Going Bovine

Page 36

“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?”