck up. I confess that most of the dying fantasy involved watching every girl who’d ever dissed me throwing herself on my coffin, sobbing over my early demise and confessing that she’d always wanted me and wished she’d had the chance to claim my virginity while I was alive.

  Problem is, I won’t be around to sample the goods. I’ll be turning into a sponge head. This is the sort of stuff I think about with the few brain cells I’ve got left. Of course, Mom and Dad are convinced the diagnosis is wrong. And I want to believe them. Just like I want to believe that Staci Johnson secretly wants me and uses constant hostility to mask her lustful impulses.

  Like I said, denial. Now served 24/7.

  *

  By the weekend, news of my possibly imminent demise is all over town, and the house has been Fruit Basket City. It’s like now that I’m checking out, I actually matter. And, for some reason, this demands cute baskets loaded with kiwi animals and apples carved into flowers. Calhoun High School has gone into overdrive for me. Rumor has it that the school board fears a lawsuit and they had people in sci-fi-worthy suits tearing apart the cafeteria in case that’s where the BSE came from. I hear the new menu features a lot of tofu. But to make up for all the gosh-darn inconvenience of my having a terminal disease, they have organized a pep rally in my honor. I’m hooked up to wires and cameras so that my face will be transmitted over the JumboTron in the gym, and I get to watch the Rally of Pep happening live over my TV.

  “Hi. Testing. Is this thing on?” Staci Johnson’s bodacious bod is front and center on our forty-two-inch screen. The fates taketh away but they also giveth. Once she figures out she’s on, Staci gives the command to her wannabes and they fan out behind her in cheerleader fashion, giggling and smiling. But Staci smiles biggest. “Hi, Cameron!”

  “Hi, Cameron!” the girls say, high kicking until one of them accidentally flicks Staci’s ponytail with her foot.

  “Goddammit, Tanya!” Staci growls, slapping the clumsy girl’s leg. She turns back to me, all smiles. “Omigod, Cameron, everyone here misses you, like, so much, and we are totally organizing a fund-raiser for you.”

  “I’m making a crepe paper cow. For the poster,” a smiling wannabe says. She’s wearing a CAM’S MY MAN T-shirt.

  “A cow?” I choke out.

  “Omigod, Debbie!” Staci growls between clenched teeth. “Like, hello? That was supposed to be a surprise?”

  Debbie’s face falls. “Sorry.”

  Staci leans forward. Her face is huge. “You are so brave, Cameron. You just gotta stay strong, okay? See you at the pep rally.” Staci walks away, giving me one of those glances over the shoulder that she’s famous for, the ones that make guys think they might have a chance.

  Jenna’s on camera next. She’s actually been very nice to me lately, which is almost as weird as having CJ. “Hey, Cameron. I hope you can feel the love. Everybody’s pulling for you. I mean, everybody.” She glances over at Chet, who’s hanging out with the principal in the background. “Chet’s got his whole youth group praying for you. They read passages from the Bible together every morning.”

  “Wow. Do their lips move while they read? Do they have to use their fingers?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Be nice,” she whispers close to the mike.

  Jenna has to introduce me via camera to the principal, who doesn’t remember suspending me. That’s a drag. I was hoping to play on the guilt there. Finally, it’s showtime. The gym doors open, and everyone pushes in, laughing, talking, eating processed snacks—the official food of high school. Funny, I used to hate the kids in my high school for any number of small and big annoyances; now I hate them only because they get to be alive longer than I do. The turnout’s surprisingly big. Apparently, seeing the Mad Cow Kid is a better draw than girls’ volleyball or guys’ lacrosse, which isn’t saying much.

  Chet King’s doughy face pushes into the left side of the TV. He looks worried. “Cameron, hey, it’s me, Chet. You know, bro, I’m sorry about that punch in Rector’s class. I didn’t know you were sick.”

  No. Of course not. It’s only Christian to hit people who are well.

  I should let him off the hook, tell him not to sweat it, but I can’t help it. I really hate that Chet King gets to keep living and I don’t. I cough long and hard for effect and watch him wince, terrified he’s made God grumpy.

  Principal Hendricks steps up to the mike. “Take your seats, people, please.” He waits for things to settle down to a dull roar before continuing. “As you know, we’re here to honor a ve
ry brave student today and show him our support. Cameron Smith.”

  The gym explodes in sound. It’s meaningless. I’m going to die.

  Principal Hendricks shouts over the din. “Cameron, we know you’re gonna beat this thing. And every single one of us is pulling for you. Just embrace the positive.”

  “Amen,” Chet King says, and I wonder if he’s pissed that I’ve surpassed him on the God Will Test You Because He Loves You scale. He didn’t get a special pep rally shout-out when he broke his vertebrae.

  “Let’s give Cameron a special cheer,” Principal Hendricks says, applauding.

  Eight cheerleaders turn the gym floor into a blur of athletic tumbles and pumped fists. They clap and yell and motion for the crowd to get on their feet. Grudgingly, kids stand. Now that they can see I don’t have three heads or large boils covering my body, they probably want this over with so they can get out, go home, go smoke a J, get in the chat rooms, game it, whatever. The rah-rahs lead the crowd in a rousing chant of my name. “Cam-a-run, Cam-a-run, Cam-a-run!” The sound bounces around the rafters and off the bleachers in a thick roar that hurts my ears. Some jackass moos and the principal of vice takes the mike to warn them they will be “subject to disciplinary action,” plus what they’re doing “isn’t nice.”

  February 20 is officially declared Cameron Smith Day at Calhoun High School. Teachers say nice, generic things about me at the mike. They can’t say nice, specific things because that would entail actually knowing and caring about me. Mom and Dad sit on the bleacher closest to the basketball net. They look gray and flat, clapping along when they’re supposed to, but never smiling. Every now and then, Mom ducks her head and I see her hand go up to her face, wiping. The visiting nurse pats my shoulder, and I want to tell him to stop. His comfort is too much. I take some ragged breaths, holding back the tears, because I don’t want my last high school moment to be me sobbing on a cheesy JumboTron.

  Fuck you, I think instead. Fuck you for living.

  The wall of gymnasium sound thrums in my head like a g-force. I just want this to be over. And then, up in the stands I see her—a girl with short pink hair, torn fishnets, black lace-up punker boots, and a tarnished breastplate like some Wagnerian heroine. From behind her back, two white buds appear on either side of her arms and begin to bloom like enormous daisies reaching for the sun, stretching out for what seems like forever. Wings. She’s staring right at me and smiling. Her smile is the biggest thing on her face, like it almost doesn’t fit. And I swear she’s glowing. Getting brighter by the second. The light drowns out the other sights and sounds in the gym. The wings reach their maximum span, and now I can read the message written there: Hello, Cameron!

  And just like that, everything inside my head goes dark.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  In Which I Check into the Hospital and Have an Encounter with an Angel and Other Strange, Annoying Things

  “Cameron?”

  The voice sounds like it’s coming to me from inside a tunnel. Ow, shit! Could you get that light out of my eyes?

  “Cameron, can you hear me?”

  Yes, I can hear you. Can you hear me, because I was really fucking serious about that instrument of torture disguised as a penlight that for some reason you seem to find it amusing to shine directly into my pupils. I’m pretty sure they prosecute people as war criminals for this kind of shit.

  The dulcet tones of Dr. Asshole float back to my ears. “If you hear me, Cameron, just make a sound.”

  Hello! Are you not listening? I’ve been talking.

  Haven’t I?

  “If you don’t want to speak you can squeeze my hand or nod if you understand.”

  I nod and my brain throbs in my head.

  “Good. Very good, Cameron.” The light stops, thank God, and I’m able to drift in and out, catching snippets of conversation between Dr. Asshole and my ’rents.

  “We’re giving him … for discomfort …”

  I’m floating in space. It’s nice here. A comet zooms past. A star. The Buddha Cow twirls by on her lotus-flower hamburger patty. She raises a hoof in Zen salute. I’ve been blessed by the Cow. Amen.

  “We’d like your permission to try something experimental, something that in trials has had some success with destroying the prions that attack the brain and may slow the progression of the disease.”

  Sounds good to me, Doc. Let’s kick some serious prion ass. Any time is good. And a little more morphine wouldn’t suck. Oooh, I just flew through the Milky Way. Awesome.

  “… some side effects …”

  “I don’t know. …” It’s Mom’s voice.

  Something’s pulsing up ahead. Huh. What is that thing? It’s round and dark.

  “… twice a day …”

  “… doesn’t even know we’re here …” Dad’s voice.

  The Buddha Cow zips on and disappears into the big black hole up ahead. Me no likee this. Time to reverse thrusts, Captain.

  “… Just sign here and we can get started. …”

  Sign what? Hey. I hit reverse. How come that hole’s getting closer? No fair. Mom? Dad? Dr. Asshole? Somebody? Pull me back. I’m getting too close to this thing for comfort, man. Seriously. I’m nodding. Anybody out there see me nodding? Anybody out there? Anybody?

  DAY THREE

  I open my eyes. On the wall opposite me is a framed picture of an angel. St. Jude’s. Right. I’m in the hospital.

  A lady in pink scrubs is beside me, fiddling with a bag on an IV pole. She’s solidly built, like she could kick my ass if she wanted, and her skin’s the color of coffee without a trace of milk. She wears a lanyard around her neck. A bevy of angel pins have been tacked to it. The lanyard holds her hospital ID, which reads GLORY BEAUVAIS.

  “You wakin’ up?” she asks me. She’s got a strong accent.

  “Yeah,” I croak. My voice is scratchy.

  “Good, I need to get your vitals.” Glory’s not big on the chitchat and endearments, it seems. She puts the blood pressure cuff around my arm, pumps it up and watches the meter ticking off numbers. When she’s satisfied, she tears the cuff off in a loud rip of Velcro. “One twenty over seventy. Good. Little bit of fever. I’ll tell the doctor, see if we can get you somet’in for it. You in pain?”

  Oh goody. The candy store is open. “Yes,” I gasp. “A lot of pain.”

  Glory purses her lips, which are unadorned by any lipstick at all. “I’ll put in an order for some aspirin.”

  “I think I need more than that,” I say.

  She doesn’t budge. “I’ll tell the doctor. Your breakfast will be here soon.”

  DAY FOUR

  The old geezer across the hall coughs all the time. I started counting them. Twenty-eight in one thirty-minute period. To drown out the sound, I’ve taken to watching soaps. It doesn’t really work, but now I’m captivated by a storyline about this woman and her evil twin who, for some reason I can’t figure out, looks nothing like her. Old sick guy is coughing up a lung over there.

  God, if you exist, can you take him instead of me?

  DAY FIVE

  It’s official. I hate oatmeal. Hospital oatmeal is gray with the consistency of glue. You can pour two packets of sugar substitute and a whole carton of milk into it and it still won’t have any taste. If this is what my last days are going to be about, put the pillow over my face now. Dad was here this morning. Now Mom’s on duty. She brought me some new comics, which was cool. I must have drifted off. When I wake up, she’s sitting in the ugly hospital chair, slipping pictures into a big book. She gives a half-smile. “I thought I might finally finish that photo album of our Disney trip.”

  “Mom. I was five when we went to Disney.”

  “I know. I kept saying I’d get around to it.” She puts a picture in my hand. “Do you remember this?”

  It’s a picture of us standing outside Tomorrowland. I’m grinning maniacally like my face might break with joy.

  “You loved that place. Made us go on everything you could ride at least
four times.”

  “Was this before or after I tripped out on A Small World?”

  “After,” she says with a sad little smile. Mom sifts through the shoe box of pictures. She picks up and abandons one after the other. “I don’t know where to put all these things.”

  Finally, she closes the box. She slips it and the half-finished photo album into her book bag to be forgotten.

  DAY NINE

  The stoner trio has come today. Their conversation is like watching a volleyball match where you can’t tell the players apart.

  Rachel: Dude, some of those nurses are smokin’ hot. The one with the dark hair in a ponytail? Is she into piercings and science nerds?

  Kevin: Does she ever come in and, like, take her hair down and be all, “Oh, Cameron, I never dreamed it could be like this!”

  Rachel: Pig. Stop talking about my future girlfriend that way.

  Kyle: That could totally be like, one of those last wish things, though. Do it. Put in for hot nurse sex before you kick.

  Kevin: They hooking you up with good meds? My uncle went in for gallbladder surgery and they gave him, like, Make-Me-See-God-Ocontin or something. It was the only week he wasn’t a complete asshole. We wanted to put it in his water supply.

  Rachel: Did you hear? The student council is selling gold ribbons to raise money and everything. Whole school’s wearing ’em. Mrs. Rector dipped into her margarita money to buy one, and she doesn’t even like you.

  Kevin: It was supposed to be black-and-white, you know, like a cow pattern? But that was already taken for some other disease.

  Kyle: Sorry you’ve gotta be in the hospital, dude.

  Rachel: Sucks.

  Kevin: Yeah, definitely the big suckage.

  They nod in unison.

  Kevin: Speaking of suckage, ask Kyle what he’s doing this summer.

  Kyle: Shut up, Kevin.

  Rachel: Summer School City, man. Shithenge didn’t cut it after all.

  Kyle: I said, shut up.

  Kevin: I told you I woulda hooked you up with a paper off the Internet, dude. I know sites the teaching bots never even think of checking. Oh! We brought you the new Director’s Cut of Star Fighter, episodes one through four—