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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, f**k 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 f**k 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.
