Going Bovine (12 page)

That’s all I can take of that. Flip to the news. A shellacked anchorman giving the daily grim. Teenaged soldiers carrying guns. Bombed marketplaces tattooed with blood. Crying villagers. Melting ice caps, confused polar bears. Kneeling guys in black hoods behind razor wire. A wildfire in another state. Guys watching it burn, the fire reflected in the mirrored lenses of their sunglasses. Jeez, someone needs to push the reset button on this planet.

The anchorman smiles and they cut to a cute story about a Captain Carnage championship going down.

NIGHT

I can’t breathe.

Shit. My lungs. Tight. Can’t take in. More. Than a gasp. Of air. Pain.

Dad. Getting up. Scared. “Cameron? Cameron!”

Can’t say his name. Can’t ask for. Help. No air. Dad’s eyes. So scared. Running out. Shouting.

Dad. Back. Glory, too, and. Some guy in green. Pulling a cart. Serious machine.

Glory. Snapping on. Gloves. Lightning quick. “Okay, baby, hold real still for me.”

She’s never. Shit. Never called me. Baby. Guy in green. Plastic tubing. More people running. Body seizing. Shaking. Can’t. Can’t stop.

“Gotta get him tubed,” Glory barks. “Give him that shot, now.”

Arms. Holding me. Down. Roll to side. Pain. My hip. Shot going in. Medicine. Hot like fire.

Breathe, Cameron.

Glory’s face. Determined. Grim. “Hold him good.” Fingers. Opening my mouth. Tube. Coming in. Oh fuck. Snaky plastic. Too much. Makes me choke. Want to. Scream. Gagging. Choking. My heart. Frantic general. Screaming. “The hell’s going on out there? Report, soldier, report!”

Stop. Can’t. Stop. Shaking. All over. Panic. Like a wave. Taking me. Under.

Glory. Near. “Easy, easy, it’s okay, baby, don’t fight it, just a minute and it’ll all be over.”

Scared. So scared. Make it stop. Must stay. Awake. Fight. The old lady said.

Focus. Picture. On the wall. Angel.

Meds. Make my head. Heavy. Then light.

The picture. The angel. Focus. See.

Wings. Move. Flutter.

Like snow.

Falling.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

In Which I Wake Up

White.

All I see is white.

Blink.

White.

Blink, blink.

White, white.

The white has little pockmarks, like the surface of the moon.

Blink again, and the spongy square tiles of the hospital ceiling come into focus. The hospital. I’m still here? What if I’m not? I’m afraid to look. Okay. Take this slowly. Slide eyes to the left. Window and a wall radiator. Eyes to the right. Visitor chairs. Mom and Dad. Sleeping.

Mom and Dad. Still here. All still here.

Thank you.

* * *

It’s night when I wake again. The first thing I notice is that there’s no tube in my throat anymore. It’s sore and dry, though. Like I’ve been eating gravel for two days straight.

“You awake?”

A new face appears above my head. I shriek, surprised by the sound of my own scratchy voice.

“Oh, sorry, dude. I thought you were awake.”

I close my eyes and silently will the hallucination to go away. When I open them again, his face is still next to mine.

“You okay, amigo?”

I try to talk but my throat is sore and dry. “Could you. Water. Please?”

“Oh. Sure. No problem, dude.”

In about three seconds, there’s a cup in my hand. I take a few sips and feel my throat balloon with each one. Better. “Thanks. Sorry if I scared you. It’s just … I thought I might have, um, died. Or something.”

“Yeah, no kidding. I was a little freaked out about it myself,” he says.

“You were here then?”

“Just wheeled in.”

I take a really good look at him. He’s got a cherubic face, all round cheeks and pug nose. Big, dark, almost-girl-pretty eyes guarded by eyebrows knit together in an expression of annoyance and suspicion. It’s all topped off by a huge mushroom cloud of kinky hair. Calhoun High. Fourth-floor bathroom.

“You’re the gamer,” I say.

“Four-time Captain Carnage champ. It’s Gonzo, if you don’t remember. Well, my full name is Paul Ignacio Gonzales, but everybody calls me Gonzo.”

“Cameron. Smith.”

“Yeah, I know.” Gonzo scrambles up onto his bed, which is like watching somebody’s kid brother try to do it. “So. You’re the guy with mad cow disease. Wow.”

“Yeah. Wow.”

“Wow, wow, wow.” Pause. “That is some crazy shit, dude. How’d you get that?”

“Nobody really knows,” I say.

“Hey, no offense, but isn’t that fatal?”

Nobody’s come out and said it so directly. Gonzo’s just gone up a notch in my book. “Yeah. Supposed to be. They’ve got me on some experimental stuff.”

“Man. That sucks.” Gonzo adjusts his bed. The back rises up with a mechanical groan till he’s at a ninety-degree angle.

“So … what are you in here for?” I ask.

“Me? I’m in here a few times a year.”

“Oh,” I say, not sure if it has something to do with his Little Person status.

Gonzo pours his can of Rad XL soda into a plastic cup and swigs it, following up with an impressive belch. “My mom’s always convinced that there’s something terrible wrong with me and that I’m going to die. If I get a rash, she thinks it’s beri-beri. If I lose a little weight, she thinks I’ve got colon cancer or a tapeworm. If I get a cold she thinks it’s pneumonia. I think I hold the record for most chest X-rays ever performed on a single human being under the age of twenty.”

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Me too.” I take another sip of my water. “What are you here for this time?”

“I took this growth hormone?” he says, like he’s not sure whether he took it or not. “It was supposed to help me get taller. Didn’t work. You probably figured that out already. Anyway, the stuff was made from cows—there was this whole class-action lawsuit—so when my mom read about you in the paper, she kinda freaked, wanted them to, you know, test my blood and stuff, make sure I wasn’t gonna … you know, go bovine.” His smile pushes his cheeks up like Venetian blinds, till his eyes have nowhere to go but into a squint.

“So,” I say. “What’s the word? Is your brain sponging out even as we speak?”

“No, dude. I’m good. But I’ve had this bad cough, too, so you know, gotta do the old chest X-ray and rule out pneumonia. Or TB. Or lung cancer.”

The phone beside Gonzo’s bed rings. He lets it ring twice, like he doesn’t want to pick it up, but the third ring he cuts short.

“Hi, Mom. Nah, I’m okay. Lunch? Some kind of gross, pureed chicken thing with mashed potatoes and carrots, a little pudding. Mom, how could the chicken be poisoned—it’s in a hospital? I’m not being mean. ¡No soy malo! Okay. Okay, okay, siento. Yes, they took me for the spinal. No. No meningitis, so I’m cool. Mom, I don’t have a brain tumor. I don’t! What do you mean? What article? Well that doesn’t mean … but not every dwarf gets it!”

Gonzo shifts down low in the bed. “When are you coming by? Can you bring me some books? My Big Philly Cheese Steaks CDs? Oh, and my Star Fighter DVD.”

Of course he’s a Star Fighter guy.

“All right. You too. Mom. I can’t. I can’t.” He sighs, then lowers his voice. “Love you, too.”

The minute Gonzo hangs up, he grabs an asthma inhaler from his bedside table, puts it in his mouth, and takes two huge puffs, finally letting everything out in a big exhale and a few dry hacks.

“You okay?” I ask.

He nods. “Yeah, dude. My mom was just freaking me out a little, that’s all. I’m her only kid. She raised me totally on her own and shit. My dad wasn’t up for kids, especially not a dwarf kid.”

“Oh,” I say.

“Hey, you like the Copenhagen Interpretation?” Gonzo asks. “Got the remix of ‘Words for Snow.’ Did you see the commercial they cut to that song for Rad XL: ‘For when you’re too much for any other soda!’? Dude, it is severe! Hey, do you like Star Fighter?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Dude, I have that whole movie memorized! My favorite part? When Odin—right? He’s the old master?—when he says, ‘These Star Fighters are not worth the trouble. You will help them escape,’ and totally mind-numbs the guards into letting those guys go. Man, I wish I could do that to Mrs. Rector. ‘These are not the grades you wish to assign me, teacherling. You will reach for a higher letter or taste the righteous mojo of my Ultimate Peace Weapon.’ Awesome. Hey, do you—”

The phone goes off again. Gonzo’s jaw tightens. He stares at the phone like he’s afraid of it. He makes it to four rings this time. “Hi, Mom,” he says with a deep sigh. “You what? Mom. Why? Why did you look up the nutrition content of the hospital food on the Internet? No way. No, they don’t. They have to clean the table free of peanuts before they make the chicken, okay? I mean, it’s a hospital. I’m sure they’re super careful. No hago esto. I’m not asking for an EpiPen. Mom! You’re not listening to me …”

I turn over and slip my headphones on, scroll through the dial till I find my cache of Great Tremolo songs. One press, and Gonzo’s increasingly desperate arguing with his mom is drowned out by the familiar recorder-and-helium voice of my favorite cheesy musician. The notes swoop and fall, like someone trying to sing while being tickled. It’s the only thing that’s made me happy in the past two weeks, and I’m not letting go of it.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Of What Happens When I Am Assigned a Mission of Crazy Importance or Just Plain Craziness. Because Sometimes It’s Hard to Know the Difference.

When I wake up, Gonzo’s asleep, and my parents must’ve stepped out. The edges of the room soften with a white glow that grows so bright I have to put up my arm to block its radiance.

“Hello, Cameron.”

The glow dies down, and she’s standing at the end of my bed—the one who’s been following me around leaving feather messages. I take in the torn fishnets, plaid mini-kilt, shiny, riveted breastplate with leather straps at the sides and a worn, Great Tremolo decal near the left shoulder. Her wings are a crazy black-and-white-checkered pattern, like they’ve been spray-painted at a body shop to look like hipster sneakers.

Blink and the hallucination will go away, Cameron. Shut my eyes tight and open them and she’s still there, all bright and shiny and smiling.

“Hullooooo,” she trills, waggling her fingers at me.

“Please,” I croak out. “I—I’m not ready.”

“Not ready for what?” She sits next to me on the bed and hooks the heels of her combat boots on the metal frame. She pulls a bag of candy from behind her breastplate and offers it to me. “ChocoYum?”

An involuntary laugh-squeak escapes me, and then I go right back to being freaked out. “You’re not real. I’m hallucinating.”

“Do I seem real to you right now?”

I nod.

“Well, there you go.” She gobbles down a handful of ChocoYums. “Oh my gosh, these are seriously amazing. So often there’s no truth in advertising. But these really are both choco and yum.” She catches me staring at her wings. “Go on. Touch them, if you want.”

“Huh-uh,” I say emphatically. If I don’t touch her, she doesn’t exist.

She scoots closer, singsongs, “You know you want to. …”

“Okay, could you not do that? Makes me feel dirty.”

She makes a show of zipping her lips.

“No offense, but this is just”—I swallow hard as my fingers move toward that broad expanse of wings—“just, um … sometimes my brain kinda throws a switch, see? And …” They’re the softest thing I’ve ever felt, velvety as a baby duck. “Shit!” I snap my hand away. “Oh God. Oh crap. Felt real. Oh wow.”

“‘Wow’ is a palindrome! The same word backward and forward. Isn’t that cool?”

I stare at her. “Who … who are you?”

The room grows brighter with her smile. “I’m Dulcie. Pleased to meet you.”

“My hallucination has a name.” I try to grasp at some semblance of sanity. “Right. You—you’ve been following me,” I say like some annoyed headmaster reprimanding a student. “First at my house. At Buddha Burger. In the school gym. You left me a feather.”

“And still you didn’t call. Men.” She points to the unopened pudding cup on my hospital tray. “Are you gonna eat that?”

“No,” I croak.

“Do you mind?”

I can only shake my head.

“Thanks. Oh, hey, watch this.” She puts the spoon on the end of her nose and slowly takes her hand away. It balances there for a second before dropping into her waiting palm. “Cool, right?”

“Yeah. Cool.” I’ve got a lump in my throat the size of Chet King’s manly hands. “So … are you just, like, visiting? Or is this … am I … ?”

“What?”

“Dead?”

Her eyes widen in surprise. “Oh yowza! No! Don’t be such a Goofy Gloomer.” Her smile fades fast. “But we’ve got a lot to talk about and we don’t have much time.”

“What do we have to talk about?”

“Your mission,” she says through a mouthful of chocolate pudding.

“My … mission.”

“Your mission. We need your help, Cameron.”

I can feel my heartbeat in my skull. “Define ‘we.’”

She writes in the air with her spoon. “We. Plural form of ‘I.’ ‘Nos’ in Latin. Wow, I miss Latin. So much fun—all those exciting verbs that don’t come until the end of the sentence. It’s like a movie trailer for language.” She downs another spoonful of pudding, rolls her eyes in bliss. “Sure you don’t want some of this? It’s surprisingly edible.”

“Mission?” I prompt.

“Right.” She stares right at me. “You ever hear of a guy called Dr. X?”

“No,” I say.

“No Dr. X?” she asks again.

“There are several Dr. Assholes who come in here every day to scribble on my chart and poke me with sharp objects so they can collect points for their Sadism Scout Badges, but so far, no Dr. X.”

“You know, you are very funny!”

“That’s because I’m hallucinating.”

“Dr. X is a brilliant scientist. Like beyond genius. Branes, parallel worlds, time travel, wormholes, superstring theory, M-theory, Y-theory, Double-Z-theory, the Theory of Everything Plus A Little Bit More. This guy was at the forefront of it all.”

Just trying to follow her is making my head hurt. “My dad says that stuff isn’t real science, that it can’t be proven.”

Her left eyebrow shoots up. “Hmmmm. Anyway … Dr. X finally did it.”

“It.”

“Yeah.” She licks the spoon clean. “Personal pronoun, non-gender-specific, third-person singular.”