《Going Bovine》


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    CHAPTER ONE


    In Which I Introduce Myself


    The best day of my life happened when I was five and almost died at Disney World.


    I¡¯m sixteen now, so you can imagine that¡¯s left me with quite a few days of major suckage.


    Like Career Day? Really? Do we need to devote an entire six hours out of the high school year to having ¡°life counselors¡± tell you all the jobs you could potentially blow at? Is there a reason for dodgeball? Pep rallies? Rad soda commercials featuring Parker Day¡¯s smug, fake-tanned face? I ask you.


    But back to the best day of my life, Disney, and my near-death experience.


    I know what you¡¯re thinking: WTF? Who dies at Disney World? It¡¯s full of spinning teacups and magical princesses and big-assed chipmunks walking around waving like it¡¯s absolutely normal for jumbo-sized stuffed animals to come to life and pose for photo ops. Like, seriously.


    I don¡¯t remember a whole lot about it. Like I said, I was five. I do remember that it was hot. Surreal hot. The kind of hot that makes people shell out their life savings for a bottle of water without even bitching about it. Even the stuffed animals started looking less like smiling, playful woodland creatures and more like furry POWs on a forced march through Toonland. That¡¯s how we ended up on the subterranean It¡¯s a Small World ride and how I nearly bit it at the place where America goes for fun.


    I don¡¯t know if you¡¯ve ever experienced the Small World ride. If so, you can skip this next part. Honestly, you won¡¯t hurt my feelings, and I won¡¯t tell the other people reading this what an ass**le you are the minute you go into the other room.


    Where was I?


    Oh, right¡ªso much we share, time aware, small world. After all.


    So. Small World ride, brief sum-up: Long-ass wait in incredibly slow-moving line. Then you¡¯re put into this floating barge and set adrift on a river that winds through a smiling underworld of animatronic kids from every country on the planet singing along in their various native tongues to the extremely catchy, upbeat song.


    Did I mention it¡¯s about a ten-minute ride?


    Of the same song?


    In English, Spanish, Swahili, and Japanese?


    I¡¯m not going to lie to you; I loved it. Dude, I said to myself, this is the shit. Or something like that in five-year-old speak. I want to live in this new Utopia of singing children of all nations. With luck, the Mexican kids will let me wear their que festivo sombreros. And the smiling Swedes will welcome me into their happy Nordic hoedown. V?lkommen, y¡¯all. I will ride the pink fuzzy camel in some vaguely defined Middle Eastern country (but the one with pink fuzzy camels) and shake a leg with the can-can dancers in Gay Paree.


    Bonjour.


    Bienvenido.


    Guten Tag.


    Jambo.


    I was with the three people who were my world¡ªMom, Dad, my twin sister, Jenna¡ªand for one crazy moment, we were all laughing and smiling and sharing the same experience, and it was good. Maybe it was too good. Because I started to get scared.


    I don¡¯t know exactly how I made the connection, but right around Iceland, apparently, I got the idea that this was the after life. Sure, I had heatstroke and had eaten enough sugar to induce coma, but really, it makes sense in a weird way. It¡¯s dark. It¡¯s creepy. And suddenly, everybody¡¯s getting along a little too well, singing the same song. Or maybe it had to do with my mom. She used to teach English classics, heavy on the mythology, at the university B.C. (Before Children) and liked to pepper her bedtime stories with occasional bits about Valhalla or Ovid or the River Styx leading to the underworld and other cheery sweet-dreams matter. We¡¯re a fun crew. You should see us on holidays.


    Whatever it was, I was convinced that this ride was where you went to die. I would be separated from my family forever and end up in some part of the underworld where smiling kid robots in boater hats sang nonstop in Portuguese. I had to keep that from happening. And then¡ªO Happy Day! Salvation! Right behind the Eskimo igloo (this was before they were the more politically correct but slightly naughty-sounding Inuits), I saw this little door.


    ¡°Mommy, where does that door go to?¡± I asked.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, honey.¡±


    We were headed for certain death on the River Styx. But somehow I knew that if I could just get to that little door, everything would be okay. I could stop the ride and save us all. That was pretty much it for me. My five-year-old freak-out meter totally tripped. I slipped free of the seat and splashed into the fishy-smelling water, away from the doe-eyed, pinafored girl puppet singing, ¡°En v?rld full av skratt, en v?rld av t?rar¡± (Swedish, I¡¯m told, for ¡°It¡¯s a world of laughter, a world of tears¡±).

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    The thing is, I didn¡¯t know how to swim yet. But apparently, I was pretty good at sinking. You know that warning about how kids can drown in very little water? Quite true if the kid panics and forgets to close his mouth. You can imagine my surprise when the water hit my lungs and I did not immediately start singing, ¡°There¡¯s so much that we share.¡±


    The last thing I remember before I started to lose consciousness was my mom screaming to stop the ride while crushing Jenna to her chest in case she got the urge to jump too. Above me, lights and sound blended into a wavy distortion, everything muted like a carnival heard from a mile away. And then I had the weirdest thought: They¡¯re stopping the ride. I got them to stop the ride.


    I don¡¯t remember a whole lot after that, just fuzzy memories filled in by other people¡¯s memories. The story goes that my dad dove in and pulled me out, dropping me right beside the igloo, and administered CPR. Official Disney cast members scampered out along the narrow edge of EskimoSoontoBeInuit, yammering into their walkie-talkies that the situation was under control. Slack-jawed tourists snapped pictures. An official Disney ambulance came and whisked me away to an ER, where I was pronounced pukey but okay. We went back to the park for free¡ªI guess they were afraid we¡¯d sue¡ªand I got to go on the rides as much as I wanted without waiting in line at all because everybody was just so glad I was alive. It was the best vacation we ever took. Of course, I think it was also the last vacation we ever took.


    It was Mom who tried to get the answers out of me later, once Jenna had fallen asleep and Dad was nursing his nerves with a vodka tonic, courtesy of the hotel¡¯s minibar. I was sitting in the bathtub with the nonskid flower appliqu¨¦s on the bottom. It had taken two shampoos to get the flotsam and jetsam of a small world out of my hair.


    ¡°Cameron,¡± she asked, pulling me onto her lap for a vigorous towel-drying. ¡°Why did you jump into the water, honey? Did the ride scare you?¡±


    I didn¡¯t know how to answer her, so I just nodded. All the adrenaline I¡¯d felt earlier seemed to pool in my limbs, weighing me down.


    ¡°Oh, honey, you know it¡¯s not real, don¡¯t you? It¡¯s just a ride.¡±


    ¡°Just a ride,¡± I repeated, and felt it sink in deep.


    The thing is, before they pulled me out, everything had seemed made of magic. Like I really believed in this crazy dream. But the minute I came to on the hard, glittery, spray-painted, fake snow and saw that marionette boy pulling the same plastic fish out of the hole again and again, I realized it was all a big fake. The realest thing I¡¯d ever experienced was that moment under the water when I almost died.


    And in a way, I¡¯ve been dying ever since.


    CHAPTER TWO


    Wherein the Cruelties of High School Are Recounted, and the Stoner Dudes of the Fourth-Floor Bathroom Offer Me Subpar Weed and a Physics Lesson


    ¡°Who the heck is Don Quicks-oat?¡± That¡¯s what Chet King wants to know.


    It¡¯s early February, six weeks into the new semester, and we¡¯re in English class, which for most of us is an excruciating exercise in staying awake through the great classics of literature. These works¡ªgroundbreaking, incendiary, timeless¡ªhave been pureed by the curriculum monsters into a digestible pabulum of themes and factoids we can spew back on a test. Scoring well on tests is the sort of happy thing that gets the school district the greenbacks they crave. Understanding and appreciating the material are secondary. For the record, our friend Chet King has read exactly three books in his life, but I¡¯m not sure that sitting through The Happy Bunny Easy Reader twice should count. The other book was, no doubt, about football.


    ¡°That¡¯s Don Quixote,¡± Mr. Glass says, pronouncing the ¡°x¡± as an ¡°h,¡± the proper way.


    ¡°Don Key-ho-tay,¡± Chet repeats, exaggerating Glass¡¯s somewhat effeminate enunciation. The other jocks snort in laughter, like backup singers on steroids. They¡¯ve got their jerseys on. Chet does too, though he won¡¯t be playing today or any other day. Ever since a bad slam on the practice field cracked two vertebrae near his neck, our former all-state quarterback has been permanently sidelined. Another guy might¡¯ve gone out drinking over the loss of a big-time sports career. Not our guy Chet. He went to the other extreme, claiming that the accident must have been God¡¯s will, a way to steer him toward a new direction in life. He gives this little motivational speech, ¡°God took away my football scholarship but I¡¯m still happy, happy, happy,¡± at Kiwanis club dinners, pep rallies, churches, youth groups, any place that will clap and cheer for him. I guess when your drug of choice has been applause and adoration from the stands it¡¯s kind of hard to give that up.

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    Anyway, it gets him laid, I hear. Doing the horizontal mambo with sympathetic cheerleaders is, apparently, a-okay in God¡¯s book, and it doesn¡¯t upset your spine like football. Of course, now he¡¯s dating my sister, Jenna, so I¡¯ll just be flipping on the denial meter for that one.


    Mr. Glass is undisturbed. ¡°Okay, settle down. I haven¡¯t dismissed you yet.¡±


    You dismissed us on day one, I think. It¡¯s the kind of sardonic comment that would be good to share with a mate, a pal, a sidekick and coconspirator. If I had one.


    ¡°?Hola! ?Qui¨¦n puede decirme algo sobre Miguel Cervantes?¡± It¡¯s Mrs. Rector, Calhoun High School¡¯s Spanish teacher, to the rescue. This year, the administration has decided to have coteachers on certain segments. The idea being that we need to cross-pollinate our educational experience with tidbits from history and literature, social studies and foreign language skills, chemistry and home ec, which might prove valuable if we get the urge to make a highly volatile banana cream pie.


    Mrs. Rector translates some of the text from Spanish, adding the proper ¡°r¡± rolls and flourishes. She¡¯s got a reputation as the town lush. ?Quanto costa una grande margarita, por favor? The fluorescent lighting is zapping out its periodic Morse code of odd sounds: We are hungry. Send us more of your bug kind. All in all, I¡¯m ready to ride out the class under the radar. Just another ten minutes till I can blow through Calhoun¡¯s front doors, past the school buses lining the drive for the away game, past the phalanx of cars and trucks ready to follow them anywhere Texas sporting loyalty demands, and hotfoot it downtown to Eubie¡¯s Hot Wax¡ªhalf-price CDs and old vinyl.


    ¡°Is Don Quixote mad or is it the world that embraces these ideals of the knight-errant that is actually mad? That¡¯s the rhetorical question that Cervantes seems to be posing to us. But for our purposes, there is a right answer, and you need to know that answer when you take the SPEW test,¡± Mr. Glass says, pointing to the board, where STATE PRESCRIBED EDUCATIONAL WORTHINESS test is underlined twice. Mr. Glass¡¯s monotone is lulling me into slumber. Zap, buzz, goes the overhead lighting. I¡¯ve put my head on my desk, where I can hear the minute hand ticking hard in my ear. My eyelids are heavy. Almost ¡­ Asleep ¡­


    The room is on fire. A row of flames shoots up into my field of vision. I leap out of my chair, knocking it over. It hits the ground with a loud thwack.


    ¡°Mr. Smith? Are you okay?¡± Mrs. Rector asks.


    When I look up to the front of the room, everything¡¯s fine. No fire. Nothing but every pair of eyes trained on me, which is a strange sensation. Usually, I¡¯m famous for being looked through or over or some other preposition besides at.


    Mr. Glass crosses his arms. ¡°Yes, Mr. Smith?¡±


    ¡°Uh, no. Sorry. It was a ¡­ um ¡­¡±


    Mrs. Rector¡¯s pursed lips seem to be holding back the words ¡°Usted est¨¢ un pendejo.¡±


    The silence is filled by the ego-pulverizing laughter from the gaggle of gum-popping girls on the right. Somebody singsongs, ¡°Fuh-reak ¡­¡±


    ¡°It was a cockroach on my desk,¡± I blurt out. ¡°A big one. Like, SUV big.¡±


    A few of the girls scream and pull their legs up. Our resident class clown makes slurping sounds, which grosses out the Korean exchange student next to him.


    ¡°Nice going, Smith,¡± one of Chet¡¯s doughy football buddies says, laughing. Steve or Knute or Rock. One of those muy macho-sounding names. A name that says ¡°I can waste you on the Astroturf.¡± Not like Cameron, which sounds like the person who gets wasted on the Astroturf.


    Mrs. Rector claps for attention. ¡°Mi amigos, silencio, por favor. Settle down, please. Se?or Smith, I will give you un pase de pasillo so that you can find el conserje to come spray.¡±


    ¡°The rest of you,¡± Mr. Glass pleads, ¡°please turn in your SPEW test prep books to Chapter Five: Why Thinking Can Cost You on Test Day.¡±


    I take the Get Out of Jail Free pass and head right to the men¡¯s bathroom on the fourth floor. The Conspiracy Theory & Gaming Society¡ªStoner Kevin, Stoner Kyle, and Part-time Stoner Rachel¡ªis in residence. Technically, girls aren¡¯t allowed in men¡¯s bathrooms, but since only the losers, present company included, ever use this one, it¡¯s a nonissue. Besides, Rachel¡¯s five ten with six tattoos and seven piercings. Nobody gives her shit.


    I guess we¡¯re sort of friends. If getting high in high school bathrooms and occasionally sharing a table in the caf counts as friendship. We exchange ¡°heys¡± with limited eye contact¡ªmy preferred greeting¡ªand they offer me some of the weed they¡¯re using their bathroom huddle stance to try to disguise, as if the smell isn¡¯t a dead giveaway.

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    ¡°Thanks, man,¡± I say, getting in two large hits to take the edge off. I¡¯d toss off the bizarre flame vision I¡¯ve just experienced as an acid flashback except that I¡¯ve never done acid, finding it hard to go willingly to a place that could be frightening, hellish, and totally beyond my control. A place much like high school.


    Stoner Kevin starts in like a TV program suddenly coming off pause. ¡°I¡¯m just saying, the cat is either dead or alive. It can¡¯t be both.¡±


    Rachel snorts out the hit in her mouth. ¡°You¡¯re wrong, dude. The cat¡¯s both alive and dead until you open up the box and take a peek at it. Until then, all possibilities exist. You create the result.¡±


    ¡°Look, my friend.¡± Kevin sticks his head under the faucet, takes a drink from the tap, and wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his Frank Zappa tee. ¡°I don¡¯t make up the rules of quantum mechanics; I just play by them.¡±


    Rachel passes me the joint, looks at me. ¡°You know about Schr?dinger¡¯s cat, right?¡±


    I shrug.


    ¡°Awww, dude!¡± the three of them say in unison.


    Kyle¡¯s eyes are bloodshot slits in his grinning face. ¡°This will blow your mind! Okay, so this scientist guy, Schr?dinger, did this trippy thought experiment in quantum mechanics where he was all, ¡®Hey, what if you¡¯ve got a cat in a sealed box along with, like, a radioactive substance ¡­¡¯¡±


    ¡°Not that you should put your cat in a box with poison; that¡¯s why it¡¯s a thought experiment ¡­,¡± Rachel points out.


    ¡°¡­ and the atom either decays and kills the cat¡ªor it doesn¡¯t. Until you open up that box and observe, everything¡¯s a probability.¡±


    ¡°Wrong,¡± Kevin says. ¡°You¡¯re hung up on the observer effect. You don¡¯t control the outcome. You don¡¯t create the reality. Face it¡ªthe cat¡¯s either alive or it¡¯s dead.¡±


    Rachel blows her nose on a paper towel. ¡°If a tree falls in the forest and there¡¯s no one there to hear it, does it make a sound?¡±


    ¡°I thought it was ¡®If a bear shits in the woods,¡¯¡± Kyle says.


    ¡°You can¡¯t hear a bear shitting in the woods,¡± Kevin insists.


    ¡°How do you know? Have you ever heard a bear shit? Maybe they¡¯re loud.¡±


    ¡°Dude, you¡¯re missing the point.¡± Rachel tosses the wadded paper towel. It misses the trash can and rolls under the sink. ¡°The point is probability and reality. And that¡¯s where parallel universes come in. Reality splits into two possible outcomes¡ªone where the cat lives; another where the cat dies. From every choice you make, another world is created where a different reality happens.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯re saying if the kitty dies in our reality¡ªboom!¡ªthere¡¯s another reality born where Whiskers is alive and well and chasing mice in the garage?¡± Kyle tucks his long, stringy blond hair behind his ears.


    ¡°Totally.¡±


    There¡¯s a flush from one of the stalls. Weird, because I didn¡¯t hear anybody come in, and I didn¡¯t see another pair of feet under the doors. The door bangs open, and a really small dude with a huge ¡¯fro comes barreling out, pushing up his sleeves. It takes me a minute to realize he¡¯s a dwarf. He pumps the soap dispenser hard several times.


    ¡°There¡¯s no soap? Are you kidding me? That¡¯s a health code violation¡ªtotally unsanitary.¡±


    Stoner Kyle waves his hand in front of his nose. ¡°What¡¯s unsanitary is what you just did in the stall, Gonzo.¡±


    The Gonzo guy toddles over to the ancient window and cracks it. ¡°You guys mind not smoking that shit around me? I¡¯ve told you I¡¯m asthmatic.¡±


    Rachel shrugs. ¡°Dude, designated smokers¡¯ lounge. Find another bathroom.¡±


    Little Dude catches me staring at him and I can feel my face reddening. I hope I haven¡¯t pissed him off; it¡¯s just that I¡¯ve never seen a dwarf before.


    Kevin makes introductions. ¡°Gonzo, Cameron. Cameron, the Gonz-man.¡±


    Gonzo walks straight up to me, folds his arms over his chest and sizes me up like knives are going to be drawn, positions taken, and the orchestra is tuning up for the big fight-at-the-gym musical dance number. ¡°You a gamer?¡±


    ¡°Sometimes.¡±


    ¡°Huh,¡± he says, still checking me out.


    In the mirror, Kevin puts drops in his eyes. ¡°Gonzo¡¯s gonna try to beat the Captain Carnage high score at the arcade today.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± I manage. ¡°Cool.¡±

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    ¡°Yo, what¡¯s that?¡± Gonzo nods toward the floor at a slab of balsa wood covered in what look like weird sand-art formations. It¡¯s ugly as hell, whatever it is.


    ¡°This? This is the social sciences project that¡¯s gonna keep me from doing summer school.¡± Kyle holds it up for examination.


    Gonzo cocks his head to one side. ¡°What the f**k is that?¡±


    Kyle snorts. ¡°Hello? It¡¯s Stonehenge?¡±


    ¡°Looks more like Shithenge to me,¡± Gonzo says, turning away.


    Rachel and Kevin bust out laughing.


    ¡°Oh my God! That¡¯s it! Dude, that is totally Shithenge!¡± Rachel says.


    ¡°Shut up, you guys,¡± Kyle mumbles.


    ¡°Hey,¡± Gonzo says, slapping his hand against the door just as I¡¯m trying to slip out. ¡°You should game with us today. ¡¯S gonna be insane.¡±


    ¡°Gonzo rules at Captain Carnage!¡± Kevin shouts between snorts of giggling.


    ¡°It¡¯s ¡¯cause I always grab the ticket that protects health. You grab that ticket and you¡¯re golden for a few levels.¡±


    ¡°Sorry, man. Can¡¯t go,¡± I lie. ¡°I¡¯ve got this ¡­ thing I gotta do. After school. You know.¡±


    He knows I¡¯m full of shit but he nods. I nod. And there we are.


    ¡°Shithenge,¡± Kevin snickers. ¡°Dude, you are so screwed!¡±


    ¡°I said shut up, man!¡±


    Gonzo takes his hand away. ¡°Sure. No problem. Catch you next time.¡±


    He goes to give me a fist bump, a token of bathroom stoner etiquette. I give a sort of wave that looks more like I¡¯m holding up a stop sign. Our hands slide off one another in an awkward fist bump/wave collision. And then I¡¯m out the door.


    CHAPTER THREE


    Which Treats of the Particulars of High School Hallway Etiquette and the Fact that Staci Johnson Is Evil; Also, Unfairly Hot


    The pot¡¯s kinda lame, but I¡¯ve got enough of a buzz going to coast through the amount of time required to drop my books in my locker and wait for the end-of-school bell. It¡¯s my misfortune to have a locker on the first-floor main hallway on Park Avenue, so called because it¡¯s where all the popular types congregate to formulate their plans for world domination: planning secret parties, leaking the info that there is a party that most of the student body isn¡¯t cool enough to attend, deciding who¡¯s in or out or in need of torturing that week. It¡¯s a busy schedule, and it requires a lot of hallway. I do my best to accommodate them by being unnoticeable, which, basically, involves my just having mass and occupying space.


    My smart and universally adored sister, Jenna, is among the attractive evil cabal. She¡¯s standing beside the water fountain with her dance squad, her dark blond hair pulled up into the requisite ponytail and cascading ribbons. They¡¯ve got their colors on today, the snappy blue-gold combo of our fearless team, the Calhoun Conquistadors of Hidalgo, Texas.


    Hola, Calhoun Conquistadors! I admire the use of alliteration, but somehow I doubt the school board really got what the Conquistadors were all about when they chose them for a mascot. Maybe the whole raping, pillaging, looting, suppressing cultures thing just blipped off their social consciousness radar. Whatever. It makes for a nifty T-shirt logo. Who doesn¡¯t love men in metal hats?


    Jenna¡¯s seen me but she¡¯s pretending she hasn¡¯t. When you¡¯re pre-majoring in perfection, having a brother who¡¯s a social paramecium is a real drawback. While our tense family situation has forced me further into my shell, it¡¯s made Jenna into a shining example of teen perfection. Perfect hair, perfect grades, perfect social standing. Through her endless pursuit of the perfect, she¡¯s trying to erase us all¡ªthe dad who lives through his work, the mom who lives through her children, the scattered way our family communicates through notes left on the fridge and cell phones and no real face time. In a way, I admire her ability to swim against the tide. Me, I¡¯m a drifter¡ªright downstream and over the falls along with the rest of the driftwood.


    I should just let it go, this social snub. I should just hang on to what¡¯s left of my high and motor on to Eubie¡¯s, but I can¡¯t help myself. I may suck at football, basketball, tennis, and just about every other sport out there, but I can absolutely letter in cruelty.


    ¡°Hey, Jenna. Were those your birth control pills I found in the bathroom this morning?¡± I say, full of pep.


    The other dance teamers gasp. One lets out a giggly ¡°Oh my God.¡±


    Jenna¡¯s a cool customer, though. She¡¯s used to my brotherly hijinks. ¡°No, I think those were the ones Mom meant to take before you were born. Don¡¯t you have a meeting of the Social Outcast Society to attend? If you hurry, you can get a good seat.¡±

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    Point Team Jenna.


    Everybody laughs, and it would be boffo if I could just fade into the lockers right now. But against the uniform pert tan-blondness that is the dance team, my shaggy dark hair, British-musician-on-the-dole pale skin, and six feet of seriously awkward body stand out like a strip of film negatives plopped down on top of their happy group photo.


    One of the Hotness Crew smirks. Staci Johnson. I¡¯m not too proud to tell you that it makes me go a little expansive in my Fruit of the Loins. Staci Johnson is a shallow social climber who would never allow me within a ten-foot radius of her rather magnificent body. I know this. But what can I say? My penis is a traitor.


    ¡°You¡¯ve got mustard on your shirt,¡± Staci points out.


    ¡°It was cheeseburger day.¡±


    ¡°Oh my God, you don¡¯t actually eat in the cafeteria every day?¡±


    ¡°I have a thing going with one of the lunch ladies. Bernice. She¡¯s the one with the hairnet and the mustache. But mum¡¯s the word. Wouldn¡¯t want to spoil the big prom surprise.¡±


    Someone whispers, ¡°God, your brother is so weird.¡±


    ¡°Just ignore him,¡± Jenna says with a sigh. ¡°We do.¡±


    Chet strides up, all six feet of him, and drapes his arms over my sister like a big daddy gorilla. It¡¯s a clear message to the hallway¡ªShe¡¯s mine. Chet nods at me in that ages-old macho greeting: I have acknowledged your existence, peon. Do not ask for more.


    ¡°What are y¡¯all doing for spring break?¡± Staci asks, arching her back so that her butt sticks out in a noticeable way.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got a mission ski trip with my church,¡± Chet says. ¡°Trying to get Jenna here to come, too.¡±


    Jenna beams. It would be so tempting right now to say something like, Wait, Jen, don¡¯t you have an abortion scheduled for that week? But Chet would probably kick my ass. Hell, Jenna would probably kick my ass.


    Staci twirls her hair around one finger. ¡°Well, me and Lisa and Carmen are going to Daytona for the YA! TV Party House.¡±


    ¡°Omigod, you are not!¡± one of the wannabes squeals. ¡°If you get to meet Parker Day I will be so jealous!¡±


    YA! TV¡ªYouth America! Television¡ªis the barometer of cool for teens everywhere, and Parker Day, with his highlights, vintage rocker clothes, souped-up sneakers, and sly smile, is its most telegenic host. Half the kids in school walk around spouting his trademarked phrase, ¡°You smoked it!¡±


    ¡°Actually, we need a fourth to make it happen,¡± Staci says. ¡°Jenna, you should come with us.¡±


    ¡°To Florida?¡±


    ¡°It would be fun.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Jenna says. ¡°But expensive.¡±


    Staci sticks her butt out just a little farther, which I didn¡¯t think possible, and my penis, the mutinous bastard, fires up again.


    ¡°Well, think about it,¡± Staci says. ¡°It¡¯s gonna be completely mammoth.¡±


    ¡°Yo, Cam,¡± Chet says. ¡°Nice stunt with the cockroach.¡±


    ¡°What cockroach?¡± Jenna asks.


    ¡°The Cammer here pulled a fast one. He said he saw a cockroach to get out of English class.¡±


    Jenna gives me a look. The look says, You are disappointing Mom and Dad.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t miss anything, just more Don Quixote. My pastor thinks we shouldn¡¯t be reading that stuff. Said it can give kids the wrong ideas, make ¡¯em question everything and get all weird. It happened to this one kid he knew, and the parents had to get him straightened out.¡±


    ¡°Oh my God,¡± Staci says, like this bullshit Chet¡¯s telling her is as sad as some little kid dying of cancer.


    ¡°From books? I don¡¯t believe that,¡± Jenna says, and I feel a glimmer of hope that she will not fall to the forces of evil.


    ¡°It¡¯s true!¡± Chet insists. ¡°Anyway, it¡¯s all good. His folks sent him to this church that¡¯s got everything from a school to a restaurant, so you never have to go outside all that much, and he¡¯s pretty much there all the time, away from negative influences. It¡¯s like what happened to me with my injury.¡±


    Here we go. The girls practically swoon.


    ¡°I could¡¯ve questioned stuff. I could have let it change me. But I didn¡¯t.¡± He grins. ¡°You¡¯ve gotta stay positive. Right, Cam?¡±


    Oh, absolutely. I¡¯m big, big, big on the thumbs-up to the positive. I can¡¯t go a day without wanting to draw a happy face on every surface I see.


    ¡°Right,¡± I say.


    ¡°You coming to the game, bro?¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t. It¡¯s against my religion.¡±

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    Chet smirks. I¡¯m pretty sure the Bible says Thou Shalt Not Smirk, but that could be a rumor. ¡°Yeah? What religion¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°Apathy.¡±


    Jenna looks like she could cheerfully strangle me. Staci Johnson turns to her posse and giggles. ¡°Whatever!¡±


    ¡°See? That¡¯s what I¡¯m talking about,¡± Chet says to the others like I¡¯m not even there.


    And in a way, I guess I¡¯m not.


    CHAPTER FOUR


    In Which a Brief Sanctuary Is Found, I Fail to Comprehend Jazz, and I Am Forced to Have a Conversation with My Asshole Father


    Eubie¡¯s Hot Wax sits one block away from the university, nestled between a head shop disguised as an incense and candle store and an art studio famed for its stained-glass cat selection. It¡¯s a little oasis of sounds sans the attitude of the mega music store in the mall. It¡¯s my favorite place in this dusty Texas town.


    At Eubie¡¯s there are no six-foot risers announcing the latest release from a pouty-lipped nymphet with only one name. No college music majors earning extra beer money while snorting out pretentious statements like ¡°Well, sure, I guess the Copenhagen Interpretation¡¯s an okay band, but they wouldn¡¯t have been anything if Pet Sounds hadn¡¯t come out first.¡± Just bins upon bins of obscure LPs and CDs from newer bands mixed in with jazz and novelty stuff like my personal fave, the Great Tremolo, whose songs about the pain of life were written solely for recorder and ukulele. You have not felt angst till it¡¯s been filtered through Portuguese and nose-thrumming vibration. Plus, he has the highest voice I¡¯ve ever heard in a dude. When he reaches for that one ball-breaking note in every song, I can¡¯t help losing it every time.


    I was first introduced to the Great Tremolo via one of those satellite radio shows that exists just to play obscure, freaky shit you could swear the producers made up during the break. As I was lying on my bed with my headphones on¡ªthe ones I decorated with space stickers from Tomorrowland¡ªthe DJ dropped the needle on the Great Tremolo and a song called ¡°Para M¨ª He Visto ¨¢ngeles,¡± which, according to the liner notes, translates to something like ¡°For I Have Seen Angels.¡± I sat straight up, laughing. It¡¯s like the Great Tremolo¡¯s voice is from space, and he¡¯s on the verge of crying while he sings, but like crying with happiness if that makes any sense at all. I mean seriously? How can you not lose your shit over that?


    The Great Tremolo made close to twenty albums, and with Eubie¡¯s help, I¡¯ve managed to collect seven of them. I take comfort in the fact that there is someone out there who¡¯s more of a loser than I am, and believe me, the Great Tremolo is a total emo loser, tilting at sonic windmills.


    Eubie hears the bells tinkle over the door when I come in and looks up from his perch behind the counter, where he¡¯s playing store DJ. He¡¯s got a big smile for me. ¡°Heeeey, Cam-run., where you been, my man?¡±


    ¡°Nowhere,¡± I say, stepping up to the counter. Eubie¡¯s growing a little soul patch. It looks good with the dreads and the multicolored T-shirt emblazoned with the face of some famous reggae star.


    ¡°Nowhere¡¯s a bad place to be. I been there. How come you got no girlfriend?¡±


    I pick up a copy of the free weekly newspaper I have no intention of reading. ¡°Ahh, you know. The Cam-man is meant to be shared by many, held by none.¡±


    Eubie laughs. He¡¯s got a laugh like a machine gun firing through velvet. ¡°That¡¯s some serious bu¡¯shit, man. Do yourself a favor, friend. Leave my shop and go live a little.¡±


    ¡°I am living. A little. Got any new Tremolo for me?¡±


    ¡°Come on back.¡± Eubie leads me through the purple curtains at the back of the store that hide the storage area where the employees take their breaks. It¡¯s not much of a room. Couple of chairs. A long counter covered in plastic take-out containers and backpacks. There¡¯s a large cork bulletin board on one wall. It¡¯s loaded with pictures of the employees dressed up for Halloween and Christmas parties. Ticket stubs from concerts and hard-to-read flyers for band members needed poke out at odd angles, overlapping. A torn piece of notebook paper advertises a carload of guys going to the YA! Party House for spring break who are willing to give somebody a ride for cash. Mardi Gras beads hang from a thumbtack beside a picture of Eubie in a feathered mask, whooping it up on Bourbon Street. Down in the right-hand corner is a picture of an old man in a suit, a hat, and black sunglasses. He holds a trumpet in his weathered hands.


    ¡°Who¡¯s this guy?¡±


    ¡°Junior Webster. Best horn player in New Orleans.¡± Eubie sucks in air and shakes his hand like he¡¯s burned it. ¡°That cat is outside, I¡¯m telling you. You ever get to NOLA¡ªand you should¡ªgo check out the club he used to play at, the Horn and Ivory.¡±

 Page 8

    ¡°He doesn¡¯t play there anymore?¡±


    ¡°Hard to play when you¡¯re dead. Here, check this out.¡±


    From a black plastic milk crate, Eubie pulls out an LP so old and worn that I can see the outline of the vinyl in a white ring on the cardboard cover, which shows Junior Webster standing in front of a painting of the galaxy. In the center of those stars is a black hole.


    ¡°Huh,¡± I say.


    ¡°Huh,¡± Eubie mocks. ¡°You won¡¯t say ¡®huh¡¯ in a minute, son. I¡¯m-a school you.¡± Eubie eases the record lovingly from its sleeve and places it on his turntable. ¡°¡®Cypress Grove Blues.¡¯ If you had on a hat I¡¯d ask you to take it off, ¡¯cause you ¡¯bout to hear some church.¡±


    He drops the needle. A mournful horn blows, high and sharp, like a woman¡¯s wail at a funeral; then the whole thing crashes into a wild jazz ride that has Eubie, eyes closed, head forward, hitting some imaginary cymbals like the drummer I know he is on weekends. I don¡¯t get jazz. It always sounds to me like a bunch of toddlers let loose in a music room. I try to be polite, though. When the song ends, Eubie pulls the needle off and waits for my reaction.


    ¡°Pretty cool.¡±


    Eubie arches an eyebrow. ¡°Damn right it¡¯s cool. That all you got to say?¡±


    ¡°Really cool,¡± I say, hoping it passes for enthusiasm.


    ¡°Cam-run,¡± Eubie says, shaking his head so his dreads wiggle like dancers. ¡°You need help, my man. You hearin¡¯ me?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m tellin¡¯ you, if I had another life to live, I would live it in New Orleans, making music with Junior Webster, makin¡¯ holes in space with a wall of sound. Music has the power to save the world.¡± Eubie rubs at his soul patch for a second before breaking into a grin. ¡°I tell you what, I¡¯m-a let you borrow this album for the weekend. You listen to the whole thing and see what you have to say then.¡±


    My palms start to sweat. I don¡¯t want to be trusted with Eubie¡¯s favorite album, especially since I know I¡¯ll never listen to it, and I¡¯ll have to come up with some excuse for why I didn¡¯t. I put up my hands, back up a little. ¡°I don¡¯t want to take your best album, Eubie ¡­¡±


    Eubie tries to hand it off, like a baton in a race he¡¯s the only one running. ¡°Go on, it¡¯s okay.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, Eubie. That¡¯s a big responsibility.¡±


    ¡°No, my man. Child support is a big responsibility. This is a record.¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°What if it gets broken?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll kill you.¡± He winks. ¡°But it won¡¯t get broken. You¡¯ll treat it like a baby girl.¡±


    I know Eubie. He is anal about his LPs. The fact that he is offering it to me is a Big Deal. But I¡¯m not comfortable with the Big Deal. I just want to keep things as they are¡ªno expectations equals no failed expectations equals no hurt feelings equals everything¡¯s cool.


    I put my hands in my pockets and rock on my heels. ¡°You know, things are kinda busy at school this week, and I¡¯m working an extra shift at Buddha Burger and stuff, so ¡­ you know. But thanks anyway.¡± I give a half-assed smile. ¡°So ¡­ did you get that new Tremolo I ordered?¡±


    Eubie¡¯s disappointed. I can see it in the way he puts the LP back and sighs, and I feel kind of crappy about it. I¡¯m used to disappointing everyone else, but not Eubie.


    He shimmies an album out from under a stack on his desk. The cover is a picture of cheesy perfection: two wineglasses, soft candlelight, and a feather. Viver ¨¦ Amar, Amar ¨¦ Viver. There¡¯s a little asterisk after the title along with the English translation, To Live Is to Love, to Love Is to Live.


    ¡°What is it about this guy?¡± Eubie asks.


    ¡°I have a secret thing for the recorder.¡± When Eubie doesn¡¯t laugh, I explain, ¡°Have you ever listened to this guy? He¡¯s a joke.¡±


    ¡°So you buy it to mock him.¡± Eubie plops his long frame down in one of the folding chairs and bites into a health-food bar he¡¯s had in his shirt pocket.


    ¡°No. Not really. Sort of. Well, yes.¡±


    ¡°To him that shit¡¯s sacred, you feel me? He¡¯s writing about pain, about the loss of love, the injustice of life. About hope. I¡¯m not gonna sell you this if you¡¯re just gonna make fun of it. That¡¯s not what music¡¯s about, my man.¡± He gives me a disapproving look.


    ¡°Well,¡± I say, swallowing hard. ¡°He does play a mean recorder.¡±


    Eubie shakes his head. He polishes off the last of the health-food bar and pushes me out through the curtains and toward the cash register with my new Tremolo record. ¡°Here. Take the damn album. And get yourself a girlfriend.¡±

 Page 9

    It¡¯s warm and sunny when I step out on Mambrino Street. Across the four lanes of traffic sits the university where my dad works. My dad is a physicist. He works with people who deal in all kinds of weird cosmic shit. String theory. Parallel universes. The viability of time travel. It¡¯s not going to build you a better toaster, but it is trippy stuff that makes you spend all day trying to figure it out.


    Actually, what I should say is that my dad works against the cosmic. He¡¯s a semifamous debunker of anything that isn¡¯t old-school physics. He calls all the new theories ¡°The Emperor¡¯s New Clothes of Science.¡± I¡¯m not kidding. He actually submitted that as a paper for Scientific Masturbation Quarterly. Okay, so it¡¯s not really called that, but trust me when I tell you that it is filled with articles of solo pleasure. The rest of us are bored shitless. ¡°They can¡¯t prove any of that, Cameron,¡± he always says. ¡°And until there¡¯s proof, it¡¯s not science to me.¡± That¡¯s my dad for you.


    Since I¡¯m so close, I could stop in. A quick cost analysis lists the pros and cons of this move. Pro: I might be able to finagle use of the car for a few hours. Con: I would have to have contact with Dad. It¡¯s a real toss-up, but my jones for the car wins out. It¡¯s one of those amazing early spring days you get in Texas sometimes, the kind with a hint of summer to it, a preview of coming attractions, and driving around with the windows down would be mighty fine.


    The Bohr Physics Complex is a dingy prewar building on the outskirts of campus featuring neat, ordered rows of classrooms and offices. A huge bulletin board in the center hall is littered with invites for intramural soccer, projects on alternative fuel sources, and buttloads of discussion groups: ¡°Which Way to Higgs Field: Does the God Particle Exist?¡± ¡°Feel our vibration! Meet in room 101 to discuss the latest in string theory, multiverse theory, and the theory of everything!¡± ¡°Hail, Putopia!¡± ¡°Exploring the unexplored¡ªthe mysteries of dark energy. Dulcinea Hall. 7 p.m. There will be a keg, so come early and get your strangelet on.¡±


    Dad¡¯s office is behind the last door of a long corridor that hasn¡¯t seen a paint job since Einstein was alive. The door is open a crack. I hear voices, so I peek through. One of Dad¡¯s TAs is in with him. She¡¯s been to the house before. Her name is Rachel or Raylie, some ¡°R¡± name. She¡¯s sitting in a chair across from my dad, leaning forward, laughing at something he¡¯s just said. My dad doesn¡¯t seem like my dad. He doesn¡¯t sound angry or annoyed like the dad at home who does the yard work, pays the bills, rotates the tires, and looks like he hates every minute of it. He¡¯s actually smiling, which is just weird. I knock on the half-opened door, and Dad stands up quick.


    ¡°Hey there, Cam. What a surprise. You remember Raina, my teaching assistant?¡±


    Raina. She gives a little wave. ¡°Hi.¡±


    ¡°So what brings you over here at four-thirty on a Friday afternoon?¡±


    ¡°I was at Eubie¡¯s. Thought I¡¯d drop by.¡±


    ¡°Great,¡± Dad says, smiling like he wants to sell me a used car. ¡°Uh, Raina, if you could have those papers ready by Wednesday morning.¡±


    ¡°Sure, Frank.¡±


    Frank? She calls him Frank? What¡¯s wrong with Dr. Smith? Raina and I brush each other on my way in. She has big brown eyes and her hair smells like oranges. For a split second I imagine her naked. But then I think that maybe my dad has done the same thing or even seen her naked and I¡¯m wishing I had a big doobie to take that thought right out of my head.


    Dad offers me a seat. ¡°Well, this sure is a surprise.¡±


    ¡°So you said.¡± I plop down into the no-frills chair on the other side of the desk, the place where his students sit. This is how they see him: Tall, fit guy in a starched white button-down and khaki pants. Big desk. Big chair. Big diplomas on the wall behind his graying-around-the-temples head, making him look like one of those religious icon paintings. A black box with an angel snow globe Jenna and I gave him for Christmas one year. The base broke off a while back, and now the angel leans against the glass with both hands like she¡¯s trying to get out. One of those metal pin sculptures that molds to your hand and holds the shape. Two neat stacks of papers¡ªgraded and yet-to-be-graded. Lamp on one side, phone on the other. Order. Symmetry. Authority.


    ¡°Raina is a really smart woman. Great physicist. Those freshmen don¡¯t know what they¡¯re up against. She could have gone to MIT if she wanted to.¡±


    ¡°Cool. Hey, can I borrow the car?¡±


    Dad¡¯s smile sags and now he looks familiar¡ªlike a birthday balloon four days after the party.

 Page 10

    ¡°Is that the only reason you stopped by?¡±


    I press my face against the metal pin sculpture. When I pull it away, my expression is caught in a scream. ¡°Well, it¡¯s not like you¡¯re using it right now.¡±


    ¡°When your grades improve, we can talk about the car.¡± Dad shakes the sculpture out, erasing me. ¡°Hey, you¡¯ll probably like these.¡±


    From a desk drawer, he removes a stack of photos and shoves them into my hands. They¡¯re vacation pics¡ªa couple of guys in Gold Coast University T-shirts backpacking in the mountains. A trio of girls at some mega bowling alley. A crew of rowdy college kids on the beach during spring break. I don¡¯t know any of these people. ¡°Some of my students have this project. They stole a yard gnome from somebody¡¯s lawn and have taken him on vacation all over the world. They pass him off to whoever¡¯s going on a trip next.¡±


    Now I can see the little guy peeking out in each picture, all fat red cheeks, white beard, and twinkling eyes. Well, if he could twinkle. He looks like he wants to. He also looks like he could cheerfully beat the crap out of his smug kidnappers. Or maybe he likes to travel. Maybe he sends postcards to the other yard gnomes: Having a great time. No sprinklers here.


    ¡°Funny,¡± I say, throwing them back on his desk, where they fan out in a photographic arch.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t even look at them.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I did.¡±


    Dad sighs. ¡°You know, Cameron, you might at least pretend to be interested in my life.¡±


    ¡°Dad, I looked at them.¡±


    He tidies them up and puts a rubber band around them so they¡¯re contained, like him. That¡¯s my dad. Never yell when you can simmer. Never scream when you can cut somebody with a look. Never go ahead and have that fight when you can feel righteous about walking away and giving them your back. I¡¯ve seen a lot of my dad¡¯s back.


    ¡°About the car. I was thinking I could just use it to run a few errands and then I could come back for you, you know, whenever you¡¯re done.¡± I throw him a father-son-bonding bone at the last minute. ¡°Maybe we could get some pizza.¡±


    ¡°What errands?¡±


    ¡°You know,¡± I say, shrugging.


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t know. That¡¯s why I asked.¡±


    ¡°Just some errands. For school.¡±


    ¡°What do you need for school?¡±


    ¡°Nothing.¡±


    ¡°Cameron. That doesn¡¯t make sense.¡±


    ¡°I just need to borrow the car. To get some stuff. No big deal.¡±


    ¡°Stuff,¡± Dad says, playing with his pen. ¡°Books? Clothes? Sports equipment?¡±


    Dad would cream himself if I said sports equipment. ¡°I was kind of thinking of going out for lacrosse this year. Might look good on the college apps.¡±


    ¡°A solid GPA would look better,¡± Dad shoots back. He and Mom can¡¯t figure out how two professors ended up with such a C+ average of a kid.


    ¡°So can I borrow the car?¡±


    ¡°No. I¡¯m working late tonight.¡±


    Working late. With Raina, no doubt. His T and A.


    ¡°Fine,¡± I growl. ¡°Can I at least borrow your ID card so I can get a discount at the campus bookstore? I need to pick up a copy of Don Quixote for English class,¡± I lie.


    ¡°No problemo.¡± Dad smiles and hands me his ID card. To the untrained eye, it looks like he¡¯s happy to help me out. But I know he¡¯s only happy that he¡¯s won. I take the card and pocket it.


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome,¡± Dad says.


    ¡°Great. So I¡¯ll see you later.¡±


    ¡°Would it kill you to say thanks?¡±


    ¡°Possibly. And since I could end up dead, it seems like an extreme test. Don¡¯t you think?¡± Who¡¯s winning now, Dad?


    ¡°Only the one book.¡± He turns around to face his computer screen. Hello, Dad¡¯s back. I¡¯ve missed you. What took you so long?


    The arrival of the Back means it¡¯s officially time to go, but my foot has fallen asleep. It¡¯s all pins and needles and I can¡¯t quite feel it under me when I stand on it. I try to stop myself from falling by bringing my hand down hard on the desk. The snow globe topples over and shatters, soaking the yard gnome pictures.


    ¡°Cameron!¡± Dad shouts, pushing his chair back and away from his wet desk. A little hits his pants in a bad spot.


    ¡°I tripped, okay? My foot was asleep! Wasn¡¯t my fault.¡±


    ¡°Nothing ever is.¡± Dad opens his desk drawer and pulls out his collection of convenience-store napkins. He¡¯s dabbing furiously at the pictures, assessing the damage. ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± he says.

 Page 11

    I don¡¯t know if he means the pictures or me.


    I pick up a copy of the Don Quixote Fake It! Notes and a bottle opener with a padded handle that reads SCREW ME just to piss Dad off. It¡¯s a long bus ride out to our subdivision, so I thumb through the free weekly rag I picked up at Eubie¡¯s.


    Strange Fires Sighted in Several States. ¡°The world is ending for sure,¡± says Reverend Iggy Norant.


    Roadrunner Bus Company: Just Follow the Feather to Your Next Adventure.


    Missing Scientist May be Time Traveler to Other Worlds.


    Troubled Teens? For everlasting satisfaction, send them to our church.


    Did you suffer adverse effects from Human Growth Hormone? If so, you could join our class action suit today.


    Secret Super Collider Could be Breakthrough¡ªor Swallow Our Planet in Black Hole!


    X Marks the Spot, Says Top Disease Dr.: ¡°I¡¯ve cheated death, and so can you!¡±


    Ragnarok On! Learn ancient Norse in the comfort of your own home: call now and get bonus rune pendant absolutely free!


    Need a Job? Exciting opportunities exist with United Snow Globe Wholesalers: Freezing life behind glass. Call 1-800-555-1212.


    I finish the paper. There are still a few miles to go, though, so I read the first few chapters of Don Quixote. The Fake It! Notes tell me that Cervantes is satirizing the culture of idealism. The only thing I know about Don Quixote is that he and his sidekick go off and have imaginary adventures, battling windmills disguised as giants and that sort of thing. No windmills outside the bus window. Just rows and rows of houses that all look pretty much the same. Sure, some are two stories; some are ranches. A few even have that big round turret for a garage like some kind of ridiculous suburban castle. But they¡¯re the same house spaced out every five houses or so by other houses that have matches throughout the neighborhood. When I was a kid I was always afraid I¡¯d wander into the wrong house and the wrong life by mistake. Now that sounds pretty good.


    The sky¡¯s amazing, though. Bright blue, like paint right out of the tube before you water it down. The clouds are bouncy little mattresses up there. Something flutters past my window, making me jump. It¡¯s a flock of birds taking off for the cloud beds. They must have come a little too close to the bus for comfort. I watch them till they¡¯re nothing but specks. And for a second, I see something else in the sky, a flutter of wings too big to be anything I can name.


    CHAPTER FIVE


    Wherein I Have a Very Strange Encounter While Stoned and Employ a Frying Pan in My Defense


    There¡¯s a note on the fridge: Cam, home by 10:00. Lasagna in freezer. If you use the toaster oven, unplug it afterward. It overheats. Mom. There¡¯s a hastily added Love you squeezed in before her name in a different-color ink. It¡¯s the personal touch that means so much.


    Mom teaches English comp, single-celled organism level, at the community college. She could be teaching a challenging English lit class somewhere good, but she never finished her dissertation or whatever it is you need to become a bona fide PhD. Mom has trouble finishing stuff. The house is crowded with half-scribbled-in crossword puzzles, books with the bookmarks in the middle, bags of knitting, scarves she got halfway through and then abandoned.


    The lasagna is totally freezer-burned, cold and inedible, so I dial up a pizza. True to their ad campaign, Happy Time Pizzeria delivers within thirty minutes¡ªcomplete with bonus mega-ounce sodas and cinnamon-frosted-bread dessert product¡ªand I¡¯m camped in the recliner, scarfing down my slices in the middle of our large, empty family room.


    I have a special relationship with the remote control. I like to think of it as my own personal divining rod, taking me safely past nighttime soap operas, used car commercials, televangelists, and medical trauma shows. It stops briefly on a repeat showing of Star Fighter, the cult metaphysical action movie all kids between the age of nine and thirteen have to see at least ten times before they can pass into puberty. No kidding¡ªthere are kids who can quote the whole damn thing.


    I let the screen idle on the news while I roll a J. Quick pictures stretch out across our TV¡¯s full forty-two inches: young guys in camouflage holding guns while guarding a desert. Bloody kids crying in the blown-up streets of some foreign city. A follow-up story on a store bombing last Christmas. A commercial with Parker Day¡¯s suntanned face hawking Rad XL soda. Back to the grim report and a local story, a fire in a neighborhood across town. The flames make me think about my weird dream in Spanglish class today, and I get a funny feeling inside, like when you¡¯re driving around a sharp curve on a one-lane road and you can¡¯t see what¡¯s coming. The reporter says something about similarities to another fire and the authorities¡¯ fears that an arsonist is on the loose. And then they switch to a story about celebrity baby names and some starlet who named her bundle of joy Iphigenia.

 Page 12

    I smoke just enough to make me slow down inside, like I¡¯m part water bed. Then I hide the roach and spray a toxic amount of air freshener just in case anyone gets the crazy idea to come home early for some ¡°quality time.¡± Finally, I flip on the ConstaToons channel so I can watch a marathon of my favorite animated classic, the one where a poor, bedraggled coyote chases a roadrunner around a tumbleweedy landscape. Every single time, this poor guy gets his ass handed to him by TNT gone wrong or falling anvils or other backfiring ruses. But he never stops chasing that damn roadrunner.


    I¡¯ve seen this one a million times. The coyote rigs a skewed-perspective backdrop of a long hallway with many doors painted on it. It¡¯s just a painting, but somehow, the roadrunner zooms right into the picture as if it¡¯s real, opens one of the doors, and escapes. The coyote¡¯s got a big ¡°Wha ¡­ ?¡± on his face. He runs into the painting, and they chase each other in and out of doors, just missing each other. Finally, the coyote opens a door and a train runs him right over, poor bastard. Even though I¡¯ve seen it a zillion times before, I laugh my ass off, because I¡¯m stoned, and it¡¯s my right to laugh at things that, in the cold hard light of day, would not be all that funny.


    A blur of white zips past the open doorway into the kitchen. It takes my weed-fogged brain two seconds to register what this means: Somebody¡¯s in the house.


    ¡°Mom?¡± I call. ¡°Dad?¡±


    Nothing.


    ¡°Jenna, is that you? You better cut it out. I¡¯m warning you.¡±


    Shit. I hope I sprayed enough Citrus Rain to take away the pot odor. From the kitchen comes a faint rustling sound.


    ¡°You should know we¡¯ve got an alarm system!¡± Our alarm system is basically me screaming my head off if I see this guy, but he doesn¡¯t have to know that. Quietly, I slip into the kitchen. Nobody¡¯s there. I do a quick scan for a weapon. Plastic napkin holders. Place mats. Steak knives so dull they can¡¯t cut through butter. I grab the frying pan soaking in the sink and slink into the living room just as something darts up the stairs.


    Oh shit, man. My blood pounds the sides of my skull, and I feel woozy. Should I call the cops? My parents? What if I¡¯m just stoned and paranoid?


    Be cool, Cameron. Just check it out first.


    I creep up the stairs with a fry pan as my only defense, and despite the fact that my heart is beating like a hummingbird¡¯s, it strikes me as funny. Greetings, ax murderer! I was just wondering how you like your eggs?


    I reach the landing. Mom and Dad¡¯s room is empty. So¡¯s Jenna¡¯s ¨¹bergirl lair. No doubt any serial killer would take one look at the lavender walls covered with sensitive girl songwriter posters and dive out the window anyway. Bathroom¡¯s clear. That leaves my room.


    The door¡¯s half closed, so I kick it open with my foot. My room is exactly the way I left it: Rumpled clothes on floor. Stereo equipment and miscellaneous computer wires lying about. Unmade bed. Stacks of LPs, CDs, comic books. Closet doors are open. Okay, weird. I don¡¯t know what kind of pot this is¡ªImagine There¡¯s Some Badass Dude Coming to Kill You pot¡ªbut never again, man.


    Something catches my eye. The window¡¯s open. That¡¯s new. And there on the windowsill is a feather. I pick it up. It¡¯s huge. Bigger and thicker than any bird¡¯s feather I¡¯ve ever seen. Soft and white with pink at the edges. Huh. I turn it over in my hand and I swear, I must be going mental, because there on the snowy surface of that gigantic feather is one word, a greeting.


    Hello.


    CHAPTER SIX


    Wherein My Part-time Gainful Employment Proves to Be a Hell Beyond All Imagining and I Make a Most Curious¡ªOkay, Really Weird¡ªSighting


    ¡°Cameron?¡± Someone¡¯s banging on my door. Banging equals Mom equals easily ignorable. I roll onto my stomach and bury my head under my pillow. The banging continues, muffled somewhat by the layer of synthetic down filler over my head.


    ¡°Cameron?¡±


    No. No banging. No Cameron. Cameron sleep now.


    The pillow is ripped savagely from my head.


    ¡°Cameron? It¡¯s ten o¡¯clock.¡±


    I open one eye and see that yes, yes, it is ten o¡¯clock. Ten zero zero. Zero, my favorite number. As in zero expectations, zero disappointments.


    ¡°Ten o¡¯clock. Good time for growing boys to get their sleep,¡± I mumble. ¡°Night, Mom.¡± I try to grab behind me for the pillow but Mom¡¯s still got a firm hold on it.


    ¡°You promised your dad you¡¯d mow the lawn today.¡±


    ¡°I did?¡±


    ¡°Yes, you did. Last Saturday, when you forgot to mow it after you¡¯d promised to the week before.¡±

 Page 13

    I vaguely remember this, but honestly, all I can think about is the taste in my mouth. I¡¯ve got the kind of pot hangover where I swear little road crews of pixies have been hard at work all night painting my tongue with dirt-enhanced pitch.


    ¡°Right. Do it later,¡± I mumble.


    ¡°He¡¯ll be back from tennis in an hour.¡±


    ¡°So I¡¯ll start then.¡± I make a swipe for the pillow and miss.


    Mom holds it just out of reach. ¡°Honey, you have to go to work at Buddha Burger.¡±


    My joyous part-time fast-food gig, which the ¡¯rents forced me to take. I¡¯ve only worked there four weeks, and already it feels like a soul-sucking spiral of pain.


    ¡°I¡¯ll call in sick.¡±


    ¡°Cameron, do you think that¡¯s such a good idea? They might think you¡¯re unreliable.¡±


    It seems a bad time to point out that I am unreliable. Or I¡¯m reliable when it comes to being unreliable.


    ¡°¡¯Sokay. Somebody¡¯ll cover me.¡±


    I take possession of the pillow again. Mom¡¯s still standing in my room. I can feel her hovering. Some other mom might get angry, blow up, or drag me from my bed with a purposeful ¡°Young man, it¡¯s time you learned some responsibility!¡± In the TV movie version, that would be ¡°the big turning point.¡± And at the end of the movie, when they showed me with a decent haircut and a graduation cap on my head, accepting the special scholarship/presidential seal/call to cure cancer, I¡¯d thank my mom, and there¡¯d be a glossy close-up of her tearstained face while everybody stood to applaud her.


    This is so not my mom. She¡¯s like me¡ªdriftwood. After a few seconds, I hear her shoes squeaking a retreat.


    ¡°All right,¡± she says, before pulling the door shut. ¡°But at least use the Weedwacker around the front walk.¡±


    ¡°Sure thing,¡± I promise, and fall right back to sleep.


    I wake up at eleven-fifteen, which is fifteen minutes before I¡¯m supposed to be reporting for my six-hour shift at Buddha Burger, a twenty-minute drive across town. Shit. I grab my uniform¡ªblack pants, white button-down shirt with a meditating Buddha cow floating atop a hamburger bun, dorky faux Tibetan monk hat¡ªbrush my teeth, and look around to see if there¡¯s anything I¡¯m forgetting. That¡¯s when I see the long feather on the floor and last night¡¯s weirdness announces itself in my memory. What the hell was that? Hello. The feather said hello.


    But there¡¯s nothing written there now. For all I know, that feather¡¯s been on my floor for a long time, and last night was some random ganja flip-out. I throw it in the trash and run downstairs.


    After some minor-league pleading with Mom, she agrees to let me take the Turdmobile, her crap-brown box of a car. It¡¯s ugly but it runs, and it¡¯s better than the bus when you¡¯re late. All down the block, the lawns are alive with men on riding mowers. They gallop across their yards, whipping them into shape, in control of those few square feet of ground. All hail the suburban action heroes! Do not tangle with those men¡ªthey have Weedwackers and they know how to use them! I mean, honestly, I¡¯m supposed to get good grades, go to a good college, not screw up, so I can get to do this shit someday? Thanks, I¡¯ll pass.


    Dad, still in his tennis whites, pushes the power mower around our already pristine lawn. Our eyes meet for a nanosecond, and then Dad stoops to examine a particularly hearty clump of weeds. As I back the Turdmobile down the driveway, he¡¯s running the mower over the same spot again and again, forcing the rebellious patch to bend to his will.


    I¡¯m through the doors of Buddha Burger seven minutes past my shift start time, which, if you ask me, is within the realm of acceptable. But not so for our manager, Mr. Babcock. He¡¯s waiting by the clock, his bushy mustache scrunched into a hairy M above a tight frown. He makes a point of looking at the clock, then at me.


    ¡°Hi, Mr. Babcock,¡± I say, punching in.


    ¡°You¡¯re late, Cameron.¡± Wow. And you, sir, are incredibly observant.


    ¡°Yes, sir. Sorry about that. I had to take my mom¡¯s car and it kept stalling out. ¡­¡±


    ¡°Cameron, I¡¯m gonna give you a piece of advice, son. Never explain, never blame.¡±


    He stares meaningfully at me. I think the human interaction manual says that I¡¯m supposed to supply a comeback here, something to show I have ¡°understood the message.¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir. That¡¯s good advice, sir.¡±


    He puts his arm around my shoulder like he¡¯s my life coach. ¡°Son, I don¡¯t know what your home situation is.¡± In his thick Texas drawl, ¡°situation¡± has about ten syllables. ¡°Maybe you don¡¯t have a daddy at home. Maybe you do. But here at the Buddha Burger, I like to think of us as family. You know what that means?¡±

 Page 14

    There¡¯s yet another place where I can feel awkward, resentful, and out of touch?


    ¡°It means that while you work here, I¡¯m like your daddy. I make the rules. And when I say you need to be here on time or even ten minutes early for your shift, I mean it. You got me?¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir,¡± I say. Mr. Babcock pats my shoulder. He smiles, and the caterpillar mustache¡ªthe envy of state troopers everywhere, I¡¯m sure¡ªstraightens out again. I hear that on the weekends, he¡¯s a part-time security guard with mirrored sunglasses and a gun. He probably poses in front of his bathroom mirror to see how he looks saying ¡°Freeze!¡±


    Mr. Babcock is pleased that I have ¡°heard his message.¡± I¡¯ll bet he feels all cuddly inside that he may have ¡°put another youth on the path to responsibility.¡± I make a mental note to write Kick Me on the back of his shirt sometime.


    I¡¯m working with Lena today. Just great. Lena¡¯s the most literal person I¡¯ve ever met, with the heart and soul of a district attorney. When Lena is shift manager, she expects you to work your ass off¡ªno skipping off to the walk-in for a secret smoke or pretending to clean the bathrooms for thirty minutes. It¡¯s by the book all the way.


    She hands me a rag. ¡°Late again, Cameron.¡±


    ¡°Just by seven minutes. That¡¯s not really late, Lena.¡±


    She swivels around, hands on hips. ¡°Yeah? That¡¯s seven minutes I had to cover for you. Not cool.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not that big a deal.¡± I busy myself stocking the napkin holders on the counters, but I can feel her eyes on me, like she sees straight through to my inner assholian, irresponsible core. I look up and she¡¯s studying me.


    ¡°Can I ask you a question, Cameron?¡±


    ¡°I think you just did. Or did you mean an additional question?¡±


    Lena doesn¡¯t even bother to dignify this with a new facial expression. ¡°My question is this: What¡¯s wrong with you?¡±


    She¡¯s staring at me with those big brown eyes, waiting. And what I want to say to her is I don¡¯t know. I honestly don¡¯t.


    ¡°Right. I¡¯ll just go wipe down.¡±


    Lena shakes her head slowly, judge and jury. And then she does that thing I can¡¯t seem to do. She shakes it off, puts on a smile, and turns to the next customer. ¡°Hi, welcome to Buddha Burger. How can I help you?¡±


    Only six more fun-filled hours to go.


    The tables are a mess. Every inch of the fake bamboo tables is covered in the sticky, mushy remnants of Buddha Burgers, Meditation Fries, and Fresh Fruitiful Frothies. People come here because they think it¡¯s healthy and they¡¯re saving the environment while they chomp their fast food. There are lots of framed pictures showing smiling indigenous peoples who are absolutely not being exploited by the corporate office. In the back is a Zen water fountain supposed to induce feelings of peace. Mostly it makes people have to go to the bathroom. New Agey chant music is piped through the speakers. Rug rats run around playing with their Buddha cow toys, making moo sounds and f**king up all my cleaning efforts.


    Lena summons me to the front over the mike. It¡¯s her break time, and she is very, very serious about taking her break at the same time every shift. I take over the register just as Staci Johnson and her crew walk in. On the bell curve of high school humiliation, this rates the top grade.


    ¡°Lena,¡± I beg in a whisper. ¡°Can you take this one for me, please?¡±


    ¡°Ha! Funny.¡± She holds up her Star Fighter graphic novel. ¡°I¡¯m on break.¡±


    ¡°Look, I¡¯m sorry I was late¡ª¡±


    ¡°That makes ¡­¡± She counts heads. ¡°Five of us.¡±


    ¡°Really, really sorry. It won¡¯t happen again. Just please take this one.¡±


    She makes a show of drumming her fingers on her chin like she¡¯s thinking hard. ¡°Hmmm. Let me see. Um. No.¡±


    ¡°Lena. Please. Pretty please. I¡¯ll be your best friend.¡±


    ¡°I have a best friend. Her name is LaKeesha. You¡¯d know that if you ever paid attention to anyone else.¡±


    ¡°Okay. I¡¯m a jerk. A self-involved jerk. But I swear, if you just take this one order, I will get the soy cheese from the walk-in for a week. Promise.¡±


    For a minute, I think she¡¯s considering. Then she flips her book open to the ribbon-marked page. ¡°Sorry. I¡¯m at a good part. The fate of the universe hangs in the balance.¡± Lena shoves her card into the time clock. I hear the gunshot-hard click-punch of it seal my fate.


    ¡°Excuse me, could we get some help?¡± Staci calls out.

 Page 15

    Lena jerks her head in their direction. A smirk pulls at her lips. ¡°Sucks to be you.¡±


    Shit.


    Resigned, I trudge over to the register, wondering if girls can smell your total fear, like wolves or very experienced serial killers.


    ¡°Hi, welcome to Buddha Burger. Can I take your order, please?¡± I say, pulling out a plastic tray and putting a one hundred percent recycled paper liner on it. I avoid eye contact by staring at the useless factoids: DNA, or deoxyribonucleic acid, is the genetic code that makes you uniquely you! Before they¡¯re your cruelty-free burgers, Buddha Burger cows are raised with sunshine and happiness. That¡¯s why they taste so moo-velously good! Recycling is good for the planet¡ªand you and me. Let¡¯s all get recycled!


    ¡°Excuse me?¡± one of the girls says, snapping her fingers to get my attention.


    Staci Johnson and I are separated by a cash register and two feet of counter. ¡°Wow. It¡¯s Cameron Smith. I didn¡¯t know you worked here.¡± Staci stifles a giggle. ¡°Nice hat.¡±


    Here¡¯s a heaping plate of I Hate You. Would you like fries with that?


    Staci & Co. change their order four times just to mess with me. They all want Fresh Fruitified Frothies, which are a pain to make. It¡¯s February, girls. Order coffee. I¡¯m at the blender for what seems like hours, developing carpal tunnel syndrome, or aggravating the carpal tunnel syndrome I¡¯ve already brought on by frequent self-abuse, which I suppose I could cut back on. Then again, everyone needs a hobby. The Frothie-making must have been harder than I thought, because when I bring out the tray of drinks, my hands start to twitch and jerk. Every muscle in my arms is break dancing. I can¡¯t hold on to the tray. It goes flying, splattering Staci in blueberry-strawberry-peach soy moo.


    Staci lets out a little scream. ¡°You did that on purpose, Cameron Smith.¡±


    ¡°I swear I didn¡¯t,¡± I say. My left arm is still shaking. I use my right to hold it steady, which makes it look like I¡¯m trying to hug myself.


    ¡°He totally did do it on purpose,¡± one of the wannabes says. She rips four or five eco-friendly napkins from the popup dispenser and hands them to Staci.


    ¡°God, he is such a freak,¡± Staci mutters just loud enough for everyone to hear. Even the ankle-biters in the joint have stopped running around screaming, more interested in the action going on up front.


    Mr. Babcock struts around the fry vats, hiking up his pants. ¡°What seems to be the trouble?¡±


    ¡°He threw our Frothies at us.¡± Staci shows off her wet shirt.


    ¡°Cameron? Do you have a problem?¡± Mr. Babcock says, tearing his eyes away from Staci¡¯s Frothie-drenched chest.


    ¡°No. It was an accident. I don¡¯t know what happened. It¡¯s like I lost control of my arms or something and¡ª¡±


    Mr. Babcock holds up his silencing finger. ¡°Never explain or blame, Mr. Smith. Ladies, at Buddha Burger, we take safety seriously. Your meal is on the house. Lena, could you retake these girls¡¯ order?¡±


    Lena doesn¡¯t look up from her graphic novel. ¡°I¡¯m on break. Fifteen minutes. By law.¡±


    Mr. Babcock sighs. ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll do it myself. Cameron, I¡¯m gonna have to ask you to hand in your Buddha badge.¡±


    Every pair of eyes is on me as I hand over my Meditating Buddha Cow pin and hat. Only one person isn¡¯t watching. A bronzy girl with pink hair in the far corner eating a Buddha¡¯s Bounty Hot Fudge Sundae. She¡¯s all lit up from the afternoon sun. And she has wings. No, that¡¯s ¡­ ohmygodyes! There they are¡ªwhite, fluffy, big-assed wings tucked behind her back. No, dude, that can¡¯t be right. People do not have wings.


    ¡°Cameron?¡±


    ¡°Huh?¡± I say, turning back to Mr. Babcock.


    ¡°Take your things and leave now. Don¡¯t forget to clock out.¡±


    Staci and crew form a little huddle. They make it seem like they¡¯re trying not to laugh, but really, they¡¯re enjoying the show. And when I turn back to look at the table in the far corner, it¡¯s empty.


    CHAPTER SEVEN


    In Which I Am Subjected to the Slings and Arrows of Dinner with My Family


    ¡°I thought maybe we could all go to Luigi¡¯s for an early dinner tonight,¡± Dad announces. He makes these announcements periodically, the ¡°let¡¯s act like a family¡± edicts. For all I know, he may make them a lot, but it¡¯s rare that we¡¯re all gathered in the same place at the same time to hear them. We¡¯re like electrons both attracting and repelling each other.


    ¡°Sorry, Daddy. I can¡¯t,¡± Jenna says. She bothers to sound apologetic. ¡°I¡¯m going to the movies with Chet and everybody.¡±

 Page 16

    ¡°What time?¡± Dad asks.


    ¡°Eight o¡¯clock.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s only five now. You could eat dinner with us and then go.¡±


    Jenna¡¯s mouth falls open. ¡°By myself? I can¡¯t show up by myself. That¡¯s lame. What if they¡¯re late and I¡¯m sitting there all alone looking like a loser, like ¡­¡±


    Cameron, my loser brother.


    ¡°Besides, Lisa and Tonya are picking me up at six. We¡¯re meeting the guys for pizza first.¡±


    ¡°Do you need money?¡± Mom asks.


    ¡°Why?¡± I snap. ¡°She doesn¡¯t actually eat the food. I¡¯m sure she¡¯s got enough for a diet soda.¡±


    Jenna glares at me.


    ¡°All right, settle down. Well, guess it¡¯ll just be the three of us, then.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not hungry,¡± I say.


    ¡°Would it kill you to spend a little time with your family, Cameron?¡±


    I don¡¯t know. Would it kill you to stop doing the nasty with your TA? Why don¡¯t you admit that¡¯s the real reason for this sudden family powwow? You¡¯ve been home late every night for a month. Is Raina on vacation?


    I could say this out loud, but I don¡¯t.


    ¡°I¡¯m really behind on my reading for Spanglish. That Don Quixote is one funny guy. Wouldn¡¯t want to miss a minute of it.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re reading Don Quixote?¡± Mom asks. ¡°Did you know Cervantes is considered the first modern novelist?¡±


    ¡°No. Wow. Well. I better hop to.¡± I disappear upstairs but I can still hear them in the kitchen arguing.


    ¡°So, do you want to go to Luigi¡¯s?¡± Dad asks, sounding irritated.


    ¡°Oh, I don¡¯t care,¡± Mom answers.


    ¡°We could get sushi.¡±


    ¡°That would be fine. I could just order a salad.¡±


    ¡°Mary, if you don¡¯t want to eat sushi, just say so.¡±


    ¡°No, no, that¡¯s fine. You know me. I hate to make decisions.¡±


    I know how their evening will go. It¡¯s like a rerun of a show you¡¯ve seen a million times. They¡¯ll end up going to Luigi¡¯s, where they always go, where Dad can hold court and be the big man and Mom can have a hard time deciding what to order until Dad finally orders something for her that she¡¯ll hate and pick at and make him mad. He¡¯ll mutter something about how if she doesn¡¯t like it she doesn¡¯t have to eat it and she¡¯ll make a big show of taking a bite and saying no, no, it¡¯s good, she¡¯s just not all that hungry after all. They¡¯ll exhaust their topics of conversation¡ªhis work, her work, us kids¡ªbefore the appetizers come and spend the rest of the meal in silence, looking for other people they know who could come over and rescue them from each other.


    Yeah. Think I¡¯ll be skipping this one, thanks. But apparently, Dad has other ideas. He knocks on my door as he opens it, a habit I find beyond annoying. Really, why bother knocking at all?


    ¡°Cameron, get dressed. We¡¯re all going to Luigi¡¯s for dinner.¡±


    ¡°I thought Jenna has that thing?¡± I sputter. ¡°If Jenna¡¯s not going I should be exempt.¡±


    ¡°This is family,¡± Dad says. ¡°No one¡¯s exempt.¡±


    Luigi¡¯s is billed as the place ¡°for families and fun!¡± I have a hard time putting those two things together in the same sentence. Luigi is a nice enough guy¡ªshort, balding, originally from New Jersey. His wife, Peri, is a blond Amazon with a thick Texas accent. Unlike my parents, Luigi and Peri are a unit, crazy about each other, and I wonder what that¡¯s like, why some people stay in love and others don¡¯t.


    ¡°Hey, y¡¯all! Welcome to Luigi¡¯s,¡± Peri says, greeting us at the door with laminated menus.


    ¡°Well, hey there, Peri. When did you start working the door?¡± Dad teases, pouring on the charm.


    Peri laughs. ¡°I know! Can you believe Lou¡¯s finally lettin¡¯ me play hostess? I¡¯ve only been askin¡¯ fer about a year! Made me take a test and ever¡¯thin¡¯. Can you imagine?¡±


    ¡°Only so I could figure out a way to spend more time with you,¡± Luigi says, and kisses her cheek.


    Peri beams. ¡°Always the romantic.¡±


    ¡°Enjoy your dinner!¡± Luigi tells us.


    Peri leads us past the trompe l¡¯oeil wall made to look like a garden in Italy, and the red and white checkered tablecloths decked out with carnations and bottomless baskets of bread-sticks. I think an alarm goes off if anyone is without a starch product at any time. Peri takes us to a table right by the faux gas fireplace, which flares with this sort of weird blue-orange flame that doesn¡¯t even pretend to look real.

 Page 17

    ¡°Here you go. Your server will be right with you. Thank you, and enjoy your meal,¡± she says, like she¡¯s a graduate from a hostessing school.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t this nice?¡± Dad says, opening his menu, blocking us out. Mom does the same. Jenna looks miserable, but she¡¯s too much of a good girl to risk disappointing Dad. That¡¯s why she gave in. She doesn¡¯t have the close personal relationship with his back that I do. I wish I¡¯d taken the time to get high first so I could at least find this all somewhat amusing.


    ¡°Who¡¯s got something good to tell us?¡± Dad says, once the orders have been placed and the overflowing bread basket has been raided. We all need something in our mouths to keep what we want to say from jumping out.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got something,¡± Jenna says, smiling, right on cue. ¡°You know how spring break is coming up? And you know how I¡¯ve always wanted to learn how to ski? Well, Chet¡¯s church group has a ski trip planned, and they have an extra place for me.¡±


    ¡°Church group?¡± Dad says.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, honey,¡± Mom jumps in. ¡°Skiing is very expensive.¡±


    ¡°It wouldn¡¯t be that much. They got a great deal, and I could use some of my savings. ¡­¡±


    Oooh, bad move, Jen. Mentioning the use of college funds for anything other than that purpose is an automatic disqualifier, but thank you for playing.


    Dad gives one of those oh-you-silly-girl smiles meant to show his good nature. But since he doesn¡¯t have a good nature, it mostly comes across as assholian. ¡°Those savings are for college.¡±


    ¡°Dad,¡± Jenna says, exhaling loudly, eyes toward the ceiling.


    ¡°No. Now, honey, you know the rule about that.¡±


    ¡°I never get to do anything.¡±


    ¡°You could use my savings,¡± I say, biting into buttered onion bread. ¡°I don¡¯t think there¡¯s a college that would take me.¡±


    Dad stifles a sigh, tries to put a smile on it. ¡°Well, we¡¯re gonna work on those SATs starting this summer. That way, you¡¯ll be prepared come next year.¡±


    ¡°Here¡¯s hoping,¡± I say, fingers crossed.


    ¡°Top-say eing-bay an erk-jay,¡± Jenna singsongs in the Pig Latin we used to use as our special twin language. Back when we were pals.


    My father takes a belt of his Scotch. ¡°Hope has nothing to do with it, Cameron. It¡¯s hard work. If wishes grew on trees we¡¯d all be rich.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t make sense, Dad.¡±


    ¡°Neither does a kid with your IQ nearly failing high school,¡± he says, and there¡¯s nothing smug about it. He really looks pained.


    ¡°Did I tell you all that I¡¯m going to be teaching a course on the poetic and prose Eddas next semester?¡± Mom says, trying to change the subject. ¡°Remember how much you kids loved those Viking sagas when you were little? Odin and Freya, Balder and Frigg.¡±


    Dad¡¯s eyes are still on me, like I¡¯m something he just can¡¯t find a theorem for. ¡°I know you want me to give up on you, Cameron. But I¡¯m just not built that way.¡±


    I could say thanks. The words are on my tongue. But, apparently, I¡¯m not built that way. He¡¯ll make me care and then he¡¯ll give me his back.


    ¡°Could you pass the salt?¡± I say, and I give my spaghetti a dousing, even though it doesn¡¯t need it.


    After dinner, we walk along the strip mall. The shops are getting ready to close. People make their last-minute purchases. Mom and Jenna go into the bookstore, while Dad steps into the athletic shoe store three doors down. I stand out on the sidewalk, waiting. Lightning pulses in the distance like cosmic Morse code. Beat-beat, flare.


    An old homeless dude in a tinfoil hat pushes a squeaky shopping cart through the mostly empty parking lot, tossing cans in when he finds them. He stops in front of me, nods toward the sky.


    ¡°Something¡¯s brewing. Can¡¯t you feel it?¡±


    ¡°Rain,¡± I answer.


    ¡°No, sir. Lot more ¡¯n rain.¡± He points to his hat. ¡°Better get you one of these.¡±


    ¡°Will do.¡±


    ¡°The world¡¯s going to hell. It¡¯s all gonna end.¡± He points to his hat again. ¡°Get yourself one of these.¡±


    He fishes a flattened Rad soda can out from under a sewer grate. A truck cuts through the lot, its headlights pushing against the dark. The wind shifts, bringing a faint smell of smoke. The old dude drives his cart down the sidewalk, the wheels shrieking the whole way.


    CHAPTER EIGHT


    Two Weeks Later


    Of What Happens When I Punch Chet King in the Stomach and Not Even Intentionally

 Page 18

    ¡°Dude, you okay?¡±


    I¡¯m doubled over the bathroom sink, trying to quiet the weirdness in my head. Stoner Kevin¡¯s voice sounds like it¡¯s coming from deep inside a tunnel.


    ¡°Seriously, you don¡¯t look so good.¡±


    ¡°I think I ate something bad,¡± I manage.


    Something really bad. Something that might be warping me on a genetic level.


    He gives me a knowing grin. ¡°Awww, duuuude! Are you ¡¯shrooming? Oh, man, you are totally taking the Psilocybin Express to Club Mushroom Med, admit it!¡±


    In the bathroom mirror, my face is paler and more gaunt than usual. My eyes are huge and haunted. Under my skin, my nerve endings seem to twitch and burn, smoldering match heads just blown out and wispy with smoke.


    ¡°You look wrecked, my man. Why don¡¯t you ditch? Take off, enjoy the ride.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t. I¡¯m nearly failing Spanglish. One more absence and I¡¯m gone.¡±


    ¡°Dude. Sucks.¡±


    The bell rings. It clangs in my head like a gong played through a megastack of amps.


    ¡°Come on,¡± Stoner Kevin says. ¡°I¡¯ll sit next to you in class. Help you out.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re in my Spanglish class?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Uh ¡­ yeah.¡± He grabs my backpack for me.


    ¡°The whole year?¡± I try to picture him in there and can¡¯t.


    ¡°Dude. Yeah.¡± Kevin shakes his head, laughs. ¡°Whole year. Don¡¯t you remember?¡±


    No. I don¡¯t.


    ¡°Yeah. Just messing with you,¡± I say, and let Stoner Kevin lead the way to class, because I¡¯m having trouble remembering that, too.


    ¡°You should have all read the assigned chapters in Don Quixote over the weekend. Remember this will be on the state SPEW test,¡± Mr. Glass says, erasing the blackboard and writing the word THEME in the center. He underlines it just in case we missed it. ¡°Who would like to start today¡¯s discussion?¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t be a discussion if we¡¯re just supposed to spit back what the state¡¯s looking for on the SPEW,¡± the Goth girl behind me snipes.


    Mr. Glass scans the room, seeking out those who are friendly to his ¡°let¡¯s get jazzed about forced reading¡± rap. He knows to overlook me. The weird muscle twitches in my leg haven¡¯t stopped. And from the corner of my eye, I think I see flames licking at the walls. When I turn my head, they¡¯re sucked back in. It¡¯s the lack of sleep, I tell myself. Unless I get good and wasted, I can¡¯t manage more than an hour or two. I¡¯m so exhausted I¡¯m seeing shit.


    ¡°Anybody?¡± Mrs. Rector asks when no one answers Glass¡¯s prompt. ¡°Miss Rodriguez?¡±


    Our future valedictorian doesn¡¯t disappoint. ¡°Sampson Carrasco comes up with a way to trick Don Quixote into accepting his life and his place in society and, eventually, his death.¡±


    ¡°Yes, very good, and how does he do that? Remember¡ªyou must cite examples from the text. That¡¯s what you¡¯ll do on the test. Don¡¯t overthink it¡ªtoo much thinking will kill you on the SPEW test.¡±


    ¡°Well, instead of telling him that he¡¯s crazy or he can¡¯t do this, he can¡¯t do that, he encourages him to go on all these adventures. But Sampson disguises himself and goes along.¡±


    ¡°Yes. And why does he do that ¡­ Mr. King?¡±


    ¡°Me? Aw, I¡¯m sorry, Mr. Glass. I didn¡¯t read it.¡±


    ¡°Why not, Mr. King?¡±


    ¡°I object on religious grounds.¡±


    Mr. Glass rolls his eyes as Chet¡¯s football buddies snicker. My head feels like it could explode. Like I need to scream or hit somebody. And just like that, my left arm gets a rogue message and jerks out.


    Mr. Glass squints in my direction. ¡°Yes, Mr. ¡­¡± He has to consult his class roster to remember who I am. ¡°Smith? You must have had something you wanted to add?¡±


    ¡°No. I ¡­¡± The buzzing in my ears is getting worse. ¡°Stop it!¡±


    The football guys start humming the annoying theme song from a classic sci-fi show. A fresh wave of laughter travels over the class and Mrs. Rector has to shush them; it¡¯s all like a detonation to my ears. Press my palms to my head. Stop, stop, stop.


    ¡°Come on, Mr. Smith. Venture out of your shell.¡± Yeah, f**k you, too, Mr. Glass. Man, my head. ¡°Why does Sampson Carrasco travel with Don Quixote in disguise? To trick him?¡± Stop. Please. ¡°To lure him? To help him? Why ¡­¡±


    ¡°Because ¡­¡± The buzzing inside me is so intense I can¡¯t take it anymore. ¡°Because ¡­ fuck off!¡±

 Page 19

    Mrs. Rector¡¯s mouth hangs open. Mr. Glass, for once, is speechless. Somebody gasps, ¡°Oh my God.¡±


    Mr. Glass¡¯s mouth snaps back into a tight line. ¡°Mr. Smith, you will leave the classroom.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I ¡­ aaaaahhhh!¡± My body¡¯s on fire with pain. ¡°Goddammit!¡±


    Mrs. Rector points to the door with dramatic flair. ¡°Leave. My. Classroom. Now.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s okay, Se?ora Rector,¡± Stoner Kevin says. ¡°Cameron¡¯s cool. He just ate some wicked mushrooms, that¡¯s all.¡±


    Yeah, thanks for that, Kev. I try to grab my backpack, but it¡¯s like my muscles are from another planet, jerking and twitching in a bad robot dance that gets more snickering from the class.


    Mrs. Rector¡¯s voice takes on that I¡¯m-above-it-all tone. ¡°I¡¯ve had quite enough. Could someone please escort Mr. Smith to Principal Hendricks¡¯s office?¡±


    ¡°Sure thing, Mrs. Rector.¡± Chet King gets out of his seat and towers over me. ¡°Come on, bro. You¡¯re not being funny anymore.¡±


    On an ordinary day I would hate Chet King both for his prison guard stance and for calling me ¡°bro.¡± But this is not an ordinary day, and all I can feel is totally freaked out that my body isn¡¯t getting any of my brain¡¯s frantic commands to move. His hand lands on my arm, and it¡¯s like a burn.


    ¡°Ahh, shit!¡± I scream. My spastic arm flies out and whacks Chet in the gut. He¡¯s a big guy, but the punch catches him off guard. His knees hit the floor, followed quickly by the rest of him. The jocks are on me at once. Every touch feels like it¡¯s connecting with raw nerve endings. I¡¯m vaguely aware that I¡¯m screaming things that are ¡°inappropriate to a peaceful classroom environment.¡±


    I guess that¡¯s why Chet finally hauls off and socks me.


    The Calhoun High School behavior code sheet we all have to sign at the beginning of the year is pretty firm about the dos and don¡¯ts of personal conduct. Punching beloved football players in the stomach is definitely a don¡¯t. I¡¯m suspended for five days for unruly behavior and, thanks to Kevin, suspicion of drug use.


    Mom has to come pick me up in the Turdmobile. She¡¯s so mortified and, knowing Mom, worried, that we drive in total silence¡ªtotal silence being the parental barometer of just how screwed you are. But the real fun is yet to come. There¡¯s the phone call to Dad, which results in his early arrival home (sorry, Raina), which leads to a closed-door discussion, which takes us to the four of us sitting in the family room: Mom, Dad, me, and the disappointment. It¡¯s like I¡¯m a camera cutting from close-ups of Mom¡ªworried, vaguely detached, certain this is all a reflection on her uncertain mothering¡ªand Dad¡ªtight, controlled, pissed off, determined to fix things.


    Mom: We just want to know if you have a problem, Cameron.


    Dad: It¡¯s obvious he has a problem, Mary. That¡¯s not the issue.


    Mom: Well ¡­


    Dad: What are you on, Cameron? Did you think it would be funny to get expelled like that?


    Mom: Is it marijuana, honey? Did you get some bad pot?


    Dad: When colleges look at your transcript now, do you think they¡¯re going to be putting out the welcome mat? Jesus, we¡¯ll be lucky to get you into community college.


    Mom: Honey, you¡¯re not sniffing glue or anything like that, are you? Please. Because that stuff can rot your brain.


    Dad: And punching a kid in the stomach? That¡¯s great. Just great.


    Mom: Oh God. It¡¯s not meth, is it? I saw a special on that. People had to have their noses reconstructed.


    The camera cuts to a close-up of teen boy as he debates whether to tell his parents the truth, as he weighs whether they will believe him or not.


    Me: Mom. Dad. I¡¯m not on drugs. I just¡ª


    Cut to wide shot.


    Mom: Is this why you got fired from Buddha Burger? Because you were doing drugs? Honey, you have to be careful when you¡¯re working with hot oil.


    Dad: Mary. Please.


    Mom: I just wanted to know.


    Dad: It¡¯s beside the point.


    Mom plays with her artsy earrings. Her hair needs a dye job. The roots are frizzy and gray.


    Me: I don¡¯t know what happened. I felt sick, okay?


    Dad: So you started cursing and punched a classmate. Cameron, that doesn¡¯t make sense.


    Medium shot of teen boy as he struggles with what to say. It has been too long since he has tried to communicate with his parents, and it¡¯s like they are on the other side of the ocean, speaking a different language. Cut to Mom.


    Mom: Maybe he needs to talk to a therapist, Frank?

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    Dad: This is manipulation, Mary. We¡¯ve got to be the parents, here. Tell us the truth, Cameron. Who¡¯s selling you the drugs?


    Mom: Oh, Cameron. You¡¯re not selling drugs, are you?


    Me: Mom. Dad. I¡¯m not on drugs. Well, not this time.


    Mom: Not this time? Oh, Cameron.


    Me: Can you guys just chill for a sec¡ª


    Dad: (laughs) Chill? Chill?


    Mom: Honey, we¡¯re just ¡­


    Dad: That is rich. ¡­


    Mom: ¡­ worried about you.


    Dad: Fine. You are officially grounded. The door¡¯s coming off your room. You¡¯ve lost your privacy rights for now. Do you understand?


    Cut to close-up of teen boy as he stares at a spot on the wall.


    Me: Yeah.


    Mom: Do you have anything you want to say, honey?


    Extreme close-up of spot looming like a hole.


    Me: No.


    The camera angle goes wider and wider till it¡¯s so out of focus we¡¯re nothing but a blob of color on the screen.


    Once I¡¯ve had my ass handed to me Dad style, and it is determined that I will go see a drug counselor and a shrink, I sit at the kitchen table, reading, since that¡¯s pretty much all that¡¯s left to me, being that I am grounded for the foreseeable future. Jenna prances past me on her way to the fridge to look at food she won¡¯t eat because she¡¯s afraid it will make her fat, and fat is a big old black smudge on the storefront window of perfection.


    ¡°I hear if you even look at the ice cream for too long, it¡¯ll turn you into a porker,¡± I say.


    ¡°I¡¯m not talking to you.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m crushed.¡±


    ¡°You punched Chet!¡± Jenna¡¯s so pissed she actually takes out a non-fat free pudding cup.


    ¡°Don¡¯t take it out if you¡¯re not going to eat the whole thing,¡± I say.


    She slams the fridge door and pulls off the foil top with dramatic flair. ¡°You know why you don¡¯t like Chet?¡±


    It¡¯s a rhetorical question, but I can¡¯t help answering anyway. ¡°You mean besides the fact that he¡¯s a self-involved blowhard?¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t like him because he cares about other people. I mean, his speeches at Kiwanis help save people¡¯s lives! Have you ever done that, Cameron? Have you ever done anything for anybody else just because you actually cared about them? No. You probably don¡¯t even know what that feels like.¡±


    This is the part where I jump in and say, Why, that¡¯s not true. I care about all sorts of people. And the environment. And endangered farm animals. Secretly, I¡¯ve been working up a plan to give an endangered farm animal to every person I care about just so they will know the depth of my feelings. But the truth is, she¡¯s got me on this point. Chet¡¯s not the angel that she thinks he is, but I¡¯m in no position to say shit about anybody.


    Jenna takes my silence as a concession. ¡°You will not wreck things with Chet and me. From now on, you are not to talk to me or acknowledge me in any way. Got it?¡±


    ¡°You. Me. No interaction. Me got.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    She takes one bite of the pudding, licks every speck from the spoon, puts the cup back in the fridge, and drops the spoon in the sink with a clank.


    CHAPTER NINE


    Wherein I Am Subjected to Visits with Two Therapists and an Epic Fail with an Ergo-Chair


    THE VISIT WITH THE DRUG COUNSELOR


    ¡°Hi, Cameron, I¡¯m Abby.¡±


    Her office is a study in bland. Soothing green walls. Plastic chairs set in a circle. A messy desk that seems to say, ¡°Hey, you can trust me¡ªI¡¯m busy and kooky just like you kids!¡± The obligatory, inspirational, cute-pet posters on the walls: STAY STRONG¡ªSTAY OFF DRUGS! BE HAPPY, NOT HIGH! There¡¯s a half-finished fruit smoothie in the middle of the desk.


    ¡°So,¡± Abby says, with an I-already-know-the-answer-to-this-question smile. ¡°Tell me, why are you here today, Cameron?¡±


    ¡°There was nothing but reruns on TV.¡±


    Abby nods sympathetically, but her eyes say, Just You Try Me, Asshole. ¡°Cameron, I¡¯d like to help you with your treatment, but you¡¯re going to have to start by being honest with me. Tell me about your drug intake in a typical week.¡±


    I shrug. ¡°The occasional joint.¡±


    She makes a tsk sound in her throat like she doesn¡¯t believe me, when, actually, I¡¯m telling the truth. ¡°No hallucinogens? Because I hear you really tripped out.¡±


    ¡°No. Nothing like that. I think I got some bad pot, though? ¡¯Cause I¡¯ve been seeing weird stuff lately.¡±


    ¡°Mmmm, flashbacks,¡± Abby says, nodding. ¡°That can happen with hallucinogens.¡±

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    ¡°But I didn¡¯t¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh, man,¡± Abby interrupts, laughing. ¡°I remember this one time, I was traveling around following the Copenhagen Interpretation with my ex-boyfriend ¡­¡±


    Thirty minutes later: ¡°¡­ dancing polar bears and tracers coming off my body like the freaking aurora borealis! Crazy! Anyway, what I¡¯m trying to say is, I¡¯ve been where you¡¯ve been.¡±


    No, Abby. It is now clear that you have been many, many places I have not.


    ¡°And that¡¯s why I say, you have everything to live for, Cameron. Every reason to be happy. Why would you want to hurt that? You need to stop self-medicating and start talking about your feelings,¡± Abby insists. ¡°Get them out. Express what¡¯s inside.¡±


    ¡°Okay, well¡ª¡±


    She holds up a finger. ¡°So that¡¯s why I¡¯m going to send you to my colleague, Dr. Klein. Would you like to do that, Cameron?¡±


    ¡°I guess¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sorry, Cameron,¡± she says, wrinkling her nose. ¡°We¡¯re out of time for today. But I think you did very well.¡±


    THE VISIT WITH THE PSYCHIATRIST


    ¡°Hi, Cameron. I¡¯m Dr. Klein.¡±


    His office is a study in bland. Soothing vanilla-colored walls. A few ergonomically correct chairs in muted shades of brown. A wooden desk that seems to be whispering, ¡°Don¡¯t mind me; I¡¯m just observing,¡± tucked into a corner. And a long leather couch pushed against one wall. I decide right away that I will not go on that couch.


    ¡°You can sit anywhere you like,¡± Dr. Klein says, settling into a big Star Fighter villain-worthy chair. I sink into one of the ergo-chairs. It¡¯s so low my knees come up to my chest.


    ¡°You can raise that,¡± Dr. Klein says, seeing me. ¡°There¡¯s a handle on the side there.¡±


    I struggle with the hydraulics of it, bouncing up and down like a low-rider till I finally land in the same squatty position where I started.


    ¡°Good?¡± Dr. Klein asks.


    ¡°Yeah. Golden.¡±


    ¡°So,¡± Dr. Klein says, giving me a smile as vanilla as the walls. ¡°Why are you here, Cameron?¡±


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you supposed to tell me?¡±


    Dr. Klein nods. The nod says, I Know All About You, Asshole. ¡°I know what your parents have said. I want to know why you think you¡¯re here.¡±


    ¡°Chronic mast***ation.¡±


    Dr. Klein raises an eyebrow. ¡°If that were a character disorder, I¡¯d be seeing the entire high school. Anything else you want to tell me?¡±


    Turns out, there is. It feels good to talk, and once I start, I don¡¯t stop till I¡¯ve told Dr. Klein all about the weird flame dreams, the feather message I found, the winged Valkyrie girl with pink hair at Buddha Burger, and the feeling that my body has basically been invaded by pain aliens who stab me in intervals and make it hard for me to remember stuff.


    Dr. Klein jots down notes, and then he stops writing and just sits, ramrod straight, looking small and a little scared in his big boy chair. In the end, he hands my parents a script for antipsychotic medication and schedules some serious sessions. So, now I¡¯ve been to see a drug counselor who told me I needed to lay off the drugs and talk about my feelings, and a shrink who heard what I had to say and immediately put me on drugs.


    Thank God I¡¯ve still got some weed left.


    CHAPTER TEN


    Of What Happens When I Find Myself on a Dark Country Road and the Sky Rains Fire


    The anticrazy meds make me really tired, but still I can¡¯t sleep. The insomnia¡¯s gotten worse in the past week, and I¡¯m up every night until four or so watching late-night TV. Last night, I was so bored I actually watched a public television special about some scientists building their own big bang machine¡ªsome kind of super-duper, atom-smasher, supercollider thingy they want to use to discover strings and super-strings and parallel worlds our brains aren¡¯t wired to see yet; worlds that could be as small as a snow globe or as big as the Milky Way. Eleven dimensions. That¡¯s what they say there might be.


    Right now, the dimension I¡¯m in is extreme boredom. I¡¯ve basically been under house arrest since the Chet incident. But tonight, Dad¡¯s got a lecture at the university, Mom¡¯s at book club, and Jenna¡¯s spending the night with her girl posse. I feel kind of shitty¡ªmy muscles ache like I took a body slam from the entire football team¡ªbut I¡¯m not wasting my freedom. I smoke enough to get loose and bike it over to Eubie¡¯s.


    ¡°Hey, Cam-run!¡± Eubie says when I walk in the door. ¡°Where you been?¡±

 Page 22

    ¡°Nowhere.¡±


    ¡°Still? That¡¯s not right.¡± He takes a good look at me. ¡°You look worn, my friend. Zombified.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Thanks.¡±


    ¡°Got no color. You need to get out. Experience things. Play music. Fall in love.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m on it. Night and day,¡± I say, flipping through a bin of novelty records.


    ¡°Why you giving me that smart-ass shit? I¡¯m serious,¡± Eubie says. ¡°Life is short, my friend.¡±


    ¡°So they say. Got anything new for me?¡±


    Eubie puts his hands on the counter and leans forward. ¡°No,¡± he says. ¡°Unless you want to borrow that Junior Webster record.¡±


    ¡°Maybe some other time.¡±


    ¡°All right. Not gonna push you. But you missing out. Hey, ch-ch-check it out,¡± Eubie says, waving a travel itinerary at me. ¡°Got me two tickets to New Orleans for Mardi Gras.¡±


    ¡°Who¡¯s the other ticket for?¡±


    Eubie puts a hand to his chest and staggers backward in mock shock. ¡°Cam-run? Did you just ask a personal question? Did you express an interest in your fellow man, in someone other than your own miserable self? Lord, Jesus! It¡¯s a miracle¡ªthat¡¯s what it is!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, yeah, yeah,¡± I say, pretending it doesn¡¯t bother me. I¡¯m interested in other people. I¡¯m interested in having sex with Staci Johnson. That¡¯s a form of interest.


    ¡°I¡¯m taking my new lady,¡± Eubie says, kissing the tickets. ¡°Misty Deanna. Miss D.¡±


    I wipe a hand across the back of my neck. I¡¯m sweating and clammy at the same time. ¡°Sounds like a  p**n  name. Or a drag queen.¡±


    Eubie holds up a finger. ¡°Don¡¯t start. You got plans tonight?¡±


    I shrug.


    ¡°What¡¯s that mean?¡±


    Nothing. That¡¯s the glory of a shrug. Totally noncommittal.


    ¡°There¡¯s a sweet show going down at Buddy¡¯s. Jazz. Some tight cats. I¡¯m sitting in. You want to come? I¡¯ll put you on the list as my guest.¡±


    ¡°Nah, thanks. I got stuff I gotta do.¡±


    ¡°Uh-huh. Like what?¡±


    ¡°You know. Stuff.¡±


    ¡°Okay, Mr. I Don¡¯t Go Nowhere I Don¡¯t Ever Try Nothin¡¯. But you¡¯re missing a hot show.¡±


    ¡°Next time,¡± I say.


    ¡°Yeah. Next time,¡± Eubie says, rolling his eyes.


    I leave with some blank CDs so I can make copies of my Tremolo LPs. By the time I finish the other half of my J, the streetlights have all twinkled into action. The weed is most excellent, and I¡¯ve copped one hell of a serious buzz that makes everything, including me, seem like it¡¯s both wave and particle. I pedal past campus housing, hopping my bike between street and sidewalk, ignoring stop signs and dodging traffic lights. At the last corner of Mambrino Street, a truck-load of drunken college guys careens around a corner, nearly wiping me out.


    ¡°What¡¯s your problem?¡± One of the guys is yelling at me, but mostly I hear my heart beating like a mofo in my ears. They hurl insults and empty beer cans.


    ¡°Get out of the road, dude!¡± somebody shouts before they peel away chanting, ¡°Par-ty! Par-ty! Par-ty!¡±


    I¡¯m too altered for in-town cycling, so instead, I shoot off onto an old country road that winds past cow pastures and lonely farms. The route¡¯s longer but there¡¯s less traffic, and I can enjoy my buzz in peace. The road¡¯s bordered on both sides by flat, open fields dotted by bales of cotton. The long white rectangles remind me of those newspaper pictures of soldiers¡¯ coffins unloaded from army planes.


    I stop pedaling and enjoy the feel of the damp wind on my face. It¡¯s going to rain, but I don¡¯t mind. It¡¯s like I¡¯m the only person in the universe right now. Soft rain pecks at my face. I stick out my tongue and taste it.


    The wind picks up and pushes harder. Over the cotton fields, the clouds are thickening into a mean gray clump. They¡¯re moving really fast. It¡¯s as if they¡¯re being pulled into the center of the sky by a huge invisible magnet. Seeing it makes my heart double its beat. Suddenly, I don¡¯t want to be out here by myself. It¡¯s about a half-mile to the turnoff that leads back to my house. I¡¯m out of the seat, pumping hard as I can, putting my full weight into each pedal stroke.


    That dark cloud mass starts swirling. Tornado, I think. Shit. But it¡¯s weird, because the clouds aren¡¯t pushing out and down; they¡¯re pulling in. There¡¯s a boom of thunder, a zigzag of electricity, and a small, dark hole opens up in the murky center of those clouds, a black eye giving off no light at all. The rest of the sky crackles like a laser light show. A neon spear of lightning strikes a small tree close to the road. With a huge pop, the tree explodes in a shower of flames. I¡¯m startled and lose my balance. My bike skids out and away, and I roll on the gravel, thudding my head against the road. With a hiss, I sit up. My vision¡¯s blurry. The horizon¡¯s doubling. My head aches and my knee¡¯s bleeding.

 Page 23

    The tree¡¯s still burning, blooming with fire leaves. As I watch, bits of fire leap free and then, man, I must be higher than ever or my brain got banged up, because what I¡¯m seeing now cannot be happening. Those leaves of fire grow and change, like something¡¯s inside waiting to be born. The one closest to me evolves as quickly as one of those time-lapse photography experiments in science: the small, hunched-over form unfolds, spreads out, takes on mass, intention. It stands, stretches taller and taller, maybe seven or eight feet high. A huge, burning man with eyes black as the hole opening above us. Oh God, there¡¯s three, four, now five of them; they burn so brightly, flames licking off their bodies like blue-orange sweat. They sweep their arms out this way and that, and where they pass, the land curls up in blackness. This makes them laugh, which is a horrible sound¡ªlike the screams of people burning to death.


    One of the fire giants notices me. Our eyes lock. My blood pumps a new rhythm¡ªrunrunrunrunrun. It¡¯s like the fire giant can sense it. Screeching, he points a fiery arm in my direction, and the heat blows me back. Holy shit. Head ringing, face sunburn-warm, I scramble for my bike and try to pedal like I¡¯m not hurt and f**ked up. The bike wobbles, then straightens. The smell of smoke is strong in my nostrils. Behind me, I can hear that horrible screaming.


    Just make it to the turnoff. That¡¯s all. Just. Don¡¯t. Stop.


    Somebody¡¯s standing in the road.


    I hit the brakes, nearly skidding out again. It¡¯s dark, and hard to see, but somebody¡¯s definitely there. And he¡¯s big.


    ¡°Hello!¡± The panic in my voice freaks me out. ¡°Call the fire department!¡±


    The guy doesn¡¯t move.


    ¡°Hello? Can you help me?¡±


    A sonic boom of thunder drowns me out. Lightning crackles around us, and I get a glimpse: Big dude. Black armor glistening like oil. Spiked helmet, steel visor. Sword. The light bounces off the sword in arcs that hurt my eyes. Sword. He¡¯s got a f**king sword! Darkness falls again, and after the intense lightning, the night seems thicker than before. I can¡¯t see, can¡¯t move, can¡¯t think, can¡¯t do anything but breathe quick as a fish washed up on the beach, hoping to catch a wave back to safety. Lightning shreds the dark for another two seconds.


    He¡¯s gone. The road ahead¡¯s clear.


    Rain crashes down hard and fast; it spurs me into action. With my heart going punk in my chest, I tear up the road, putting as much distance as I can between me and whatever that scary weirdness was back there. Only when I¡¯m safely around the turnoff do I look back: In the downpour, the burning fields are smoking down to charred ruins. The fire gods and the big dude are gone. And up in the sky, there¡¯s nothing to see but clouds and rain.


    The empty oblong bubble with its question-mark icon stares back at me, white and unknowing. ¡°Trust me,¡± I want to tell it. ¡°I don¡¯t even know how to start this search.¡± Humungous, futuristic knight dudes standing in the middle of the road? Menacing, seven-foot-tall fire giants? Black holes over suburbia?


    Maybe it was a tornado or some optical illusion or that pot was laced with some Grade-A Hydroponic Strange. Under the glare of the computer screen, I type in ¡°bad pot experiences.¡± What comes up is page after page of people who¡¯ve passed out at parties and had Asswipe written on their foreheads in permanent marker, kids who ended up getting busted by the ¡¯rents and grounded for life. Nothing about what I¡¯ve seen. I hit Refresh, and suddenly, a new link pops up: www.followthefeather.com. And there¡¯s a picture of one of those weird feathers like I found in my room.


    My mouth is so dry it¡¯s like my saliva¡¯s been burgled. Finally, I tap the bar, and the screen goes dark for a second. An image of the It¡¯s a Small World ride comes up. The song bleeds from my speakers. A line of script floats to the middle of my screen and settles into focus: Follow the feather. Beside it is a little feather icon. I click on it, and a video clip plays.


    A guy in a lab coat sits at a desk cram-packed with stuff¡ªpapers; a strange light-up toy that looks like it¡¯s part seashell, part pinwheel, with little tubes all over it; a framed photo of a smiling lady with light hair and freckles; an old-fashioned radio. I recognize the song playing¡ªsomething by the Copenhagen Interpretation. A shelf behind the guy¡¯s head hosts an impressive snow globe collection. He leans in to adjust something on the camera, his face going blurry. Then he¡¯s back and smiling, hands clasped.


    ¡°Hello,¡± he says. He has a nice voice. Soothing. It¡¯s hard to say how old he is, older than my dad, though. He¡¯s Asian, with long, salt-and-pepper hair, and bushy black eyebrows framing eyes that seem both exhausted and surprised, like one of those people who¡¯s seen just about everything and still can¡¯t believe it.

 Page 24

    ¡°I will find it. Time, death¡ªthese are only illusions. Our atoms, the architecture of the soul, live on. I¡¯m sure of it.¡± He holds up the weird toy. ¡°Somewhere in those eleven dimensions we cannot yet see, lie the answers to the greatest questions of all¡ªwhy are we here? Where do we come from? Where do we go next? Is there a God, and if so, is He unconcerned or just really, really, really busy?¡±


    There¡¯s a blip, and the video jumps to some footage of people playing soccer on a field near wind turbines. Click. Quick cut to the same guy with his arm around the smiling, freckle-faced woman from the photo on his desk. She presses her lips to his.


    ¡°Ah,¡± he laughs. ¡°There¡¯s eternity¡ªin a kiss!¡±


    The video cuts out for a second, and when it comes back, it¡¯s the same man, but he¡¯s older now, his long hair gone mostly to silver, his eyes wearier. The Copenhagen Interpretation song still plays. He holds up a big, pinkish-white feather.


    ¡°¡®Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.¡¯ Emily Dickinson. Why must we die when everything within us yearns to live? Do our atoms not dream of more?¡± His hand closes around something that looks like a ticket or key card. ¡°Tonight, I embark for other worlds. Searching for proof. For hope. For a reason to go on. Or a reason to end ¡­¡±


    That¡¯s it. There¡¯s nothing more. I try to play it again, and all I get is the bit that plays at the end of every ConstaToons cartoon: a picture of a twinkling galaxy and suddenly, the roadrunner pokes his head right through space, puncturing a hole in it. He holds up a sign that says MEEP-MEEP. THAT¡¯S IT FOR NOW, KIDS.


    The next thing I know, a siren¡¯s blasting in my ears.


    ¡°Cameron!¡± someone shouts, competing against the brutal electronic scream that won¡¯t stop. ¡°Cameron!¡±


    With a gasp, I wake, drenched in sweat.


    ¡°Cameron! We¡¯ll be late!¡± Mom. Yelling. Downstairs.


    The alarm clock¡¯s still shrieking. Digital numbers assault me with their red blinking: 7:55 a.m. I¡¯m in my bed, still dressed in yesterday¡¯s clothes.


    ¡°Be right there!¡± I punish the alarm clock with a hard whap. I feel like shit. My clean clothes are in a heap on the floor. When I reach for them, every muscle aches. Definitely a school nurse day.


    Downstairs, the house whirrs with busy household noises, all that to-ing and fro-ing people seem to love so much. Mom¡¯s more frazzled than usual. She¡¯s wearing one earring and searching for the other. ¡°Cameron, we have to go, honey! Grab a breakfast bar.¡±


    ¡°Not hungry,¡± I say, taking half of Jenna¡¯s bagel from her plate.


    Jenna snatches it back. ¡°Mom, could you please remind your son that he¡¯s not to have any interaction with me?¡±


    Mom throws up her hands. ¡°Could we not do this today? I have a very important meeting with the Dean.¡±


    ¡°He started it.¡± Jenna pouts.


    The kitchen smells like smoke, and for a minute, I panic, remembering my pot-induced episode from last night. ¡°Mom, you left the toaster on. It¡¯s burning.¡±


    ¡°No I didn¡¯t. Where on earth is that earring?¡±


    ¡°Mom-dude. I can smell it overheating. It¡¯s making me nauseated.¡±


    Jenna holds up her bagel for inspection. ¡°Hello! Not toasted, okay?¡±


    ¡°Ha! Made you talk!¡± I¡¯d gloat some more but even that exchange hurt my brain.


    ¡°You guys, please. Jenna, could you help me find my earring?¡±


    The stench of burning plastic is getting stronger. I know Mom has used the toaster and forgotten to unplug it. If it overheats, Dad will have a cow.


    ¡°Fine, I¡¯ll unplug it.¡±


    A low, pressurized hiss escapes the toaster. Tendrils of smoke seep out around the sides. There¡¯s a flicker of orange that makes me jump back. Before I can pull the plug free, the flicker morphs. Long, curved fingernails of fire inch out from behind the smoking toaster and rake deep black scars into the wall there.


    ¡°Mom ¡­¡± My voice cracks.


    The toaster bursts into flames, shooting a stream of fire all the way up to the ceiling. Mom and Jenna yelp, but I can¡¯t stop looking. The flames have eyes¡ªhard black diamonds in a face of blue-orange heat, and they¡¯re staring right at me.


    ¡°Get the fire extinguisher!¡± Mom shouts.


    They¡¯re not real. They¡¯re not real. They¡¯renotrealnotreal-notreal. It¡¯s another dream, Cam. Just wake up. But I can¡¯t. In my ears is the hiss and pop of flame coming closer. My knees buckle. I¡¯m on the floor, shaking. Above me, the fire giants laugh, and I feel it in my body like a virus I can¡¯t eject.

 Page 25

    Help me. Help me. Help me.


    ¡°Cameron? What¡¯s the matter? Cameron!¡± Mom yells. ¡°Jenna¡ªget your father. Frank! Frank!¡±


    Mom falls on top of me with her full weight, but I¡¯m fighting her. I¡¯m not trying to. I just am. Stop. My brain¡¯s screaming the order, but my legs aren¡¯t getting it.


    ¡°Cameron?¡± Mom¡¯s eyes are wide with fear. I want to tell her, warn her, but I can¡¯t make the words. And the fire giants are so close. Feels like I¡¯m melting from their heat. One bends down, cocks its head. Its flickering tongue snakes out and licks along my arm to the shoulder, sending hot shards of stabbing pain through me. It laughs that terrible laugh I heard in the cotton fields. I can¡¯t wake up and I can¡¯t make it stop. And then the only sound I hear is my own terrified screams.


    CHAPTER ELEVEN


    In Which I Recount the Untold Joys of MRIs and Open-Backed Hospital Gowns


    ¡°Okay, Cameron, just hold still for a second.¡±


    I¡¯m lying on the conveyor belt part of an MRI with the feel of cold medical stainless steel against my bare ass. They¡¯ve made me wear this ridiculous, open-backed hospital gown that I swear is made out of tissue paper, and my buns are freezing. They let me keep my socks on, though, like that¡¯s supposed to make me feel better.


    This is my third doctor¡¯s visit in four days. I¡¯ve had questions asked, blood taken, reflexes tested, MRIs examined, and one biopsy sent off. I¡¯ve been poked and prodded in places I¡¯d always prided myself on keeping untouched for that one special doctor who gives me a ring and a promise someday. ¡°We just want to rule some things out,¡± they all say¡ªdoctor code for ¡°brain tumor/cancer/meningitis-TV-movie disease of the week.¡±


    The conveyor belt moves me through the metal circle till I¡¯m mostly inside. My body¡¯s shaking, and I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s whatever is wrong with me or just the fact that I¡¯ve been nearly naked for hours on end. The disembodied voice from the MRI control tower reverberates in the cone. ¡°Cameron, we need you to lie perfectly still, okay?¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± I answer, but my voice doesn¡¯t go farther than the metal over my head.


    The thing starts up, taking snapshots for some doctor¡¯s photo album. Nobody warned me about the sound. Kerchung-kerchung-kerchung, like a giant stapler traveling across my skull. Shit. I can¡¯t wait to get out of this thing. After what seems like ten minutes past forever, a tech comes in, takes the IV out of my arm.


    ¡°You¡¯re done,¡± he says. ¡°You can get dressed.¡±


    I¡¯m sitting on my bed, reading Don Quixote when Dad comes home. He knocks and lets himself in.


    ¡°Hey, buddy.¡± The last time Dad called me buddy I was eight and had the measles.


    I look up briefly. ¡°Hey.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯re you feeling?¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡±


    ¡°Yeah?¡± He asks like he really wants to know.


    ¡°Yeah. You know. Okay.¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡± He nods and picks up a Great Tremolo LP and pretends to read it. ¡°This guy any good?¡±


    I shrug.


    ¡°Your mom told me about the, ah, the doctor¡¯s visit. I swear those guys don¡¯t know their asses from their elbows. Anyway, Stan in my office¡ªyou know Stan Olsen?¡ªhe gave me the number of a specialist in Dallas. I made an appointment for Tuesday.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure it¡¯s nothing, Cam. Viruses can mimic all kinds of things. The doc will probably throw us out for wasting his time.¡± Dad puts the Great Tremolo LP down. He looks at the junk-strewn floor like it¡¯s causing him actual pain but he only clears his throat. ¡°Cameron, what did you see? When the toaster caught on fire? Your mom said something about fire giants.¡±


    ¡°I guess I was just getting sick.¡±


    Dad thinks it over, nods. ¡°Speaking of fire, maybe I¡¯ll build us one tonight. We could toast marshmallows, watch a movie?¡±


    It seems like a bad time to point out that it¡¯s sixty degrees, not exactly cozy fire weather. ¡°Sure.¡±


    ¡°Okay. Well. I¡¯ll, ah, just ¡­ chop some wood. Okay, buddy?¡±


    I hear the sliding doors into the backyard open and close. When I peek out my window, Dad¡¯s standing in the yard with his hands on his hips, just looking around like he¡¯s never really seen our backyard before. He picks up the ax, takes a halfhearted swing at a puny log. Then he drops to his knees and closes his eyes for a minute. I¡¯d almost swear he was praying. But my dad¡¯s a scientist. He doesn¡¯t believe in religion. He leaps up and swings the ax down hard on the log, putting his whole body into it again and again till there¡¯s nothing left but a mess of splinters.

 Page 26

    The specialist¡¯s office is in a huge glass-and-stone complex near the hospital. I¡¯m starting to think there¡¯s an interior decorator who specializes in medical d¨¦cor. Somebody responsible for choosing the so-fake-they-almost-look-real plants and the beige striped wallpaper I¡¯ve seen in every doctor¡¯s office I¡¯ve been in lately. She probably even fans out the magazines on the side table, the copies of stuff no one ever reads like Let¡¯s Fish! and Mazes for Kids and Automobile Quarterly.


    ¡°How are you feeling, sweetie?¡± Mom asks me for the fourth time this afternoon. She holds my hand.


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    Dad drums his fingers on his knees. ¡°Maybe we could go to Sancho¡¯s for enchiladas after. Would you like that?¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± I say.


    Mom stares straight ahead. ¡°They have good guacamole.¡±


    ¡°Very good guacamole,¡± Dad seconds.


    I pick up a copy of Automobile Quarterly and pretend to be interested in an article about a guy with a used car lot specializing in refurbishing old Cadillacs. Anything to avoid talking.


    A nurse pokes her head in. ¡°Mr. and Mrs. Smith? The doctor would like to see you first.¡±


    It¡¯s another fifteen minutes before I¡¯m summoned to Dr. Specialist¡¯s office. Somebody¡¯s X-rays are up on a light box behind his head. I don¡¯t know if they¡¯re mine or not. At this point, they almost seem like they could be part of the medical d¨¦cor arranged by that same decorator. Dad¡¯s sitting in one of the chairs. His face is gray. Mom¡¯s clutching a tissue.


    ¡°Hi, Cameron. I¡¯ve just been talking to your parents here. You¡¯ve had quite a week, I hear,¡± the specialist says like he¡¯s trying to be jocular, like this is a social call. Fuck him. I try to fold my arms over my chest but they won¡¯t cooperate, so I let them twitch at my side. Just a virus. Viruses can do all sorts of things.


    ¡°Your case is very unusual, Cameron.¡± The specialist taps his pen against a folder on his desk. ¡°Have you ever heard of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease?¡±


    ¡°No. What¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a neurological disease. It affects the brain. You might have heard it referred to as mad cow disease in animals.¡±


    I glance at Dad, who looks like he¡¯s posing for Mount Rushmore¡ªnot a single eye twitch.


    ¡°Mad cow disease,¡± I repeat. ¡°Doesn¡¯t that affect ¡­ cows?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Well. This is the human form. But it works in much the same way.¡±


    I vaguely remember hearing a news story about mad cow disease. Some cows got it from bad feed and went insane, hence the mad cow. But I¡¯m pretty sure I haven¡¯t been munching on any bad feed, unless you count what they serve in the Calhoun cafeteria. So I don¡¯t see how I could have this Creutzfeldt-Jakewhatever. Sounds like a brand of kick-ass speakers.


    My right hand¡¯s trembling. I can¡¯t make it stop. I feel like unzipping my body and crawling out.


    ¡°You see, there are these infectious proteins called prions that aren¡¯t normally a threat, but sometimes they go awry. And when that happens, it¡¯s trouble. For instance ¡­¡± He pulls out a paper clip. ¡°This paper clip holds papers just fine. But if I bend it, like so¡±¡ªhe pulls out one leg of it¡ª¡°it no longer functions in the same way.¡± Dr. Specialist Man shoves a sheaf of papers into the messed-up paper clip and the papers scatter across his desk. ¡°Then those prions¡ªthe bent paper clips¡ªreproduce like that, bad copies of a wrong protein, taking over your brain, destroying it over time.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Uh-huh,¡± I say, because I can¡¯t really take in any of what he¡¯s saying.


    ¡°This is nuts. Where could he have gotten it? You tell me how a normal sixteen-year-old kid ends up with CJ!¡± Dad barks.


    ¡°Could have been anything,¡± Specialist Man says with an unconvincing shrug. ¡°Could have been tainted beef or even something genetic waiting to happen. The truth is, we¡¯ll probably never know.¡±


    ¡°Unacceptable. This is pure conjecture,¡± Dad snarls, and for the next few minutes, he and Dr. Specialist confer in some secret language¡ªDad basically telling the doc he¡¯s full of shit, and the doc making a case for why he¡¯s not. I don¡¯t under stand a lot of it because my head hurts and it feels like there¡¯s an army of ants doing an aerobics class under my skin and I don¡¯t want to be here anymore.


    ¡°So, what¡¯s the treatment?¡± I ask.


    Dr. Specialist taps his pen against his desk lightly. Dad goes quiet. Mom squeezes her tissue. Something terrible twists inside me.

 Page 27

    ¡°There¡¯s a cure, right?¡±


    Nobody says anything for a few seconds, and those feel like the longest seconds of my life. Dr. Specialist sits up straighter, morphing from man to doctor-machine. ¡°We¡¯re still exploring options at this time,¡± he says in that calm voice they teach you in medical school along with crappy handwriting.


    ¡°But, like, the other people who¡¯ve gotten this Crew, croix ¡­¡±


    ¡°Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease ¡­¡±


    ¡°That, the, um, mad cow thing, what happens to them?¡±


    The doc clears his throat. ¡°It depends on the progression of the disease. But there are some things you need to know, Cameron.¡±


    Dr. Specialist finally finds his voice, and now I just want to tell him to shut up. It¡¯s like the information is a big wave rushing over me, and I can only grab at certain words and phrases to hold me up. ¡°Progressive muscle weakness,¡± ¡°uneven gait,¡± ¡°dementia and delusions,¡± ¡°four to six months,¡± ¡°hospital,¡± ¡°experimental treatments.¡±


    I don¡¯t hear anybody mention it¡¯s going to kill me. Probably because no one actually comes right out and says it. In fact, Dr. Specialist does everything he can not to say it.


    And that¡¯s when I know I must be in some deep shit.


    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¡ªjust kidding!

 Page 28

    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.


    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¡ªthe 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.

 Page 29

    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 very 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¡ªa 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 f**king 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.¡±

 Page 30

    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!¡±

 Page 31

    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 ass**le. 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¡ª


    Kyle: The only ones worth watching¡ª


    Rachel:¡ªSorry the plastic¡¯s off, but we tested ¡¯em out last night. Figured you wouldn¡¯t mind. Dude, the print is so clear, you can see everything. Like when Star Fighter is battling it out with Dark¡ª


    Kevin:¡ªMatter? The glow of his ultimate peace weapon doesn¡¯t even look computer-generated. Awesome.


    Rachel and Kyle: Yeah. Awesome.


    They leave the boxed set on the end of my bed, where it balances on my toes.


    Rachel: So. Dude. Seriously. Before you croak, you think you could put in a word for me with that nurse?


    DAY ELEVEN


    The door opens and a tiny bird of an old lady shuffles in, using her IV pole like a cane.


    ¡°Um, I think you¡¯re in the wrong¡ª¡± I start.


    She puts her finger to her lips, silencing me. ¡°They won¡¯t look for me here.¡±


    ¡°Who?¡±


    Her eyes widen. ¡°Them! I¡¯m going to get out of here. I¡¯m running away.¡±


    Her hair is a long tangle of wiry gray down the front of her hospital gown, and I wonder if she¡¯s an Alzheimer¡¯s patient or something and if I should call for the nurse. I feel around for the call button but it¡¯s just out of reach. She doubles over, coughing, and I recognize that cough from across the hall.


    She settles into the chair beside my bed and puts her bony hand on my arm. ¡°This is not how I¡¯m supposed to die.¡±


    ¡°So how are you supposed to die?¡±


    Her eyes take on a faraway sheen. ¡°In a house by the sea in an upstairs bedroom. It¡¯s late spring, and the open window lets in the smell of lily of the valley. And there¡¯s a garden outside. It¡¯s decorated with paper lanterns, and the children, the children chase after fireflies while their parents laugh and talk as if they have all the time in the world. In a house by the sea, it will end, and I will slip from this life as if it were no more than a sweater grown too large and threadbare with years, something no longer needed. That is how it should be. Not here. Never here.¡± She fixes me with her gaze. ¡°I don¡¯t think you should die before you¡¯re ready. Until you¡¯ve wrung out every last bit of living you can.¡±


    This lady is, like, ninety, if she¡¯s a day. I¡¯d say she¡¯s pretty well wrung it. I want to yell at her for having had that long. ¡°Well, I guess there¡¯s not much we can do about that,¡± I say bitterly.


    ¡°Bullshit! That¡¯s what they say so you¡¯ll give up without a fight.¡± She leans in so close I can smell the old-person odor on her¡ªmusty and old-fashioned, like a room no one goes into much anymore. ¡°I¡¯ve seen them outside, burning on the lawn. Tall as houses and so bright, so bright.¡±


    The hair on the back of my neck stands at attention. ¡°You¡¯ve seen those freaky fire giants?¡±


    She nods, her eyes wide and fearful.


    ¡°What are they?¡± I whisper.


    ¡°They are chaos. Destruction. The end of hope. Oh, these are frightening times. I have to get away!¡±


    An orderly appears in the doorway. ¡°Mrs. Morae, come on, now. You¡¯re not supposed to be in here.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll go where I like!¡± she snaps.


    ¡°Now, Mrs. M, don¡¯t be like that.¡± The orderly comes closer, looming like a shadow, and for a second, in that shadow, I see the outline of something terrible, and then it changes. It¡¯s just a dark blur against the blandness of the wall.

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    The old lady¡¯s lungs rebel. Long, coughing spasms rattle her frail frame.


    ¡°See? Gotta get you well. Back to bed, Mrs. M,¡± the orderly says, taking her arm.


    ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± I tell the orderly. ¡°She can stay. Really!¡±


    ¡°Tell them they¡¯ve got it wrong,¡± she hisses between coughs as he leads her gently away. ¡°A house by the sea. Tell them!¡±


    I fall asleep, but my dreams are full of bad things¡ªfires engulfing the world. A black hole opening above us, pulling everything in without a trace, as if we never even existed. Diseased cattle falling in the fields like gassed soldiers in some long-ago war. The angel in the tarnished armor banging her hands against a window while flecks of snow coat her lashes and hair. I wake up with my heart pounding, unsure of where I am or what¡¯s happened, whether I dreamed the conversation with the old lady.


    A house by the sea. I¡¯d like to be there now. And I wish there were a button I could press that would get me out of here, that could make this all go away.


    DAY THIRTEEN


    Glory¡¯s been off for two days. Today she¡¯s back in her pink scrubs that look good against the dark of her skin. I¡¯m not feeling so great. Sometimes I think I see the punker angel sitting in the corner of the room, reading a comic book with the ill-fated coyote on the cover, an anvil racing for his head. But when I mentioned it to Mom, her eyes got teary, and I haven¡¯t said a word about strange angel sightings since.


    ¡°Time for your meds,¡± Glory announces in her no-fanfare way.


    I wash them down even though they¡¯re getting hard to swallow. My body seems like it¡¯s failing me by degrees.


    ¡°Okay,¡± Glory says, once my vital signs have been recorded for posterity. ¡°You need anything else?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I say, watching her push the cart toward the door. ¡°Yes.¡±


    Glory stops, looks at me. There¡¯s no ¡°What is it, sweetheart?¡± or ¡°Oh, my poor brave bunny.¡± Nope. She just stands, waiting. And I can tell she¡¯s even a little annoyed. Kind of makes me like her. We speak the same language.


    ¡°Am I going to get better?¡±


    Glory¡¯s ramrod body softens for a minute. ¡°You got to ask your doctor that, Cameron.¡± I like the way she says my name, like it has three syllables instead of two.


    ¡°It¡¯s just ¡­ nobody tells me anything, you know?¡±


    Glory glances toward the hallway, where she has charts to file and patients to check. ¡°That¡¯s cause nobody knows not¡¯ing about how it all works out or why. Why God takes the good or the young or why we suffer. I don¡¯t know why he took my little girl with the cancer when she was only five.¡± She takes a deep breath, like the pain is still fresh. ¡°I don¡¯t know and I guess I never will.¡±


    All the air has left my lungs. I feel like I should say something, but somehow I don¡¯t think Glory¡¯s the I-want-your-sympathy type.


    ¡°Just push the button if you need something,¡± she says, a little softer this time.


    DAY FIFTEEN


    Chet King¡¯s come for a visit. Even though CJ isn¡¯t really contagious, he¡¯s decked out in full protective gear¡ªwhite paper gown, mask, and gloves¡ªlike a giant medical paranoia snowman or some eccentric pop star addicted to bizarre fashion choices. He raises one hand, and it reminds me of those good luck pandas you see in Chinese restaurants.


    ¡°Hey there, champ,¡± he says at last. ¡°Jenna asked me to stop by. Not that I didn¡¯t want to come, you know ¡­¡± His voice is muffled behind the mask. ¡°Hey! Did you hear? The coaches are letting us dedicate this week¡¯s all-star game to you. Everybody¡¯s praying for you, bro.¡±


    I up the volume a bit on the TV. Wouldn¡¯t want to miss a scintillating second of my soaps. Chet clears his throat. ¡°So, uh, how are you doing?¡± ¡°Good, except for that pesky dying thing.¡± ¡°That¡¯s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about today.¡± Chet sounds so serious I actually hit the Mute button. ¡°You know, Cameron, no one ever really dies. Not if they¡¯ve accepted Jesus Christ as their lord and savior.¡±


    Chet drops to his knees by my bedside and, with a prayer for protection from my noncontagious disease, takes my hand in his massive gloved one, which is, holy shit, like some kind of freaking paw. How come I don¡¯t have manly hands like that? If there is reincarnation on tap somewhere, I¡¯m putting in for big hands.


    ¡°Lord, I pray that you will lift the fear from Cameron¡¯s mind and forgive him his sins. In the name of your son, our savior, Jesus Christ, Amen. Cam,¡± Chet says in a low church voice. ¡°You have anything you wanna add?¡±

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    ¡°No, I think you covered all the bases.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you want to confess your sins and ask Jesus to forgive you?¡±


    I don¡¯t know why this is the thing that pushes me over the edge. I wish I could rip out every tube and wire and punch Chet King for real this time instead of by accident.


    ¡°Shouldn¡¯t Jesus ask my forgiveness? I mean, seeing as he¡¯s taking me out of the game at sixteen without even letting me get laid first.¡±


    Chet shakes his head. ¡°Cameron, I know that anger¡¯s just a front.¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s not. I¡¯m actually very pissed off.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just a front for all the hurt in your soul. I can see it. So can God.¡±


    The TV is an enticing carnival barker of color and form. I want to scream, If God can see my hurt then why the hell doesn¡¯t he take it away? If God really exists, why would he allow all the terrible, unfair things to happen? I mean, what kind of sadistic creep is he?


    ¡°You think I don¡¯t know what it¡¯s like to lie in a bed feeling sorry for yourself, wondering why something terrible is happening to you?¡± Chet says. ¡°I wasn¡¯t even sure I¡¯d be able to walk. Football was my life, and I¡¯ll never play the game ever again. But it¡¯s okay with me now, Cameron. And you know why it¡¯s okay?¡±


    ¡°Because you¡¯ve realized it¡¯s a retarded sport?¡±


    Those gloved hands of Chet¡¯s ball into fists at his side for a second before going limp. ¡°Because I¡¯ve accepted Jesus Christ into my heart and my life. And I know that what happened to me happened for a reason. God has a bigger plan for me, and I have to trust in that.¡±


    The question¡¯s out of my mouth before I even have a chance to think it. ¡°What if it¡¯s not God¡¯s will, Chet?¡±


    ¡°But it is. I know that.¡±


    ¡°No, Chet, what if it¡¯s just a shitty thing that happened? What if it¡¯s just bad luck, some random thing like a butterfly flapped his wings in South America and you broke your neck? What if there is no divine plan at all and we are totally on our own?¡± I don¡¯t know what kind of answer I want or if there even is an answer. ¡°You ever think about that, Chet?¡±


    ¡°No. No, I don¡¯t,¡± he says with assurance. ¡°And I feel sorry for you if that¡¯s how you feel.¡±


    Yeah, I think, closing my eyes to the Chet Kings of the world. I feel sorry for me, too.


    DAY SOMETHING


    The coughing across the hall has stopped.


    SOMETIME LATER


    Hey, Cameron. Pssst. Wake up.


    No. No wakey. Sleep. Tired.


    Caaaammerrrronnnn! Come on. We¡¯ve got to talk. We¡¯ve got lots to do, okay?


    She¡¯s taking shape in my mind. A small, pixieish face with that wide, full mouth. The hair¡¯s short, spiky. Pink. And yep, those wings are spread out. They¡¯ve been spray-painted with stencils of the Buddha Cow.


    Watch this, she says.


    She flips a switch on her breastplate, and the Buddha Cows on her wings float up, over and over, like a crazy digital billboard.


    Cool, huh?


    Who are you? I ask.


    Why don¡¯t you find out?


    How?


    She puts her hands to her mouth like she¡¯s going to shout. Instead she whispers. Wake up.


    SOMETIME AFTER THAT


    Can¡¯t sleep. Every time I start to drift off, I think about the old lady, Mrs. M, and what she said. If she said it. Maybe I dreamed it.


    My head hurts. Lungs hurt. Arms. Legs. Everything.


    Turn on the TV to pass the time. Same old shit on YA! TV. Some show called ¡°The Inside, Outside, and Backside of Music.¡± Parker Day¡¯s the host. He¡¯s tricked out in his ¡°serious outfit¡±: black pants, black turtleneck, black-rimmed glasses, even though the f**ker for sure has perfect eyesight. They¡¯ve even photographed him on some gloomy, windswept heath to give it that tragic oomph.


    ¡°Unless you¡¯ve been in a time warp, you know the story of the Copenhagen Interpretation,¡± Parker says as they go to voice-over. ¡°From an Inuit fishing village to international music stardom, the Copenhagen Interpretation was living the dream as musicians and messengers of world peace. The release of their debut, Small World, launched them into the spotlight. It was quickly followed by their masterpiece, Words for Snow. Many claimed the vibrations produced by their music brought on a feeling of well-being, even euphoria, and their concerts promoted harmony. As lead singer Thule said, ¡®What¡¯s so hard about being kind?¡¯ Traveling with their ever-present interpreter¡±¡ªthere¡¯s a still of some guy in a Hawaiian shirt at a microphone¡ª¡°the CI toured the world, and the world would never be the same again.¡±

 Page 34

    A quick-cut montage of images set to a Copenhagen Interpretation sound track zips across the screen: a blurred shot of the four band members covered head to toe in heavy coats and hoods, like Antarctic explorers; another blurry image of them in the same outfits playing some festival; another indistinct photo of them in the snow.


    ¡°And then, one day, at the height of their fame,¡± Parker¡¯s voice continues as the screen fades to black, ¡°they were simply ¡­ gone. In the middle of the Big Benefit Concert for Peace but Against Non-Peace and People Generally Being Not Nice, in the middle of what everyone agreed was a bitchin¡¯ set, they simply vanished. Were they the victims of foul play? Had they grown weary of fame? Were they aliens visiting from a musically advanced planet? Or, as some suggest, had they eaten each other in a drug-induced, hate-fueled orgy of excess¡ªthe dark side of celebrity? When we come back, we¡¯ll explore. ¡­¡±


    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 f**k. 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.

 Page 35

    ¡°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¡ªthere was this whole class-action lawsuit¡ªso 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¡ªit¡¯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?¡±

 Page 36

    ¡°Who doesn¡¯t?¡±


    ¡°Dude, I have that whole movie memorized! My favorite part? When Odin¡ªright? He¡¯s the old master?¡ªwhen 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¡ª¡±


    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¡ªthe 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¡ªI¡¯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¡±¡ªI swallow hard as my fingers move toward that broad expanse of wings¡ª¡°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¡ªyou¡¯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?¡±

 Page 37

    ¡°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¡ªall 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.¡±


    This is officially my weirdest and most annoying hallucination yet. ¡°What did Dr. X finally do?¡± I say slowly.


    ¡°He figured out how to break through, to travel through time and space. He¡¯s been parallel world hopping, raking up quite a few cosmic frequent flier miles. But that¡¯s not the problem. He¡¯s come home again.¡± Her dark brows are furrowed. ¡°And he brought something back with him.¡±


    ¡°Something meaning like a T-shirt or coffee mug?¡±


    ¡°Not quite.¡± She puts the spoon down. ¡°Ever hear of dark energy?¡±


    ¡°No. What is it?¡±


    ¡°Beats me. Nobody really knows what dark energy is except that it makes up most of space. It¡¯s an eternal mystery. When Dr. X traveled through space and time and stopped to smell the roses in the Higgs Field, he tapped into that stuff. Something was created, and it followed him back to this world. Now it¡¯s massing into something new, expanding and accelerating events, destabilizing everything.¡± Her expression is grave. Chocolate¡¯s smeared around her mouth like a clown¡¯s lipstick. ¡°You¡¯ve got to find Dr. X, get him to close the wormhole before the whole planet goes up in flames. Before everything is obliterated.¡±


    ¡°Whoa. What do you mean I¡¯ve got to find Dr. X? Shouldn¡¯t that be your jurisdiction? Use your angel superpowers or whatever. Leave me out of it.¡±


    She fixes me with a stare. ¡°Cameron, do you wonder how you got your disease?¡±


    I¡¯ve spent, like, a billion hours wondering that very thing. ¡°They say it might have been a bad burger.¡±


    Dulcie makes a disgusted growl in her throat. ¡°So unimaginative. No. Everything¡¯s connected, Cameron. There are no accidents. Your disease isn¡¯t a virus or a bacteria¡ªit¡¯s something completely different, something that actually alters your DNA. Those prions are like car body shop guys pimping the ride of your mind, my friend.¡±


    ¡°Thanks. That¡¯s very encouraging.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you get it? The prions attacking your brain right now? They¡¯re from the same unstable, dark energy. That¡¯s why the doctors can¡¯t figure it out. Because what¡¯s attacking you is from another world.¡±

 Page 38

    ¡°But how¡ª¡±


    She holds up a finger. ¡°I¡¯m getting to it. Don¡¯t rush a girl in the middle of her exposition. But it¡¯s also what¡¯s going to allow you to find Dr. X. Those prions can help you see what everybody else would miss. By not working ¡®right,¡¯ your brain is actually capable of seeing more than anybody else¡¯s, including mine.¡± She taps the side of my head. ¡°What¡¯s going on in here right now will help you make sense of the signs and find Dr. X¡¯s secret location.¡±


    ¡°Signs?¡± I repeat, because I¡¯ve only understood about three words she¡¯s said.


    ¡°Yes. Yes! Signs!¡± She leaps up in excitement and nearly sends my plastic water pitcher to the floor. ¡°Tabloids, billboards, ¡®coincidences¡¯¡ªthings no one else pays attention to. These are the clues for your journey. It¡¯s up to you to decipher it, to connect the dots and find the meaning.¡±


    I squeeze my hands against my head as if I could make this stop. ¡°This is officially the craziest shit I¡¯ve ever heard.¡±


    ¡°Really? Man oh man, I could tell you a few things ¡­¡± She laughs, then stops. ¡°Right. Not important. So. Anyway. There¡¯s a lot going on in those tabloids. You¡¯d be surprised. It¡¯s like alternate universe code. And that¡¯s how Dr. X has been communicating. Through tabloid code. He needs help, Cameron¡ªhe¡¯s not a well man.¡±


    ¡°But that¡¯s so totally random!¡±


    Dulcie tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. ¡°In a world like this one, only the random makes sense.¡±


    ¡°Wait, I thought you just said everything¡¯s connected. How can it be both¡ª¡±


    ¡°Randomly connected, connected very randomly,¡± she says, examining Jenna¡¯s stuffed cat, Mr. Bubbles Kitty. ¡°Cute. So soft. Cotton? Hey there, kitty. Do you think Cameron should go on this mission and save the world from complete destruction? Just nod for yes.¡± She makes the cat nod.


    I tear Mr. Bubbles Kitty out of her hands. ¡°I still don¡¯t understand how it is that you can¡¯t find this guy. You¡¯re an angel. Aren¡¯t you? Don¡¯t you have any angel superpowers¡ªappearing to shepherds in fields where they lay, blowing trumpets? Laser eyes? At the very least, you should have some kind of angel GPS for locating missing people.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just a messenger. That¡¯s all.¡±


    A prickly feeling works its way up my arms. ¡°Wait, are you an alien? Where¡¯d you come from?¡±


    ¡°Great question! Anyway, I don¡¯t want you to fret. I¡¯m not gonna abandon you to tabloids and billboards. I¡¯ll be checking in, here and there.¡±


    ¡°Checking in?¡±


    ¡°Here and there.¡±


    I fold my arms over my chest. Out in the hallway, an orderly pushes somebody on a stretcher. ¡°Tell me one reason why I should do this?¡±


    She sucks on the plastic spoon again. When she pulls it out, it¡¯s coated in what¡¯s left of her lipstick. ¡°I was saving the best for last. There¡¯s a bonus round. Dr. X is the one person who can cure you.¡±


    I sit straight up. ¡°Wait, they said there is no cure¡ª¡±


    ¡°¡ªThat they know of,¡± Dulcie interrupts. ¡°But there is a cure. And Dr. X has it.¡±


    A cure. It seems as ridiculous as those spray-painted feathers she¡¯s sporting. But a cure ¡­


    ¡°I don¡¯t know if you¡¯ve noticed, but I¡¯m hooked up to an IV. I can barely move.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. I can help you out a little there, cowboy. I¡¯ve got something Dr. X left behind. One of his early experiments. Hold out your wrist?¡± I do and she hooks what looks like a big plastic watchband around it. ¡°Your temporary pass. It¡¯ll keep the symptoms at bay and stabilize you for about two weeks. After that ¡­¡±


    ¡°After that, what?¡±


    She¡¯s not smiling anymore. ¡°The prions will take over. They¡¯ll tear your mind apart the same way that dark energy will tear the world apart.¡±


    Hearing her say that makes my heart beat a little faster. The watchband has something inside¡ªa laminated green card with writing on it. Walt Disney World. Magic Kingdom. ¡°E.¡± Adult Admission. Good for Choice of One. On the left side is a list: Adventureland, Frontierland, Liberty Square, Fantasy-land, Tomorrowland. ¡°What is this?¡±


    ¡°An E-ticket,¡± she says excitedly.


    ¡°An E-what?¡±


    ¡°E-ticket. They used to have them at Disney World a million years ago. They got you a straight shot to the best rides. So awesome! Of course, those tickets are discontinued now, so you should be careful with that one.¡±

 Page 39

    I stare at it. It¡¯s just a green ticket in a bracelet around my wrist. ¡°And this would protect me ¡­ how?¡±


    She licks the rest of the pudding spoon clean and drops it on the tray. ¡°Sorry. That is top-secret angel info.¡±


    All the hope I¡¯d felt vanishes. In a minute, I¡¯ll wake up. I¡¯ll wake up and it will be another day in which I¡¯m living a dream of dying slowly, a dream I hope I¡¯ll wake up from, on and on till it¡¯s over.


    ¡°Okay, you know what? I¡¯m clearly having some kind of pain-meds-induced hallucination, and I¡¯m sure you¡¯re a very nice hallucination with a supergreat, nonreal personality, but I¡¯m going to go back to sleep now, and when I wake up, you¡¯ll be gone.¡±


    She puts her hand on mine, and it¡¯s as soft as her wings. ¡°Cameron, we¡¯ve exhausted every other option.¡±


    ¡°You still haven¡¯t told me who ¡®we¡¯ is!¡±


    She sucks air through her teeth, nods. ¡°Yeah. I know. Cameron, you¡¯re our last best hope. I¡¯m asking you to save the world, cowboy.¡±


    ¡°Wait,¡± I say, pushing myself up again. ¡°That¡¯s a line from Star Fighter.¡±


    She gives me that big goofy grin. ¡°Yeah! I couldn¡¯t resist. Great movies, right? Well, the early ones. The later ones ¡­ ehhh. Oh. Almost forgot. There¡¯s just one more thing,¡± she says, biting her lip. ¡°You need to take Gonzo with you.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°You need a pal on this trip. Everybody needs a friend.¡±


    I drop back against the pillow, fold my arms over my chest. ¡°Not me. I travel solo or not at all.¡±


    Her eyes crinkle. ¡°Now who¡¯s quoting Star Fighter?¡± She deepens her voice, swaggers. ¡°¡®Not me, princess. I travel solo or not at all.¡¯ Right. Not the point. The point is, you¡¯re gonna need a mate, a pal, a sidekick and coconspirator. And frankly, Gonzo could use a little help, too. I mean, look at him.¡±


    She parts the curtain a crack. Gonzo¡¯s asleep, mouth open, snoring slightly, a Captain Carnage video game guide crumpled under his chin.


    ¡°You¡¯d be providing a valuable public service,¡± Dulcie says.


    ¡°No, no, and no.¡± I tick off the reasons this is a bad idea. ¡°One, he¡¯s a compulsive talker. Two, he calls his mom, like, five times a day. Three, he snores. Four, he¡¯s completely phobic and thinks everything¡¯s going to kill him.¡±


    Dulcie shrugs. ¡°Nobody¡¯s perfect.¡±


    ¡°The other day he said there are chemicals used in the processing of toilet paper that can give you rectal cancer. So now he¡¯s bringing his secret stash of special recycled toilet tissue in with him in the mornings. He will never say yes.¡±


    ¡°You won¡¯t know until you ask. Besides, his fate is tied to yours. Everything¡¯s connected.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no such thing as fate.¡±


    ¡°Except for random fate.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s ¡­ insane.¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡± She grins. ¡°Insanity. Brilliance. Such a tough call. Look, Cameron, I¡¯m just a messenger. I don¡¯t know everything. But I do know this: you¡¯re being given a chance. Take it and you might live. Stay here and you will surely die.¡± Dulcie cuddles Mr. Bubbles Kitty, fluffing him with her fingers. ¡°Whaddaya say¡ªyou, Gonzo, connecting the dots, finding Dr. X, getting a cure, saving the universe? You down, cowboy?¡±


    My head hurts; it¡¯s almost time for my pain meds. Where¡¯s Glory? I want to check out for a while. Not think or feel. I roll onto my side, away from her. ¡°I¡¯ll think about it.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡± Dulcie reaches over me and tucks the cat into the crook of my arm. ¡°But Cameron? Don¡¯t think about it too long.¡±


    NIGHT


    Mom and Dad and Jenna are here, camped around me. They¡¯re all watching some stupid episode of an even stupider show on YA! TV called What¡¯s Your Category? where kids have to answer questions to prove they know more than anybody else does about a particular stupid topic, and if they get too many wrong, they¡¯re dunked in a stinking pool of mystery yuck.


    ¡°Dude,¡± Gonzo whispers without taking his eyes off the TV. ¡°You ever watch I Double Dog Dare You?¡±


    I shake my head. It throbs, and I can¡¯t help thinking about what Dulcie said, about those prions attacking my brain being some mysterious agent from another world. It would be so nice to blot this all out with a big fat dose of pain meds, but I can¡¯t have any for another hour, according to Glory, who was here ¡­ when? I don¡¯t know.

 Page 40

    ¡°It¡¯s awesome. Once they made this guy shave his butt on national television¡ªand the guy did it! Totally rocked the house.¡±


    How long till the pain medication? I could count the minutes. Go to sleep and not wake up. I could stay here and wait for the inevitable.


    Saving the world. That¡¯s impossible. Insane.


    Still.


    A cure. I could be cured. That¡¯s what she said. And some little atoms come awake inside me, swirling into a question I can¡¯t shake: ¡°Why the hell not?¡±


    I could have a chance.


    And a chance is better than nothing.


    CHAPTER SIXTEEN


    Wherein I Try to Convince the Dwarf to Leave Behind the Comforts of Recycled Toilet Paper in Order to Accompany Me on a Mission to Possibly, Maybe Save the World


    Once my family thinks I¡¯m asleep and they step out for dinner, I wake Gonzo.


    ¡°Hey, dude. What¡¯s up?¡± He sits up and wipes the drool from the corner of his mouth. The newsprint from his video game manual has smeared over half his face from where he fell asleep on it. This is the guy Dulcie thinks I should take with me on the road? Holy crap.


    ¡°Um, look, I know this is going to sound completely crazy, but I had this, I don¡¯t know exactly what you¡¯d call it. A vision, maybe.¡±


    ¡°What kind of vision?¡± he asks, yawning.


    ¡°This angel spoke to me and¡ª¡±


    Gonzo stops mid-eye rub. ¡°Hold up. How did you know she was an angel, amigo? What did she look like?¡±


    ¡°Uh ¡­ wings. Breastplate. Pink hair. Fishnets and combat boots.¡±


    ¡°Awesome! Punk-rock angel! You think God¡¯s a metal-head?¡± Gonzo gives me a thrashing air-guitar solo while banging his head and flicking his tongue in and out of his mouth. It¡¯s like watching a snake die slowly and painfully. ¡°What¡¯s angel girl¡¯s name?¡±


    ¡°Dulcie. So¡ª¡±


    Gonzo frowns. ¡°Doesn¡¯t seem like an angel name to me. My mom¡¯s really big on the saints, and I¡¯ve never heard of a St. Dulcie. You sure you weren¡¯t just dreaming, man?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯m sure,¡± I say, though I¡¯ve never been less sure of anything. ¡°She gave me this mission, Gonzo. The most important mission of our time.¡±


    ¡°Awesome. Lay it on me.¡±


    ¡°Well ¡­¡± I tell him everything Dulcie said about Dr. X and his time traveling and the cure and the end of the world approaching if we don¡¯t locate him and get him to close the wormhole.


    Gonzo stares at me. ¡°Dude, you sound like those geezers who hang around the bus station wearing tinfoil hats and pissing into empty soda cups.¡±


    ¡°I know it sounds crazy, but I¡¯m telling you the truth. I swear. She was here. She ate my pudding snack.¡± The spoon. Her lipstick. I run for the trash. ¡°I can prove she was here. Hold on.¡±


    The linoleum¡¯s bitter cold against my feet. The postal workers in my brain finally come off break and send the message to my legs that it¡¯s okay to walk, and I stumble over to the trash can. Nothing¡¯s in there but my mom¡¯s half-finished crossword puzzle.


    ¡°They must¡¯ve taken it with the tray,¡± I say.


    ¡°Sure they did.¡± Gonzo holds up some fingers. ¡°Let¡¯s do a quick sanity check. How many fingers?¡±


    I flip him the bird. ¡°How many fingers am I holding up?¡±


    ¡°Harsh.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not crazy, okay?¡± I say, even though what I¡¯m saying has every hallmark of a stadium-sized crazy concert.


    ¡°Okay. So how do we find this miracle guy, this Dr. X?¡±


    ¡°She said we have to look for signs¡ªbillboards, tabloids, personals.¡±


    Gonzo stares at me. ¡°Seriously, what are they putting in your IV? Wack on tap? Even if we entertain the idea that a winged being in combat boots gave you a secret mission to find a doctor with a magical cure, how are you gonna go anywhere, dude? In case you haven¡¯t noticed, you¡¯re in a hospital bed at St. Jude¡¯s and sometimes you have trouble just getting to the bathroom. Did 1-800-Punk-Angel give you some pointers there?¡±


    ¡°She gave me this.¡± I show him the laminated wristband. Gonzo puts his face near and reads.


    ¡°An E-ticket?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s got some cosmic, stabilizing mojo to combat the prions.¡±


    ¡°Cool! Punker Angel gave you more health.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, exactly. But it¡¯s only good for two weeks.¡±


    Gonzo whistles. ¡°Man. Bummer. Well, good luck, dude.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m supposed to take you with me,¡± I say very fast.

 Page 41

    His hand flies up. ¡°Oh, hell to the no.¡±


    ¡°Gonzo¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, no, no, and no with a side of no.¡±


    Gonzo plops down on his bed and makes a big show of opening his video game manual, turning pages way too quickly to read them.


    ¡°I told her you were too chickenshit to go.¡± It¡¯s a low blow, but I¡¯m pissed that Gonzo is such a chickenshit and that Dulcie set the bar so high right away.


    ¡°I¡¯m not a chickenshit,¡± Gonzo says, sounding hurt. ¡°I¡¯m not an unnecessary risk taker.¡±


    ¡°Gonzo,¡± I say, playing my final card. ¡°She said this dark energy Dr. X brought back is bringing about the end of the world. You. Me. This. Everything will be gone if we don¡¯t find him.¡±


    He sits up and dangles his legs over the side of the bed, swinging them so that his heels bang softly against the metal railings like a chime. ¡°Everything everything?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I say softly. ¡°Dulcie said you¡¯re part of this, too. That you¡¯d find your purpose on this trip, and that¡¯s why we were put in the same room together. No accidents. Everything¡¯s connected. In a random sort of way.¡±


    Gonzo¡¯s eyebrows crease into furry caterpillars of concentration. ¡°So, like, when¡¯s this big mission supposed to go down?¡±


    ¡°Tonight. Right now.¡±


    Gonzo stares at me. ¡°Dude, this is insane! You know, we probably need shots wherever we¡¯re going. I¡¯ve only got one roll of my special toilet paper¡ª¡±


    ¡°We can get more. Gonzo, this is my only chance to stay alive, okay?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, man. I gotta talk it over with my mom.¡± He reaches for his cell and I pull it away.


    ¡°No. Sorry. If we go, we can¡¯t tell anyone. They¡¯ll try to stop us. It has to be a secret.¡±


    ¡°Dude, my mom will freak.¡± Gonzo¡¯s breathing gets shallow and wheezy. He grabs for his ever-present inhaler, his version of a blankie, and puffs away.


    ¡°Gonzo, if Dulcie¡¯s right, in two weeks, your mom will be dead.¡± I toss his cell at him. ¡°Do what you want. But I¡¯m going to find Dr. X. And I¡¯m leaving tonight.¡±


    I throw my backpack on the bed. All I¡¯ve got are a few pairs of clean underwear and the clothes I came in with. My jeans feel strange against my legs; they wake my skin up. I grab the puke-yellow bin with its array of helpful products¡ªtoothbrush, toothpaste, scratchy tissues, mouthwash, comb, and lotion¡ªand dump the contents inside, tossing the bin back on the bedside table.


    Gonzo¡¯s got his chubby hands on his hips like a weary camp counselor. ¡°Dude, you are insane.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Documented.¡±


    ¡°All right,¡± he says with a sigh. ¡°Give me a minute to get dressed. I¡¯m going with your bovine ass.¡±


    CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


    Which Treats of Our Daring Escape from St. Jude¡¯s and Our Talk with a Stinky Dude in a Tinfoil Hat


    Nurses are a little like cops¡ªthey¡¯re never around when you need them. But when you want to avoid them, they are everywhere.


    ¡°How are we gonna get past the nurses¡¯ station?¡± Gonzo asks, panicked, as we open the door a crack and peek into the long corridor that leads from our room, past the nurses to the bank of elevators around the corner.


    He has a point. This would be an ideal time for somebody around here to flatline like they always do on TV shows, all the bells and whistles going off and creating a big, noisy distraction. But this isn¡¯t a TV show; it¡¯s an actual hospital with sick people doing what sick people do best, which is largely to lie around with a minimum of fanfare.


    ¡°This is a bad idea. Let¡¯s blow it off,¡± Gonz says.


    ¡°Don¡¯t chicken out on me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not! It¡¯s just, I mean, come on, dude. This is so not possible.¡±


    My eyes scan the corridor for something useful. Glory¡¯s standing at the nurses¡¯ station, gossiping with two other women sitting behind computer screens. She¡¯s wearing her mauve scrubs today. I know the angel pins ring her neck. Someone says something amusing, and Glory laughs. ¡°Oh Lord, help me, girl,¡± she says in that accent that sounds like music. Off to our right is a red Exit sign that I know has to lead to stairs.


    ¡°Come on,¡± I say, pulling Gonzo out behind me. ¡°Don¡¯t look up. Just keep moving.¡±


    The bright lights of the corridor wash over us in waves. A maid comes by with her disinfecting cart. A doctor strides past, trailing residents like a kite¡¯s tail. Visitors wander carrying overly festive flowers and balloons. The gifts are a lie meant to disguise the fear and worry hiding in their eyes.

 Page 42

    I don¡¯t want to die here. That¡¯s the only thing I¡¯m sure of.


    My right leg twitches and I will it to keep functioning. For now, it¡¯s gotten the message. We round the corner and there are the stairs.


    For some reason, I turn back for a final sweep of the hall, and when I do, I see Glory has left the nurses¡¯ station. Clipboard in hand, she¡¯s heading for her rounds. In fifteen minutes tops, she¡¯ll pull into our room for a temperature/blood pressure/pulse rate check and all hell will break loose. I¡¯d hoped for a longer head start. Shit.


    ¡°What¡¯s the matter?¡± Gonz asks.


    ¡°We need to move,¡± I say, pushing into the stairwell for the long climb down.


    When the hydraulic front doors of St. Jude¡¯s release us into the world, the sky is the blue-going-to-purple of late sunset. Above the praying-mantis-style lights of the parking lot, bashful stars flutter like they¡¯re not sure whether it¡¯s okay to show their full light just yet. The air is warm and sweet. I breathe in as much of it as my lungs will hold. It hurts in a good way, like my insides are holding a deep stretch.


    ¡°Ah shit. Taste that air, man. So good.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, yeah, yeah. Now what?¡± Gonzo asks, looking left and right like a wanted man.


    ¡°We need to get out of here. Got your cell?¡±


    He pats his bag. ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°Great. Call for a cab.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the number?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Call Information.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s, like, a dollar seventy-five. My mom will kill me.¡±


    ¡°Gonzo, she¡¯s gonna kill you for breaking out of the hospital and going on an unscheduled road trip with me. Calling Information¡¯s kind of incidental, don¡¯t you think?¡±


    ¡°I knew this was a bad idea,¡± Gonzo grumbles, but he punches in the three digits anyway, and ten minutes later, a battered cab picks us up on Eldorado Street, two blocks from the hospital.


    ¡°Where to?¡± the guy asks, flipping on the meter.


    ¡°Good question.¡± Gonzo glares at me.


    This would be a good time for Dulcie to show herself, give us a little divine intervention, put her money where her ¡°there are no accidents, my friend¡± mouth is.


    The meter goes up another fifteen cents and we haven¡¯t even moved. I¡¯m waiting for a sign. This is what it¡¯s come to: I¡¯m now believing in supernatural visions of punk-rock angels and last-ditch missions to save the universe/my life and random signs to point the way forward. Right. I¡¯m just about to say, ¡°Okay, you got me¡ªgame¡¯s over. Let¡¯s go back to the hospital and laugh it up about this over a nice cafeteria tray of gelatinized mystery meat¡± when I see something glinting over the rooftops. It¡¯s a sign, all right. A large, peeling billboard advertising the Roadrunner bus depot. The smiling roadrunner is in a full run, going so fast that one of his feathers flies loose behind him. JUST FOLLOW THE FEATHER TO BIFROST ROAD, the sign says.


    Follow the feather.


    It¡¯s not trumpets or thunderclaps, but it¡¯s the best we¡¯ve got right now.


    ¡°Bus station,¡± I say at last, hoping the prions in my brain are right.


    The bus depot has been carved out of dirty tile, ancient plastic benches, half-empty candy machines, and overflowing trash cans. It¡¯s run by people who were offered a chance at a job in hell or the bus depot and lost the coin toss. Also, it smells like piss.


    Some grizzled man in a janitor¡¯s uniform is swishing dirty water around on the floor with an even filthier mop. An empty information board hangs from the low ceiling, taking up most of the middle of the mostly deserted room. No buses. No info. Nothing to go on.


    ¡°What now?¡± Gonzo asks.


    The clerk at the ticket counter doesn¡¯t even move his little partition when we get up there.


    ¡°Hi,¡± I say. ¡°Um, there¡¯s nothing on the information board.¡±


    ¡°A-yup.¡± He flips the page in his comic book without looking up.


    ¡°Great. Thanks for that,¡± Gonzo mutters.


    ¡°When¡¯s the next bus?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Not till seven-o-five tomorrow mornin¡¯. But y¡¯all cain¡¯t stay here. Ten minutes till closin¡¯. Won¡¯t open up again till six a.m.¡±


    ¡°Okay, thanks.¡± I leave the window and sink onto a bench.


    ¡°I told you this was wack.¡± Gonzo sucks down a mouthful of asthma medicine.


    Signs, signs. Dulcie said to look for the ¡°seemingly random.¡± How do you look for the random? Doesn¡¯t the random generally find you and that¡¯s what makes it random?

 Page 43

    A hollowed-out, gray-skinned dude who smells like pee sits next to us. It¡¯s the same guy I saw in the parking lot the night we went to Luigi¡¯s. He¡¯s still wearing his tinfoil hat. ¡°What are you boys doing?¡±


    ¡°Saving the world,¡± Gonzo says, scooting away.


    ¡°Ah. Good. It¡¯s going to end, you know. It¡¯s all going to shit. That¡¯s why I got me one of these.¡± He points to his wrinkled silvery cap.


    ¡°Hank, you need to let these boys be, now.¡± The guy with the mop has reached us.


    ¡°Piss off,¡± the old guy snaps. He takes out a bag and inspects the things inside.


    ¡°¡¯Scuse me,¡± the janitor says. ¡°Could you lift yer feet, please? I need to get that spot.¡±


    Dutifully, Gonz and I raise our legs, drawbridge style, and he mops underneath.


    ¡°Dude, there¡¯s no bus tonight,¡± Gonzo says. ¡°Give it up.¡±


    The old homeless guy stops rummaging through his bag. ¡°Yes there is. There is one! It¡¯s downstairs waiting.¡±


    I look to Mop Guy for confirmation. He stops long enough to wipe his sweaty brow with his arm. ¡°Well, there is one tonight, but it ain¡¯t on the regular schedule. It¡¯s private. The Fleur-de-Lys.¡±


    ¡°That sounds like a  p**n  thing,¡± Gonzo whispers nervously. ¡°Does that sound  p**n y to you?¡±


    I ignore him. ¡°Where¡¯s it go?¡±


    ¡°Where you think it goes?¡± the homeless guy says. ¡°New Orleans. That there¡¯s the Mardi Gras bus, son. It¡¯s Mardi Gras time.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡±


    ¡°You welcome,¡± he says. ¡°Might as well have fun before it all ends.¡±


    ¡°Gonz,¡± I say, digging in my pocket for cash. ¡°How do you feel about New Orleans?¡±


    ¡°What? You don¡¯t know for sure that¡¯s the right bus.¡±


    ¡°No. I don¡¯t. But it¡¯s the only bus. Look, I know this seems a little half-assed ¡­¡±


    ¡°No, dude. I¡¯d be thrilled if this plan were half-assed. This is, like, no-assed.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right. It¡¯s the most no-assed thing I¡¯ve ever done in my life. So am I getting two tickets or one?¡±


    Gonzo rubs his inhaler pump like a talisman. ¡°All right. I¡¯m in. But if we don¡¯t find this Dr. X in New Orleans and see what he¡¯s got for me, I¡¯m on the first bus back.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough.¡±


    I open up my wallet. My credit card, the one my dad gave me to teach me fiscal responsibility, is still there. I¡¯ve got a whopping credit limit of five hundred and fifty dollars.


    I run to the window and rap on the bulletproof glass. The clerk barely looks up. ¡°Yup?¡±


    ¡°How much for two tickets on the Fleur-de-Lys?¡±


    With a sigh, the clerk puts his book down. ¡°That¡¯ll be two hundred seventy-eight dollars and fifty-two cents with tax,¡± he says.


    He processes the charge and hands us two tickets, and Gonzo and I race for the last bus of the night.


    CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


    In Which We Make a Stop in New Orleans and Gonzo Refuses to Eat Fish, Annoying the Crap out of Me and Our Waitress


    I mostly sleep on the trip from Texas to New Orleans. Occasionally I open drowsy eyes and catch dreamlike glimpses of the world. Gas stations hawking plastic cups with every fill-up. Cram-packed strip malls featuring the same stores and restaurants. Skeletal dogs picking through trash. Litter-strewn marshes. Crumbling roads snaking under half-finished highways. Factories belching toxic smoke clouds. I take it all in, and for a second, I wonder whether this planet is worth saving. Close to morning, I wake up long enough to see that we¡¯re crossing over some ginormous bridge that seems to stretch out forever. We¡¯re surrounded by water. It¡¯s sort of cool, like I¡¯m floating.


    ¡°Lake Pontchartrain Causeway,¡± the lady across the aisle says. She¡¯s wearing a WORLD¡¯S BEST GRANDMA T-shirt, and under her flowered skirt she has on panty-hose support socks that only come up to her knobby knees. She offers me some of her peanuts. I decline, and she puts them away, pulling out a long thin cigarette that she tucks over the top of her ear. ¡°You got family in Nu¡¯walins?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Ever been there?¡±


    I shake my head.


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s a mighty special place. Or was. What they let get done to it ¡­¡± She shakes her head. ¡°But we survive, we survive.¡± She starts singing a little bit of a song to herself. It sounds old and sad and promises a better day. ¡°Law, I hope we get there soon. I can¡¯t wait to have me a smoke. They say smoking kills you, but I been smoking my whole life and I¡¯m healthy as a horse.¡±

 Page 44

    Coughing hard, she turns a matchbook over and over between her fingers, working it like a worry stone. The image on it is familiar, and I c**k my head to get a better look. It¡¯s the cover of the Junior Webster album Eubie showed me.


    ¡°You heard of the Horn and Ivory Club?¡± the old lady asks, holding up the book of matches.


    ¡°No,¡± I lie. I don¡¯t really want to get drawn into a conversation.


    ¡°Good place. Here. You take these, honey.¡± She puts the matches in my hand.


    ¡°That¡¯s okay.¡± I try to give them back.


    ¡°No. Go on and take it. Souvenir of your first trip to the Big Easy. You never know when they might come in handy.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡± These matches look ancient. They probably can¡¯t light anything for shit. On the flip side the cover reads The Horn & Ivory Club, 141 N. Rampart Street, with a telephone number that starts with letters. I put them in my pocket, lay my head against the seat back, and stare out the window at that bridge that just keeps going on. After a minute, the lady starts to sing her song again, lulling me to sleep.


    We roll into the city about dinnertime. The skyline glitters under a hazy, late-afternoon sun. New Orleans looks as if it¡¯s just appeared out of the water like a myth, a modern Atlantis that shouldn¡¯t exist. The bus hisses into the depot, which is as desolate and dirty as the one we¡¯ve just left. Gonzo and I pour out onto the streets with the other pilgrims. Even though it¡¯s late February, the air¡¯s warm and sticky and a little aggressive¡ªjust another character in what promises to be a town full of them.


    Gonzo and I are starving, so we find a diner close to the depot. It¡¯s a total tourist place with lots of fake alligators on the walls and Mardi Gras beads hanging from every hook. It¡¯s noisy and crowded, too, this being Fat Tuesday. After a hellishly long wait, the hostess takes us to a tiny table near the back. The menu is huge and has about forty-eight different kinds of seafood specials on it. I make a quick decision and munch down on the saltines and butter they¡¯ve got on the table. Gonzo¡¯s still hidden behind the accordion door of his menu. His fingers tap nervously against it. A waitress with poufy blond hair puts two waters down in front of us. She has a charm bracelet with about a million charms that jangle when she moves. Around her neck is a cross necklace the size of Rhode Island.


    ¡°What can I get you fellas?¡± she asks, taking out a pad and pencil.


    ¡°Boudreax¡¯s Seafood Special with fries,¡± I say.


    ¡°Ketchup with your fries?¡±


    ¡°Yes, please.¡±


    Gonzo finally lowers his menu. The waitress takes note of his Little Person status. It¡¯s like it stalls her out for a minute and she needs to reboot, but the forced smile comes back.


    ¡°And what about you, dawlin¡¯?¡±


    Gonzo¡¯s eyes are like saucers. He¡¯s sweating and coughing a little bit, pulling at his collar. I sense a full panic tsunami coming on, though I don¡¯t know why just yet.


    ¡°Excuse me,¡± Gonzo says. He puts his menu up in front of his face. It doesn¡¯t block the waitress¡¯s view. It just makes him look like an idiot. ¡°I can¡¯t eat anything on here, man.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s all fish.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, no kidding. It¡¯s a seafood restaurant. Jambalaya Caf¨¦. Says so right out front.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t eat shellfish. My mom says I could be allergic.¡±


    ¡°Could be or are?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a helluva way to find out, dude. I could go into anaphylactic shock and die right here within seconds, no do-over.¡±


    The waitress¡¯s smile falters. No doubt she¡¯s picturing herself losing tips while she runs for the CPR kit under the counter. Under the fluorescent lights, she looks tired and lined, like one of my mom¡¯s old book bags, and I feel sorry for her and totally pissed at Gonzo.


    ¡°So order the fried catfish,¡± I say.


    The waitress agrees. ¡°The catfish¡¯s real good. It¡¯s my fav¡¯rite.¡± Her pen hovers, ready.


    Gonzo shakes his head. ¡°Mercury, man.¡±


    I make a show of examining the menu. ¡°Sorry ¡­ don¡¯t see the Mercury Special anywhere ¡­¡±


    ¡°No, the mercury. In fish, amigo. Some fish have a high concentration of it. It can cause brain and liver damage and all sorts of wicked reactions.¡±


    ¡°You know, Gonz, it¡¯s not like they¡¯re back in the kitchen opening thermometers all over the food. Get a grip.¡±


    ¡°Dude, this is serious. Do you know how many people die of mercury poisoning each year? It¡¯s some serious sh¡ª¡± Gonzo steals a glance at our waitress. ¡°It¡¯s a growing concern.¡±

 Page 45

    People are being seated in our section. People who might want to order lots of fish from the seafood menu and ostensibly leave big tips to go with that. Our waitress taps her pen on her pad. ¡°I can give y¡¯all another minute if you need. ¡­¡±


    ¡°Gonzo,¡± I hiss under my breath. ¡°I¡¯m freaking starving. Just order something, okay?¡±


    The hostess whispers to the waitress that Table A3 is ready to order. She nods.


    ¡°We¡¯ve got a good salad bar. It¡¯s all-you-can-eat.¡± The waitress gestures to a food island in the middle of the room where vats of brightly colored food sit on little ice hills under protective glass lit by a jillion lightbulbs. It¡¯s like a small salad city.


    Gonzo narrows his eyes. ¡°How often do you clean that thing?¡±


    ¡°Every night,¡± the waitress answers. Her smile is strained.


    ¡°That¡¯s it? Do you know how long it takes for Listeria to grow under those hot lamps, even with ice?¡±


    Here we go.


    ¡°It can happen in just five hours. Five hours and you¡¯ve got the salad bar of death!¡±


    The waitress looks confused. ¡°From Listerine?¡±


    ¡°Lis-ter-i-a. It¡¯s bacteria that can cause anything from food-poisoning symptoms to coma.¡±


    The waitress¡¯s smile has completely vanished. ¡°Well, my goodness. Are you boys from the health department? ¡¯Cause we passed with flying colors just two months ago. My manager¡¯s got the certificate on file.¡±


    ¡°No, ma¡¯am,¡± I say, flashing Gonzo an I-will-kill-you-if-you-speak look. ¡°Just bring him a grilled cheese sandwich.¡±


    ¡°And coffee,¡± Gonzo adds.


    ¡°And coffee,¡± I say.


    ¡°I¡¯ll put that order right in for you!¡± The waitress takes our menus and practically runs from the table. A bus boy drops off a cup of steaming java.


    ¡°How did you get the name Gonzo anyway? Were you born in St. Irony Hospital?¡± I ask once our waitress has gone to the coffee station where she¡¯s telling the other waitress on duty about Gonzo. She pokes her head around to gawk at us.


    ¡°Dude, you have to be careful. They say they clean stuff, but they really don¡¯t.¡± Gonzo empties three packets of sugar into his coffee and stirs it with the end of his fork.


    ¡°You know, Gonzo, that¡¯s kind of the least of our worries,¡± I say.


    ¡°That¡¯s what you say now. When you¡¯re puking up your stomach lining in an hour, you¡¯ll think differently.¡±


    I push the saltines away. ¡°Thanks for that visual.¡±


    ¡°For real, dude, my mom read a magazine article¡ªinvestigative journalism¡ªabout what goes on in restaurant kitchens. You don¡¯t want to know.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right. I don¡¯t. Maybe your mom should stop reading stupid crap that exists only to keep people in a state of constant fear.¡±


    Gonzo¡¯s expression darkens. ¡°You talking shit about my mom? Maybe if your ¡¯rents had been more on their game you wouldn¡¯t have gotten a bad burger or whatever and ended up with holes in your brain.¡±


    ¡°Nice.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just saying.¡±


    We stare at each other over the mostly empty cracker bowl. ¡°You know what? Let¡¯s just not talk,¡± I say.


    Gonzo shrugs. ¡°Fine by me, pendejo.¡±


    The waitress brings our food and I eat like a man possessed. We haven¡¯t really had anything other than JellyJuice Bears, convenience-store hot dogs, and Corny Doodles since we left the hospital. I¡¯m not usually one of those people who gets all rhapsodic about food, but this fish is amazing¡ªlike the first time I¡¯ve ever tasted anything. Gonzo sniffs his grilled cheese sandwich repeatedly and takes tentative bites.


    By the time we finish dessert and make our way on foot to the French Quarter, it¡¯s nighttime. Now that my stomach is full and there¡¯s so much excitement on tap, I forget to be annoyed with Gonzo, and I guess he¡¯s over my shit, too. We just keep giving each other these goofy ¡°Whoa! Check that out!¡± grins. It¡¯s like another world down here¡ªall these old houses with galleries where people sit and watch parades of tourists going by. The streets of New Orleans are like a collage¡ªall kinds of people, things, and colors bumping up against each other, overlapping till they make something new. College kids stagger out of bars still holding hurricane glasses. A ponytailed girl leans against a garbage can, puking. Street musicians compete for attention: a guitarist in a top hat tries to outsing the lady violinist, and both of them are drowned out by the washtub band a few feet down.

 Page 46

    ¡°Dude, I can¡¯t see a f**king thing,¡± Gonzo complains.


    There¡¯s an opening in the crowd. I squeeze through, pulling Gonzo along, and we position ourselves in the front. When the couple we¡¯ve pushed aside starts to complain, I point to Gonzo. ¡°His mom¡¯s on one of the floats. I promised to bring him down,¡± I lie, and the woman, who¡¯s drunk, gets all sentimental and starts singing nursery songs to Gonzo, which makes no sense, but if there¡¯s anything I¡¯m starting to learn about people it¡¯s (a) that they are fundamentally suspicious and afraid of anyone who is ¡°different,¡± and (b) that fear makes them do and say asinine things.


    Gonzo scowls. ¡°Is she kidding me with that?¡±


    ¡°Ride it out, little dude,¡± I say. ¡°We¡¯re here and you can see everything.¡±


    Gonzo can¡¯t argue with that, so we stand on the parade route, taking it all in. Revelers in tall, wack-a-doodle hats and neon-bright wigs dance and sing as the floats pass by. They shout for beads and the krewes on the floats answer their calls. I nearly get beaned by a handful of bright purple necklaces. I slip some over my neck and offer the rest to Gonzo, who shakes his head like I¡¯m giving him Bubonic Plague in jewelry form.


    ¡°You don¡¯t know where that¡¯s been, man.¡±


    Eubie was right¡ªMardi Gras is amazing. A guy in a skeleton costume, his face painted like a skull, dances down the street while acrobats in glittery harlequin outfits tumble and jump around waving long paper streamers. On a float painted like a flood, a drag queen in a sash that reads MISS LEVEE waves to the crowd and they go wild. A funeral band marches right past us. The musicians come first, playing trumpets and banging drums. Behind them, the people raise their hands and dance, whooping it up like it¡¯s just another celebration. Farther down the line, the partiers roar their approval, signaling that the next float is a winner. It¡¯s the most elaborate float we¡¯ve seen, a good ten feet high with these huge gates in the middle, one white, the other gray with the faint outline of a horn on it. A tall dude in a feathered bird mask stands on the edge and spreads his arms wide.


    ¡°I am Morpheus, king of dreams,¡± he says, and the speakers carry his deep voice for blocks. ¡°We all walk in a land of dreams. For what are we but atoms and hope, a handful of stardust and sinew. We are weary travelers trying to find our way home on a road that never ends. Am I a part of your dream? Or are you but a part of mine? Welcome my brother, Phantasos, for this is surely a phantasmagoria, a fantasy world, and we are all players.¡±


    ¡°Dude!¡± Gonzo yells over the din. ¡°That is so seriously fawesome. I want to drive one of those to school! Whoo-hoo!¡± He¡¯s grinning and dancing in place. ¡°When I kick, this is exactly how I want to go out. Just pure party. You know?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, sure,¡± I say, but there¡¯s a catch in my chest while I watch those funeral dancers marching down the street. For the first time since we got off the bus, it strikes me how crazy this all is. How scary and uncertain. I¡¯m at Mardi Gras, sandwiched between beer-soaked drunkards, with nothing more to go on than some vague, probably delusional belief that I¡¯m where I should be. My legs get a weird tingly sensation, and I try not to panic.


    Signs. Coincidences. The random.


    Frantically, I search for clues. Is there a ¡°Dr. X is Here¡± banner on one of these floats? A billboard with an arrow pointing the way? I rub a hand over the E-ticket wristband and hope that it will protect me from those rogue prions long enough to find Dr. X, wherever he might be.


    The streets erupt with a fresh wave of cheering, pulling me back to the parade.


    Morpheus laughs and blows some sort of glittery powder at us, coating our shirts in sparkles that make me sneeze like crazy. I reach into my pocket for a tissue and my fingers find the matchbook given to me by the lady on the bus. The Horn & Ivory Club. Junior Webster. 141 N. Rampart.


    Signs. Coincidences. The random.


    ¡°Come on,¡± I say, whapping Gonzo¡¯s arm. ¡°Time to go.¡±


    ¡°Go? But we just got here! Go where?¡±


    ¡°Here,¡± I say, flipping the matches to Gonzo, who fumbles and recovers them.


    ¡°What¡¯s this?¡±


    ¡°Where we¡¯re headed next.¡±


    CHAPTER NINETEEN


    Wherein We Have an Encounter with a Drag Queen and the Most Famous Jazzman Alive or Dead


    ¡°So let me get this straight¡ªwe¡¯re guiding our path based on a matchbook cover?¡± Gonzo asks.


    ¡°Just keep walking.¡± I pick up my pace on the narrow, cobble stone street.

 Page 47

    There are only a few people milling around, and they¡¯re headed the opposite way. The houses we pass are dark and shuttered and plastered with old, torn flyers that show grainy pictures of smiling people and hand-scrawled pleas for help¡ªMissing! Have you seen? Our grandma/brother/sister/father. Please call! They¡¯re so worn they seem to fade into the brick like paper ghosts.


    Gonzo huffs along beside me, looking left and right. ¡°Dude. This looks like sort of a bad area.¡±


    Two guys in low-slung jeans and baseball caps lean against a building on the corner, arms crossed. Another guy joins them, and another. It reminds me of a horror movie I saw once, where these birds start filling up a playground while this lady sits smoking a cigarette, unaware.


    ¡°Shit. There¡¯s four of them now,¡± Gonzo says.


    ¡°Just keep walking and don¡¯t act scared.¡±


    ¡°Dude, I am scared. They could totally kick our asses.¡±


    The guys fall in behind us. We pick up speed. So do they. We turn on Rampart Street. They turn on Rampart Street. Maybe they¡¯re just headed the same way we are. Or maybe we¡¯re about to get our butts handed to us on a platter.


    ¡°Oh, man, we are so dead, so dead, so dead.¡±


    ¡°Just be cool.¡±


    The door opens on a little house. Light and party sounds spill out onto the sidewalk. The tallest woman I have ever seen steps in front of us. She¡¯s about six foot seven in heels and dressed like a parade float. Her eyes are made up with sparkly blue eye shadow and false eyelashes, and her hair is red, curled, and piled up on top of her head like a pi?ata. Big hair. Big jewelry. Big hands. Whoa. Really big hands. She¡¯s holding a cigarette between those mammoth fingers.


    ¡°Hey, honey, where¡¯s the fire?¡± she asks in a deep voice.


    I look behind me, but the guys we thought were after us have set up shop on a different corner. They¡¯re practicing dance moves under a streetlight, laughing when one of their crew messes up. They¡¯re about as threatening as a boy band, and I feel like a colossal, paranoid tool for getting so worked up.


    ¡°Since y¡¯all standing here you might as well make yourselves useful. Y¡¯all got a light?¡± the lady asks.


    ¡°Gonzo,¡± I say. ¡°Matches.¡±


    Gonzo hands the matches to the lady, who purses her lips and cocks a hip. ¡°Sugar, you¡¯re supposed to light a girl¡¯s cigarette, not throw the matches at her. Didn¡¯t your mama teach you anything?¡±


    ¡°Sorry,¡± he says.


    ¡°That¡¯s all right,¡± she says, and lights her own cigarette. Jesus, she¡¯s big. Gonzo comes up to her kneecaps, and I only reach her waist. ¡°What¡¯re you two lil¡¯ scouts doing out here? Baby, this idn¡¯t a good neighborhood. I got knifed bad out here one time.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re looking for the Horn and Ivory,¡± I tell her, pointing to the matchbook cover. ¡°It¡¯s supposed to be here on North Rampart.¡±


    ¡°Not for about four million years, it ain¡¯t, honey. It moves around. Always has. You have to know where to look.¡± The lady peers down at us through her cigarette-smoke haze, sizing us up. ¡°Now, how come you wanna go to the Horn and Ivory?¡±


    ¡°We want to see where Junior Webster used to play,¡± I say.


    The lady¡¯s eyes widen. ¡°Junior Webster. I haven¡¯t heard that name in a long, long time.¡±


    Somebody yells down from the balcony. ¡°Miss D! We need more beer!¡±


    ¡°Get it yourself, honey! I¡¯m busy,¡± she shouts back. ¡°And, uh, how exactly do you think you¡¯re gonna get into the Horn and Ivory¡ªif you can find it on your own, that is? Y¡¯all not old enough to shave.¡±


    ¡°Yes we are,¡± Gonzo insists, his little manly pride deeply wounded.


    She rubs a finger across Gonzo¡¯s smooth cheek. ¡°Um-hmm.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t want to drink. We just want to see the place where Junior played. My friend Eubie told me I had to if I was ever in New Orleans.¡±


    ¡°Zat so?¡± She takes a good long look at us through her exhaled smoke. ¡°Did your friend tell you how to find the Horn and Ivory?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I concede.


    ¡°Uh-hmm, um-hmmm.¡± Miss D says, like it means something. She drops the cigarette to the sidewalk and crushes it daintily with that huge, basketball-player-worthy foot. ¡°Can¡¯t have you going back with nothin¡¯ to tell, can we? Don¡¯tchoo worry, cher. Miss Demeanor¡¯s gonna get you in to see Junior.¡±


    I don¡¯t know what she means by that. Eubie told me Junior Webster¡¯s dead. Maybe she means she¡¯ll get us in to see the club.

 Page 48

    ¡°Well, come on, then, churren.¡± Miss Demeanor sashays down the sidewalk, and we fall into step behind her.


    ¡°Man, you sure are tall,¡± Gonzo says.


    ¡°Yeah, baby. I surely am.¡± She laughs out loud.


    ¡°Gonzo,¡± I whisper a minute later. ¡°I¡¯m pretty sure Miss Demeanor is a guy.¡±


    ¡°Right. I knew that.¡± But I can see that he didn¡¯t, because now he¡¯s trying to steal a look at her, to make sure.


    Any other place in the world, we¡¯d be a real spectacle, but I¡¯m coming to realize that the more you stand out in New Orleans, the more you actually blend in. It¡¯s like a circus of a town. Within a block or so, we¡¯re back in the nonstop party that is Mardi Gras.


    A bouncer calls out from a shadowed doorway. ¡°Hey, Miss D, where y¡¯at, dawlin?¡±


    ¡°How I always am, baby¡ªfiiiine!¡± She laughs when she says it, and he laughs, too.


    Miss D leads us off the chaotic, crowded street and down a private, narrow alley that dead-ends at an elaborate double gate that¡¯s exactly like the one we saw on the Morpheus float, with one side completely white and the other etched with the outline of a trumpet symbol. Just beyond the gate is a red door.


    ¡°The Gates of Horn and Ivory,¡± Miss D says. She opens them up and then gives three quick knocks on the red door, followed by a pause, and then a fourth knock. A little window in the door opens. A pair of eyes appears.


    ¡°You know me?¡± she says.


    The eyes move up and down, yes.


    ¡°So you know I¡¯ve always been a good friend to this club.¡±


    The eyes nod again.


    ¡°I need a favor. These here my nephews come all the way from ¡­¡± She looks down at us. ¡°Backwater. They want to see the Horn and Ivory.¡±


    The eyes dart over in our direction, take in the state of us for a good long time. They move slowly back to stare at Miss Demeanor.


    She sighs, throws her hands in the air, heavenward. ¡°I know. Bless ¡¯em. They¡¯re my ugly sister¡¯s kids.¡±


    The eyes don¡¯t even blink.


    ¡°The little one¡¯s doing that last wish thang. He¡¯s got cancer of twelve different organs. Some you ain¡¯t never even heard of. We¡¯re all just broken up about it.¡±


    She purses her glossy lips. The window remains quiet.


    Miss D points a finger. ¡°Okay. Okay. But you mess with his last wish and he¡¯ll come back to haunt yo¡¯ ass.¡± The door doesn¡¯t budge. Finally, Miss D holds up the matches. ¡°These boys got business with Junior, cher.¡±


    The little window closes, and the door opens.


    ¡°Thank you, baby,¡± Miss D says, leading the way.


    I don¡¯t know who let us in, because there is no one standing at the door when we go in. It¡¯s like it¡¯s opened all by itself.


    ¡°Miss D?¡± I start. ¡°How come you told him we have business with Junior?¡±


    ¡°Well, don¡¯t you, cher?¡±


    ¡°But isn¡¯t Junior Webster ¡­ dead?¡±


    She smiles. ¡°Not last time I saw him. Course, it¡¯s hard to say exactly when that was. Come on, now. Let¡¯s catch him while we can.¡±


    I¡¯m thoroughly confused, but there¡¯s nothing to do but follow Miss D wherever she¡¯s leading. We go down a hallway lit with red bulbs. Miss D opens a door that leads to another, smaller door that leads to a little tunnel we have to crawl through on hands and knees. It opens up in a kitchen. Miss D saunters past chefs in stained aprons who take no notice of us. She pushes a button and we step into a small elevator that wriggles up jumpy cables to another floor. This time, the door opens into a big, smoky nightclub. People in fancy clothes and harlequin masks crowd around small tables lit by red Chinese lanterns. The dance floor is crammed with people swaying, spinning, swinging out and back. This place is live. Crazy, wild-man music blares from a jukebox in a corner. Everything about it is fast and unpredictable¡ªthe piano runs, the percussion, the guitar riffs, and over all of it is a trumpet swooping up and down and all over like a giant bird in the sky till my heart¡¯s beating right along with it. The song makes me want to run and shout, kiss girls and ride motorcycles through the desert. It makes me feel really alive, the way Eubie says music should.


    ¡°That¡¯s Junior you feel,¡± Miss D says, like she can read my mind. She leads us backstage. A burly bodyguard in a suit and sunglasses, wearing an earpiece, stands guard outside the curtained door.


    ¡°Here, baby, you wait with me,¡± she says to Gonzo.


    ¡°How come I can¡¯t go in?¡± Gonzo sounds pissed.

 Page 49

    ¡°He only sees people one at a time,¡± she says, hands on her hips. ¡°I¡¯ll take you up front and get you some nut mix. They got good nut mix.¡±


    I hear Gonzo say, ¡°I could be allergic to nuts,¡± as Miss D drags him away.


    The bodyguard lets me in and closes the door behind me. I¡¯m in a little vestibule lit by a red lightbulb. On a side table, a dozen of those white candles you see in old churches burn, leaving bubbling trails of wax down their sides. Above the table is the watercolor painting of Junior and the black hole that was on the cover of the ¡°Cypress Grove Blues¡± LP Eubie showed me in his shop. There¡¯s a big white ring in the center of the painting just like on the album. Some Mardi Gras beads hang from a thumbtack. And there¡¯s a picture taped to the bottom right corner. I blink when I see it, because I swear it looks like that same picture of Eubie in his harlequin mask on Bourbon Street.


    ¡°Somebody there?¡± a gravelly voice calls out.


    I push aside a curtain. The room has nothing in it but two chairs beneath a single lightbulb. Junior Webster sits in one of the chairs, shining his horn. He looks about a hundred years old. His black skin¡¯s dark and lined and ashy in spots, like a pair of beautiful leather shoes stained with snow. He wears the same suit as in the poster, with the same straw hat and black sunglasses.


    ¡°Come on over and take a seat,¡± he rasps. ¡°I won¡¯t bite.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re really Junior Webster?¡± I say, sitting next to him.


    Junior chuckles. ¡°All my life.¡±


    ¡°Nice to meet you, sir.¡±


    ¡°Nice to meet you, too, Cameron.¡±


    ¡°How do you know¡ª?¡±


    ¡°In time, in time. Everything¡¯s connected, my friend, and we got a lot in common.¡± Junior tucks his horn under his arm. He takes my hands in his. The insides of his wrists are marked by thick scar tissue. ¡°You¡¯ve seen ¡¯em, haven¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Seen what?¡± I say, thinking he means the scars.


    ¡°Not what. Who.¡± Junior¡¯s lips peel back from his shiny teeth. ¡°Fire giants.¡±


    My mouth¡¯s gone dry. ¡°You know about them, too?¡±


    Junior nods slowly. He drops my hands and goes back to shining his horn. ¡°Oh yes, my friend. I know ¡¯em. Nasty things. You steal a look at ¡¯em and you ¡¯bout feel you could burn up with your fear. A glimpse of another world beyond this one here. Them fire gods are bad news, all right, but they¡¯re not the worst of it. They work for the big guy.¡± He leans close. ¡°The Wizard of Reckoning.¡±


    The name and the way he says it raise goose bumps on my arms. ¡°Who¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°You seen him. In your dreams. Maybe on a stretch of road in the middle of the night.¡±


    ¡°The guy in the black space-suit armor with the helmet and sword?¡±


    Junior purses his lips. ¡°That¡¯s what you see, then that¡¯s him. Don¡¯t always look the same to ever¡¯body.¡±


    ¡°Who is he?¡±


    ¡°Somebody who ain¡¯t from around here. Somebody who don¡¯t like bein¡¯ put off. Somebody you gotta tangle with at some point, whether you want to or not. Him and them fire bullies been trying to get my horn for years and years.¡±


    ¡°Why do they want your horn?¡±


    ¡°All my passion¡¯s wrapped up in the notes. That¡¯s not just air I¡¯m blowing through this mouthpiece, sonny. It¡¯s my soul. Someday he¡¯s gonna come for me, and I¡¯m gonna blow like I never blown before, and we¡¯ll see if it¡¯s enough. You lookin¡¯ for Dr. X, that right?¡±


    ¡°How¡¯d you know that?¡±


    ¡°I met him myself one time. In the hospital, after the war. Yes sir, you and me got a lot in common.¡±


    ¡°Wait¡ªhow do you know about all this? How could you have already met Dr. X if Dulcie said the wormhole just opened up¡ª¡±


    ¡°Time and space don¡¯t always play by the rules you think they do, son, and Dr. X bent a lot of rules,¡± he answers. ¡°I met him then. You looking for him now.¡± He taps the tips of his fingers together. ¡°All connected.


    ¡°Enough with that talk. I wanna show you a little something. Take my arm.¡±


    I help the great Junior Webster from his chair. He may look frail, but there¡¯s a lot of strength in that arm. I¡¯ll have to tell Eubie about it when I get back.


    He drags one leg when he walks. ¡°Got this limp in the war. Went over to play for the troops. Silly songs, mostly. Dance songs. Get-you-some kinds of songs. You feel me?¡±

 Page 50

    I nod.


    ¡°I saw things there, such things. Things a man hopes never to see.¡± He shakes his head. ¡°When I got back, I spent a year in the VA hospital. Nerves, you understand? Not right in the head. I didn¡¯t play a note for three years. Just couldn¡¯t. Some part of me was lying out there on those fields with my friends, dead. Then one day, I picked up my horn, and when I started playing, the sound was all different. Blood on the notes. Heart. Soul. Every bit of me coming out this horn. I didn¡¯t hold nothin¡¯ back. And that was that.¡±


    ¡°That was that?¡±


    ¡°I learned how to live changed.¡±


    I don¡¯t really understand what he¡¯s getting at, but he seems like a nice old man, and I feel sorry that he lived through what he did.


    ¡°We goin¡¯ over to that corner,¡± Junior says. As we get closer, I can see another pair of gates attached to the wall. They¡¯re just like the ones we came in by, like the ones on the Morpheus float, except that these don¡¯t go anywhere. They¡¯re just art. Smack-dab in the middle of the wall is a big red button. ¡°You gotta open one of them gates to get at the button.¡±


    Something about the way he says it makes it sound like a test. ¡°Does it matter which one?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s your choice, son, not mine.¡±


    That doesn¡¯t do anything to make me feel less anxious. After a quick, silent game of eeny-meeny-miny-mo, I open the white gate.


    ¡°Hmmm,¡± Junior says. ¡°All right, then. Go on. Push the button.¡±


    As soon as I do, there¡¯s a whirring noise that makes me jump. The ceiling opens up. Above us is a plush black night twinkling with stars. It reminds me of a planetarium, one of those optical-illusion skies that you know can¡¯t be real, it has to be a projection on a 360-degree screen, but you swear at the time that you could just blast off into space from your chair. It¡¯s that real.


    ¡°Ain¡¯t that a sight? With all the things we know and learn, we still ain¡¯t touched the big mysteries¡ªwhere we come from, where we go next, why we even here. And when something truly miraculous happens, we run and hide in our caves. We deny.¡±


    Junior Webster puts the trumpet to his lips, and blows a few bars of ¡°Cypress Grove Blues.¡± He stops and inclines his head toward the fake sky like he¡¯s listening for something.


    ¡°The scientists say most galaxies got a black hole at their center. They suck up matter, those black holes. Just gobble ever¡¯thing right on up, don¡¯t matter what it is. That¡¯s what we know. What we can observe. But the scientists, they can¡¯t observe what happens inside a black hole¡ªnot directly, you understand¡ªbecause the gravitational pull is so strong there ain¡¯t a thing that can escape it. Not you. Not me. Not this here horn. Not even light. Only one thing comes out of a black hole, and that, my friend, is sound. Music. As things get pulled right on in to it¡±¡ªhe lowers his voice to a whisper¡ª¡°that black hole sings. Do you feel me? It sings in an octave no human being could ever hear, but it does sing.¡±


    When he puts the trumpet to mouth this time, the song comes alive. The sound is a force pushing on me; the notes make me dizzy. I could swear the screen-sky is revolving slowly and that we¡¯re drifting toward it. And right in the center is a dark pinpoint getting bigger with every note.


    ¡°Mr. Webster?¡± I say, but he¡¯s lost to his playing. I feel like a little kid at the planetarium, like I want to close my eyes and sink down in my seat till it¡¯s over. But Junior¡¯s angling his face toward it. The solid dark is bearing down on us from above and around. There¡¯s no escaping it. I feel like I¡¯m moving toward that black hole, like I¡¯m being pulled right in, and it is freaking me the hell out. Junior¡¯s got a strange look on his face; I can¡¯t tell if it¡¯s terror or awe.


    ¡°Sing,¡± he says quietly. ¡°I¡¯m ready. Go on. Lay that note on me.¡±


    The hole¡¯s so big that the sky¡¯s almost completely dark. Stars zip past us into the giant maw of that greedy, cosmic hole and disappear completely, and even though I know it¡¯s just an illusion, I¡¯m afraid I¡¯ll be next.


    But Junior just laughs at the darkness in the sky.


    ¡°You hear that?¡± he asks. ¡°B-flat, I think. B-flat! You a tricky one, but I believe I be catching you later, baby.¡±


    He lifts his horn again and blows hard, and even though I don¡¯t hear anything, I know he¡¯s made some kind of sound. Immediately, the pressure I felt is gone. The sky ceiling fades to a morning blue. It¡¯s nothing but a ceiling.


    There¡¯s a knock at the door. The bodyguard opens it a crack.

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    ¡°They¡¯re ready for you, Mr. Webster.¡±


    ¡°Thank you. I be right there.¡±


    ¡°You said you met Dr. X once before,¡± I say. ¡°Do you know where he is now? Where I can find him?¡±


    Junior Webster purses his lips. ¡°I might could help you with that. But first I got a show to do. You play any music, Cameron?¡±


    I shake my head.


    ¡°Music opens your soul, makes you ready.¡±


    ¡°Ready for what?¡±


    He smiles big. ¡°Exactly.¡±


    I follow Junior Webster into the completely packed club. As Junior passes, people reach out to touch him. This is what they¡¯ve been waiting for, a chance to hear the famous Junior Webster and his magic trumpet.


    Gonzo manages to squeeze his way through. He falls in beside me. ¡°Dude, I¡¯ve been waiting, like, twenty minutes next to a bowl of toxic nut mix trying not to breathe in. What happened with Junior Webster?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s gonna tell us where to find Dr. X. But he¡¯s got to play his set first.¡±


    Junior leads us to a stage beside huge doors that open to a balcony. Down below, it¡¯s a surreal sight¡ªthrongs of revelers in wild costumes dancing and swaying in the street, waiting for Junior to blow.


    Miss Demeanor grabs the mike. ¡°Ladies and gentlemen, the Horn and Ivory Club is proud to introduce the one, the only, Mr. Junior Webster.¡±


    The crowd whoops and hollers and chants his name. Junior puts the trumpet to his lips, but before he can blow a note, he staggers, his hand over his heart. A gasp rolls through the crowd. Junior stumbles over and grabs hold of my hand. ¡°You feel ¡¯im, son?¡±


    ¡°Feel what?¡±


    Junior¡¯s eyes go wide. ¡°He¡¯s here.¡±


    Looking out over the gray cigarette haze, all I see is a bunch of people waiting for Junior to give them a good time. The sharp tang of some harsher smoke tickles the back of my throat, though, and cutting through the crowd is a tall figure in black spiked space armor and a shiny helmet. The visor covers his face completely. I feel weak. When I look down at my protective E-ticket wristband, the first of the five listed kingdoms¡ªAdventureland¡ªis starting to lose color.


    ¡°The Wizard of Reckoning,¡± Junior gasps. He pats my sleeve. ¡°Get behind me, son.¡±


    ¡°You come for this?¡± Junior waves the trumpet.


    The Wizard of Reckoning moves his head slowly from side to side.


    ¡°What you come for, then?¡±


    The wizard slides a piece of paper out from behind his armor. It could be just another one of those missing posters plastered to the crumbling walls of New Orleans. I only catch a glimpse, but I could swear it looks like the guy I saw on the Internet. Junior shakes his head hard.


    ¡°I cain¡¯t let you do that.¡±


    The wizard seems to notice me for the first time. He points one gloved finger in my direction.


    ¡°No, sir,¡± Junior growls, as if the wizard¡¯s spoken. ¡°He ain¡¯t ready for you, yet.¡±


    A low murmur ripples through the club. Down on the street, revelers shout for Junior. They¡¯ve come for a show and they¡¯re getting pissed off about the delay. The candles on the tables flare suddenly. The Wizard of Reckoning squeezes his hand into a fist, and it¡¯s like I can¡¯t breathe.


    ¡°All right, all right!¡± Junior shouts, and the breath comes back into my body. The candles die down. ¡°I¡¯ll make you a deal. I know you been wantin¡¯ my horn for a while now. I¡¯mmo play you for it. I win, you leave in peace and don¡¯t come back. You win, you get the horn.¡±


    The wizard cocks his head. I don¡¯t hear him say anything, but Junior must, because his face falls, his mouth set in a grim line. ¡°All right, then. If that¡¯s the way it¡¯s gotta be. I accept.¡±


    ¡°Accept what?¡± I ask Junior.


    ¡°Never you mind,¡± Junior whispers. ¡°If something happens to me here tonight, you take my horn with you.¡±


    ¡°But you just said¡ª¡±


    Junior¡¯s voice is as tight as his lips. ¡°I know what I said, son. You take this horn and someday, when you gotta, when there¡¯s nothin¡¯ else, you play it. You feel me?¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± I say, not understanding at all.


    Next, he hands me his dark glasses. His eyes are cloudy. ¡°Now. You take these glasses and bury ¡¯em under the angel and wait for a message. You need that message to keep on with your trip.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand. Is this about Dr. X?¡± I ask.


    ¡°It¡¯s about a lot more than that, son.¡± He blows air over his lips, loosens them for playing.

 Page 52

    ¡°But what message? What am I looking for?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s for you to figure on out. Now, I¡¯ma school this fool. Back me up.¡± He points to the gleaming upright bass guitar that I swear wasn¡¯t there a minute ago.


    ¡°I¡ªI don¡¯t know how to play.¡±


    ¡°Public education,¡± Junior Webster says with a sigh. ¡°No more music, just tests and tests. Well, you be all right. Just slide from here to here to here and repeat,¡± he says, pressing my fingers against the strings in three quick moves.


    ¡°But ¡­¡±


    ¡°Trust me. You!¡± He points to Gonzo. ¡°You on drums. I need all the help I can get tonight.¡±


    Gonzo scrambles onto the scarred wooden stool behind the drums. He grabs the sticks like he means business.


    ¡°You can play drums?¡± I whisper to him.


    ¡°Only on Rock ¡¯N¡¯ Roll Simulator,¡± he says, wide-eyed. ¡°But I made it to level five.¡±


    ¡°Tonight, I got some special friends helping me out,¡± Junior calls to the crowd.


    ¡°It¡¯s one of them Last Wish thangs!¡± Miss D shouts next, and everybody cheers.


    ¡°Junior,¡± I call. ¡°I¡¯m serious¡ªI don¡¯t know how to play.¡±


    ¡°Sure you do, son. Just put your fingers on the strings like I showed you, let go, and keep coming back to one.¡±


    He pushes the glasses into the pocket of my Windbreaker, puts the trumpet to his lips, puffs out his cheeks, and lets loose with a furious noise. I¡¯ve never heard anybody play the trumpet like that ever. It¡¯s a crazy, wonderful sound. Hard, soft, sweet, mean, desperate, joyful¡ªa whole life in fierce melody. And I¡¯m backing him up on bass. My fingers slide awkwardly up and down the strings. It sounds a little like a cat being skinned, but it fills in the holes, and I guess people feel too sorry for us to complain. Gonzo¡¯s keeping the beat with his entire body, and every once in a while he mutters, ¡°Level five, level five ¡­¡±


    Another sound cuts through the club. The Wizard of Reckoning has his own trumpet, and he¡¯s matching Junior riff for riff. Notes rise and fall, swoop and soar. Junior¡¯s dripping sweat. It slides down his cheeks and wets his collar. But he keeps swinging. I feel like I¡¯m inside this music, and I¡¯m starting to understand the weird, beautiful universe of jazz. It¡¯s like that space-sky Junior showed me in his dressing room, a place so vast it seems like it couldn¡¯t possibly be governed by any rules, but the more you¡¯re floating in it, the more you find that it¡¯s got its own strange, secret order to it after all.


    Junior¡¯s on fire with the music. After one amazing run, the wizard falters. The room goes quiet, and I think we¡¯ve won. But the wizard comes back hard, and this time, it¡¯s Junior who looks like he might go down. He staggers into me.


    ¡°You remember what I tole you, now,¡± he says. His feet are slow and unsteady, but he manages to get back to where he was, and the music takes on an extra dimension. It¡¯s raw and a little scary. The wizard gives his notes the same intensity. The two of them trade riffs back and forth like fighters in the ring. And then something awful happens.


    The wizard takes a deep breath and blows, and nothing comes out. At least, I can¡¯t hear anything. But Junior clutches his chest and falls to his knees, still holding tight to his horn. Gonzo¡¯s crashing around on the drums, making a lot of noise. I can¡¯t play the bass anymore. My fingers have lost their sound.


    ¡°Gonzo!¡± I shout, and he silences the cymbals.


    The wizard holds out his hand, wiggles his fingers impatiently, waiting for Junior¡¯s golden trumpet, but quick as a whip, Junior tosses the horn to me instead, and I catch it one-handed.


    Junior laughs down low in his chest; the laugh mixes with a rattling cough. The Wizard of Reckoning strides across the floor and straddles Junior¡¯s body, towering over him. Slowly, he raises his visor. I can¡¯t see who he is, but Junior can; his face registers surprise first, then amusement.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be damned,¡± Junior says, with a weak little laugh. ¡°Don¡¯t that beat all?¡±


    He wheezes once. And just like that, the old jazzman hits the floor, dead.


    The crowd is stunned into silence, but not for long, because the wizard¡¯s not letting anyone off easy. He tilts his head back, lifts his arms, and lets loose with a screeching howl that¡¯s part freight train, part missile attack. I feel it in every cell, like a force of gravity times one hundred, pushing down on me. He brings his arms down fast and the walls explode in flame; glass shatters inward. The crowd in the club screams; they crawl over each other in their panic to escape.

 Page 53

    The Wizard of Reckoning points his finger at me again, and my body screams in anguish, as if I¡¯m on fire. It brings me to my knees, shutting my eyes against the searing pain.


    ¡°Just relax, baby. You be okay.¡± It¡¯s Glory¡¯s soothing voice. I open my eyes, and she¡¯s shooting something into my IV line.


    Glory? I hear it in my head, but I don¡¯t know if I¡¯ve said it out loud.


    ¡°Try to sleep.¡±


    ¡°Cameron!¡± Gonzo¡¯s cowering behind the high hat, using the sticks like a cross in a vampire movie.


    ¡°Gonzo! We¡¯ve gotta ¡­ gotta get out of here,¡± I gasp out.


    Gonzo¡¯s frozen with fear. He¡¯s not leaving the safety of the cymbals. People are pushing and shoving, doing their best to escape the fire. The wizard sees us, and he¡¯s coming.


    ¡°Gonzo, we¡¯ve got to go now!¡± I scream.


    Miss Demeanor rushes the stage and pulls Gonzo off the drums forcibly. ¡°This way!¡±


    She runs backstage to Junior¡¯s dressing room. ¡°But there¡¯s no door here!¡± I shout.


    ¡°Yes there is.¡± She puts the nearly catatonic Gonzo down and flips on the planetarium projector. The sky fills up with tiny moons and planets zooming into the great unknown of the black hole. ¡°Follow me.¡±


    She walks straight for it, glittery and bright as a star, and vanishes. I can¡¯t see a single spangle of her left.


    ¡°Holy mierda! Where¡¯d she go?¡± Gonzo bleats.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know!¡±


    ¡°This way,¡± she calls, and now I see her perched on a small, rickety ladder that climbs up to the ceiling.


    The heat from the fire has reached us. Flames grab at the doorway and bring it down. I¡¯m not sticking around to see what else they can do. I shove Junior Webster¡¯s sunglasses and his horn into my bag and race for the hole. It feels like it¡¯s pulling me in, but it¡¯s Miss D. She grabs my hands and drags me to a hidden door in the shadows. One hard shove of her hip and the door opens. We spill out into the weak light of an alley.


    The place is crawling with cops and firefighters now. Blasts of water belch from heavy-duty hoses. Miss D pushes us down the street, away from the fire, till we¡¯re far from the crowds and standing by a streetlamp near a storefront for a psychic.


    ¡°You boys better clear on out of here,¡± Miss D says. Before we take off running, she grabs my hand. ¡°Whatever Junior told you, you best do, cher. He¡¯s never been wrong long as I¡¯ve known him. And Cameron,¡± she adds.


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    She flips the matches over in her hand. ¡°Thanks for the light, baby.¡±


    We run for blocks until we reach the edge of the Mississippi River. I¡¯m bent over, trying to catch my breath. Gonzo paces, taking in nervous gulps of air.


    ¡°What. The f**k. Was that?¡± He doesn¡¯t wait for me to answer. ¡°That guy ¡­ what was ¡­¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± I¡¯m not about to divulge that particular info to Gonzo. He¡¯ll freak and head back for sure.


    ¡°He killed Junior Webster!¡±


    ¡°Maybe Junior was mixed up in something big¡ªgambling debts or, hell, I don¡¯t know,¡± I lie. ¡°We just need to focus on finding Dr. X.¡±


    Gonzo shakes his head. ¡°This is f**ked up, man.¡±


    ¡°The sooner we get to Dr. X, the sooner I get cured and you get ¡­ whatever it is you¡¯re getting, and we¡¯re done. Agreed?¡±


    Gonzo squints out at the water like he¡¯s thinking it over. The dawn¡¯s sending out the early team to ready the sky. Gulls dive down for breakfast beside tugboats shining on the river like floating bones.


    ¡°I¡¯m hungry,¡± Gonzo says, and I guess we¡¯re agreed after all.


    The French Quarter¡¯s emptying out. The garbage cans overflow with plastic cups and the streets are a wreck. Horse-drawn carriages clip-clop on the cobblestones, heading home for sleep. A truck idles by a warehouse entrance. Gonzo and I find an all-hours caf¨¦ where they serve crispy, hot beignets and mugs of chicory coffee that taste like it¡¯s been made with airplane fuel and stirred with an old stick. But it warms us up and chases away what¡¯s left of the night, so we drink it anyway.


    ¡°What was that thing he told you about his sunglasses?¡± Gonzo asks.


    ¡°He told me to bury them under the angel.¡± I take them out of my pocket and put them on the table. They¡¯re just ordinary sunglasses.


    ¡°Which means?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. He said once I did, I¡¯d get a message.¡±


    Gonzo eats another beignet. The powdered sugar coats his upper lip like a snowy mustache. ¡°Dude, this is crazy.¡±

 Page 54

    He¡¯s right. I wish Dulcie would show herself, drop us a hint or two or just give in and tell us where to find Dr. X. The bleary morning light is pressing against the caf¨¦¡¯s windows now, and I get a good look at the desperate crew inhabiting the diner with us at this otherworldly hour: a couple of hospital workers getting off the night shift, trying to laugh off the stab wounds and gunshot wounds they saw but not really shaking the lines that have settled around their mouths like parentheses closing off all the relevant things that could be said. A couple of homeless schizophrenics talking to themselves and drinking coffee with their few panhandled coins, though coffee seems like the last thing they need. A group of still-drunk college kids in wilting costumes trying to sober up over pancakes and toast. It¡¯s a long way from the stupid, choreographed riding mowers of my safe little suburb, and something about it makes me feel both sad and exhilarated all at the same time, like now I know a secret the sleeping citizens back home don¡¯t, even if the secret is basically how alone we can be out here in the dead-honest haze of six a.m.


    Gonzo¡¯s going on about Captain Carnage and the time he beat a flock of Teddy Vamps. His voice is white noise. My body aches, and my arm¡¯s shaking. I just want to sleep. My eyelids fall, closing out the world.


    I¡¯m dreaming of Disney World, but it¡¯s like a herky-jerky, grainy home movie with the sound turned down. Hotel bathroom, Mom smiling, rubbing my wet head with a white towel. Dad and me waving from the line to the Peter Pan ride. Mom holding Jenna, who blinks at the sun. A random shot of Tomorrowland looking like another planet made of colorful balls and gears. The dark of the Small World ride. Mechanical kids going around and up and down. A splash. Me underwater, sinking, opening my mouth wide.


    I wake with a gasp. Gonzo¡¯s not talking anymore, and there¡¯s a face inches from mine.


    ¡°Buy me a cup of coffee?¡± One of the schizo dudes hovers over me. He¡¯s as matted as a feral cat and smells like he rolled in his own piss. He¡¯s got about four teeth left, and they don¡¯t look long for this world.


    ¡°Buy me a cup of coffee, please? I¡¯m a homeless vet. Me and my wife got burned out of our home and I gotta support five kids and the littlest one needs an operation on her eyes and I wouldn¡¯t do this, man, I wouldn¡¯t be out here if it wasn¡¯t for them, and a guy¡¯s gotta live, you know, gotta make his way and find his meaning in life and love, and to do that he needs coffee, he needs coffee and coffee and coffee.¡±


    Gonzo¡¯s shrinking down into his chair till I can only see his eyes and that huge ¡¯fro, but I can tell by the redness in his cheeks that he¡¯s holding his breath. The smell is pretty harsh, but I know Gonzo¡¯s probably more afraid that he could catch some rare, untreatable disease just by sharing the same airspace as this guy.


    ¡°Here you go, man.¡± I leave a dollar on the table and he snatches it up.


    ¡°Thank you. Thank you. I got burned out of my houseboat and my kid needs an operation on her lungs so I need to get me some coffee and head out to the cemeteries to take care of things. To the cemeteries you just take the Canal Street cable car to the end, all the way to the end of the line, to the end where the angels live, and that¡¯s where you go to bury things.¡±


    My skin¡¯s tingling now, but it has nothing to do with my disease. ¡°What did you say?¡± I ask the homeless guy, but the cook¡¯s shooing him away.


    ¡°Come on, Spanky, leave these people alone, now,¡± the cook says. He yanks the string to the front window shades and the caf¨¦ is flooded with light.


    CHAPTER TWENTY


    In Which We Visit a Cemetery and I Receive a Message. Sort of. I Hope.


    We take the Canal Street car out to the cemeteries near the interstate. It¡¯s a depressing ride. Sandwiched between the refurbished law offices, used-car lots, and prisonlike schools are tiny little houses that look like they could fall down any minute, all peeling paint and chipped shutters. Some of the wounded doors have red X¡¯s drawn on them like animals marked for slaughter. Abandoned cars peek out from coats of dirt, rust, and leaves. On the corner, there¡¯s a bent ONE-WAY street sign pointing to the ground.


    ¡°End of the line,¡± the guy says, which is pretty funny, considering. All around us are cemeteries¡ªleft, right, center.


    ¡°Now what?¡± Gonzo asks as we get off the cable car and cross over the tracks.


    ¡°He said I¡¯d know the one,¡± I say, eyes scanning the miles and miles of gravestones.


    Gonzo snorts. ¡°Well, that¡¯s helpful.¡± He calls out the names of the cemeteries around us. ¡°The Odd Fellow¡¯s Rest? That sounds like your speed, amigo. The Greenwood?¡±

 Page 55

    Gonzo¡¯s waiting for some direction from me, but hell if I know what we¡¯re looking for. Junior Webster¡¯s sunglasses feel heavy in my hands.


    ¡°Cypress Grove,¡± Gonzo says. ¡°Or the ¡­¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s one called Cypress Grove?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Over there. The small one.¡±


    ¡°This way,¡± I say. We pass under the wrought-iron arch that spells out Cypress Grove and into the cemetery. A grass and gravel path leads us past limestone mausoleums, pretty little houses for the dead. Set into the ground are raised stone platforms with inscriptions that read OUR BELOVED BROTHER or OUR DARLING BABIES.


    ¡°What are we looking for?¡± Gonzo asks.


    ¡°An angel.¡±


    We scan the mausoleums and headstones. In this row alone, I count twenty-seven angel statues.


    ¡°Could you be more specific?¡± Gonzo asks.


    ¡°He said I¡¯d know it. Let¡¯s keep looking.¡±


    ¡°Hey, check this out!¡± Gonzo yells, climbing up onto the platform of a coffee-colored mausoleum. ¡°It¡¯s like a f**king castle. Oh shit. Can you say ¡®fuck¡¯ in a graveyard or will that jinx you with the undead?¡±


    I suck in my breath. ¡°Well, it¡¯s too late now.¡±


    Gonzo¡¯s eyes get huge and I can tell he¡¯s heading for a full-on feardown. ¡°Seriously. You don¡¯t think there¡¯s some voodoo action on this place, like hands sticking up through graves and stuff? Dude. For real?¡±


    ¡°Gonzo, no hand is going to break up through a stone mausoleum, okay? Chill out.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, okay,¡± he says, letting out a deep breath. ¡°This could be zombie heaven, man. Dude, I wish we were making a horror film. That would be mad awesome!¡±


    Gonz snaps a few pics with his cell phone. Weird shit like his hand resting clawlike against a headstone so that it looks like he¡¯s rising from the dead, horror-movie-poster style. These are accompanied by ¡°aargghs¡± and ¡°aaaahhhs¡± and various zombie-esque grunts made deep in his throat.


    ¡°Funny. Can you stop playing Dawn of the Living Ass-Hat long enough to help me find Junior¡¯s message?¡±


    A few feet away, three blond girls jabber on in German as they snap photos of the decaying headstones. One of the girls asks me in halting English if I¡¯ll take a picture of them together.


    ¡°No-a speak English,¡± I say, turning away.


    ¡°Here, I¡¯ll do it,¡± Gonzo says.


    I start to remind him we¡¯re here for a purpose, but he¡¯s already got their camera and is using a mix of Spanish, English, and hand gestures to direct them while they bump into one another in confusion and laugh.


    ¡°Copenhagen Interpretation?¡± one girl says. She plays a snippet of song from her phone, and Gonzo nods, smiling, and they all nod, smiling.


    I wander off down the narrow lanes till I¡¯m alone. The air is heavy with the rain that won¡¯t come. It presses down on me, making my legs heavy and my chest tight. I find a place to sit on the stone steps of a gravestone hidden by a weeping willow. The moss hangs so low it tickles my cheek and nose. It smells like sorrow.


    ¡°Hey, cowboy.¡±


    At the sound of Dulcie¡¯s voice, I whip around, left and right, searching.


    ¡°Up here,¡± she calls.


    ¡°Ah. Very cute.¡± She¡¯s posed on the top of a white, churchlike mausoleum, her wings folded, her chin resting on her hands like the Thinker Angel. She could blend right in, except for the boots and the bright pink hair.


    She hops to the ground with an impressive thud, her boots sending puffs of ancient Southern dust onto my jeans, and settles onto the new grave of a soldier. ¡°So what do you think of the Big Easy?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I say, sitting next to her. ¡°It¡¯s kind of depressing.¡±


    Dulcie puts a hand on my shoulder. ¡°Cam, you¡¯re in a graveyard.¡±


    ¡°Funny.¡±


    Dulcie nods at the sunglasses in my hands. ¡°What are those?¡±


    ¡°Sunglasses.¡±


    ¡°Going for the literal. Okay. I¡¯m game. Where¡¯d you get them?¡±


    She could be putting me on. For all I know, she¡¯s been watching the whole time and has seen everything. ¡°This guy named Junior Webster,¡± I say, waiting for a reaction. But her expression doesn¡¯t change and I figure she really doesn¡¯t know anything, which means she¡¯s the lamest angel ever. I go ahead and tell her about our night, the Wizard of Reckoning and his Fire Giants¡ªthe dark energy¡ªshowing up to our little party, Junior¡¯s death. The only thing I don¡¯t tell her is how scared I am. In the distance, I can hear a smattering of German and laughing. I can make out Gonzo playing director. He¡¯s telling one of the German girls to act like a zombie.

 Page 56

    ¡°Junior told me I¡¯m supposed to bury these under the angel and wait for a message. Thing is, there are, like, four billion angels in this cemetery.¡±


    Dulcie nods. ¡°That¡¯s a toughie.¡±


    ¡°I thought maybe you would know where? Like maybe that might fall under the category of special angel-privy info you could share?¡±


    She leans back, crosses her legs and swings one out, touching me lightly each time with her boot. ¡°I told you, Cameron, I¡¯m just a messenger.¡±


    I put my hands up. ¡°Fine. Junior Webster wanted me to bury these sunglasses under the angel? I¡¯m on it. If this doesn¡¯t work, I really don¡¯t give a shit anymore. Move your feet.¡±


    Dulcie sweeps her boots to one side. I make a small hole in the fresh dirt of the soldier¡¯s grave, drop in the sunglasses, and cover them up. I wipe my hands on my jeans and sit beside Dulcie to wait. Gulls circle overhead, crying. After five minutes, I check the ground, but there¡¯s nothing.


    ¡°So where¡¯s this secret message?¡±


    ¡°Beats me,¡± she says, dipping into a secret stash of ChocoYums. ¡°But I love the not knowing. The sense of mystery. Don¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°No. I really, really don¡¯t.¡± We sit quietly for another minute or two. My butt hurts and all I want to do is leave. ¡°Should we say something? Are there some, like, magic words that could speed this along?¡±


    Dulcie puts her hands out like a magician about to levitate a rabbit. ¡°Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto.¡± She shrugs. ¡°I heard that on the radio once.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s it. I¡¯m out of here.¡± I stand up and promptly trip over a large rock on the path. Under the rock is a scrap from today¡¯s newspaper, the classified section.


    ¡°Did you find it?¡± Dulcie asks, peering down at me from her new perch at the top of the willow tree. She¡¯s totally showing off.


    ¡°Could you let me read this, please?¡±


    She mimes a zipper over her lips, and I scan the section of newspaper. It¡¯s all a random jumble:


    HERE AND THEN NOT¡ªMYSTERY OF THE COPENHAGEN INTERPRETATION SOLVED! NEW PHOTOS OF LONG-LOST INUIT BAND FISHING IN SNOW.


    BUY NOW. VALHALLA YARD GNOMES¡ªLAWN ORNAMENTS FIT FOR A GOD.


    DEAR TOBIAS, I FORGIVE YOU. TO ERR IS HUMAN; TO LIVE, DIVINE. LET US LIVE TOGETHER FOR THE REST OF OUR DAYS. I WISH IT TO BE.


    NEED A RIDE TO THE YA! PARTY HOUSE? WE¡¯VE GOT SPACE IN OUR CAR.


    THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS CORPORATION¡¯S TRAVEL OFFICE IS NOW OPEN.


    LOOKING FOR WORK? OUR OPERATIONS ARE EXPANDING! CALL UNITED SNOW GLOBE WHOLESALERS


    AT 1-800-555-1212.


    There are at least twenty different classifieds here, none of them particularly meaningful or helpful.


    ¡°This is hopeless,¡± I say.


    Dulcie¡¯s voice floats down from the tree. ¡°Keep looking. You¡¯ll find it.¡±


    ¡°Yeah? How do you know?¡±


    ¡°Because I believe in you, Cameron,¡± she says without a hint of sarcasm.


    I look again, and this time, way down in the right-hand corner, I see a tiny, illustrated ad for the Roadrunner Bus Company with their tagline: Follow the feather.


    ¡°Hey, is that it? Is this what Junior meant?¡± I start, but the willow tree¡¯s empty. Dulcie is already gone. A sudden gust of wind tears the paper from my hand and blows it far away. I¡¯m left with just a scrap. Two words: to live.


    CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


    In Which Junior Webster¡¯s Cryptic Message Does Not Become Any More Uncryptic, and the Worst Pictures Ever Taken of Us Are Circulated


    We¡¯re at the bus station, feeding my dad¡¯s credit card into the ticket machine. Our bus to Daytona is scheduled to leave in five minutes. I don¡¯t know if that¡¯s the bus we need to be on; I¡¯m just going off what I saw on the classifieds page. It mentioned the YA! Party House. The Party House is in Florida. There are three buses leaving this evening and one of them is headed to Daytona; ergo, we are headed to Daytona. I am divining my future based on a classified ad I found in a graveyard.


    ¡°So, you think this is part of the secret message?¡± Gonzo asks, looking at the newspaper scrap.


    ¡°Don¡¯t know, don¡¯t care right now,¡± I say. The ticket machine wheezes like an old man, coughing out two tickets to Florida in a painfully slow fashion.


    ¡°To live. Maybe he means too live,¡± Gonzo says, making a long ¡°i¡± sound. ¡°You know, like, like, hey, cats and kittens, it¡¯s all too live,¡± he says, adopting a hipster voice.


    ¡°Or maybe it¡¯s just bullshit. To live? That¡¯s not a secret message. That¡¯s a fortune cookie.¡±

 Page 57

    ¡°Maybe he meant you needed to live. Maybe he¡¯s telling you Dr. X will cure you and everything will be okay. Dude, I¡¯ll bet that¡¯s it!¡±


    Gonzo¡¯s face lights up now that he thinks he¡¯s solved the puzzle, but I just feel like some kind of jerk who¡¯s having a cosmic prank played on him. I wanted something concrete¡ªturn left at the Auto Mart. Dr. X¡¯s office is on the corner of Fifth and Main and you have an appointment at eleven o¡¯clock next Tuesday.


    Just as they¡¯re making the announcement for our bus, a couple of cops enter the station. At the sight of them, we automatically go low-profile, hiding at the back of a pack of people heading for the buses. They¡¯ve got a flyer they show to people in the station.


    ¡°Keep your head down,¡± I whisper to Gonzo. The cop stops to ask a lady with three small kids if she¡¯s ever seen these two guys, and I get a look over his shoulder. The flyer shows two very bad school photos of Gonzo and me under the word MISSING. I hate that picture of me. I look like a complete putz. But at least I¡¯m not sporting the ridiculous upper-lip peach fuzz Gonzo¡¯s got in his.


    ¡°Gonzo,¡± I say. ¡°Be cool. Those cops are looking for us. Blend in.¡±


    ¡°Blend in? Easy for you to say!¡±


    The line presses forward toward the bus. The driver opens up the metal jaw on the side and passengers hand over their suitcases for storage. Why do people have to travel with so much stuff? The cops are out here now, scouring the buses for two teens¡ªone a dwarf¡ªwho escaped from a hospital in Texas. I position Gonz in front of me so I can block his body with mine. Trouble is, he¡¯s wider than I am, and it makes it look like we¡¯re one of those Indian goddesses with lots of limbs. After what seems like forever, the driver opens the doors, and Gonzo and I nearly kill each other in our rush to reach the back of the bus, where we pile into our seats and slink down.


    ¡°Cover your face with your jacket. Pretend you¡¯re asleep,¡± I say.


    We bury ourselves under Windbreakers and backpacks so that only the tops of our heads show. People lumber on now, looking for seats. I peek over the top of my jacket to see the cop stepping into the aisle. He cranes his neck, looking for us, but there are too many people moving around to really see.


    The driver climbs on. ¡°Excuse me, Officer. If you¡¯re done, I got a schedule to get to.¡±


    The cop gives a last hard look, and I duck under the safety of my jacket. After a few seconds, I hear him thank the driver. The doors close with a hiss, sealing us in. The bus rolls out of the station, but my heartbeat doesn¡¯t get back to normal till we¡¯re far from the city limits of New Orleans.


    When he¡¯s ready to take a nap, the guy next to us lets us borrow his deck of cards. We eat RealFruit Lassos and play Texas Hold ¡¯Em and Jacks Are Wild. The bus bumps along the coast. Oil refineries send up plumes of toxic smoke. The smell, like rotten eggs mixed with cleaning fluid, makes me want to gag. A couple of shrimp boats bob on the water, the fishermen pulling up the soul of the sea in their heavy nets. I like watching the country roll by my window. I wish we¡¯d taken more vacations. I try to remember why we stopped. Dad got busy with work and Mom got busy looking busy and Jen and I started hating each other and next thing you know, we¡¯re a bunch of strangers totally uncomfortable being around each other. And who wants to go on vacation with a bunch of strangers?


    Gonzo deals out a new hand. The sky¡¯s getting darker. The lights in the bus kick on. Little cones of yellow-white shine down on our cards, making our hands look bleached out.


    ¡°You get a phone number from that German girl back in the graveyard?¡± I ask. ¡°I think she was hot for you.¡±


    Gonzo shakes his head. ¡°Not my type.¡±


    ¡°What? German? Tourist? Girl?¡±


    Gonzo flashes me a Don¡¯t Go There look.


    ¡°So what is your type?¡±


    He thinks for a minute. ¡°Sweet, but dangerous-looking. I like Southern accents. And tattoos.¡±


    I let out a sharp laugh. ¡°Tattoos? Whoa! Who¡¯da thunk it? The Gonzman likes ¡¯em a little tough.¡±


    He grins. ¡°You don¡¯t know everything about me, pendejo. I¡¯m a pretty complicated dude.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re, like, a totally open book, Gonz,¡± I say, laughing. ¡°I¡¯ve never met anybody more transparent in my life.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know me, dude,¡± he says, not smiling this time. Gonzo examines his cards, prepping for his next move. ¡°People always think they know other people, but they don¡¯t. Not really. I mean, maybe they know things about them, like they won¡¯t eat doughnuts or they like action movies or whatever. But they don¡¯t know what their friends do in their rooms alone at night or what happened to them when they were kids or if they feel f**ked up and sad for no reason at all.¡±

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    I¡¯ve got an image of Gonzo sitting in his room alone feeling f**ked up and sad and I hate it, because now I feel responsible for him in a way I didn¡¯t want to.


    ¡°You¡¯re not going to say something cheesy like ¡®people are like onions; they have lots of layers,¡¯ are you?¡±


    ¡°Just trying to have a conversation. Forget it, dude. Whatever. Just play.¡±


    He discards a two and I pick it up. I¡¯ve got a pair of twos and that¡¯s it. My cards suck.


    ¡°So, what¡¯s your type?¡± Gonzo asks a few minutes later.


    ¡°Wow, let me think. Um, anyone who would have me.¡± I put another card on the pile. What is my type? A brief image of Dulcie with her armor and pink hair comes unbidden to mind. I push it away. ¡°You know Staci Johnson?¡±


    ¡°Staci Johnson!¡± Gonzo snarls. ¡°Say it ain¡¯t so, dude! Staci Johnson is the devil¡¯s spawn!¡±


    ¡°I know, I know. She has no working brain cells, a subpar personality, and nothing interesting to say ever, unless you¡¯re into what happened last night on YA! TV. But once you make it past that, she¡¯s seriously fine. Yo, I discarded.¡±


    He ignores my card and draws from the stack. ¡°Staci Johnson. Dude. I feel like I need to shave my insides when you say that.¡± Gonzo organizes his cards, moving one from the end to the center of his hand. ¡°Well, maybe when you get back from Florida, you know? You¡¯ll have that whole road-trip mystique working for you. Plus you will have saved the world. That¡¯s gotta count.¡±


    ¡°And a tan,¡± I add, glancing at my flounder-belly-white arms.


    ¡°Tan works.¡±


    ¡°Also, I won¡¯t be dying. Hopefully.¡±


    ¡°Always helpful.¡± He fans his cards out on the table. ¡°Royal flush, Se?or Pajero. You owe me four bags of chips.¡±


    We¡¯ve been on the road for six hours when my right leg starts to twitch uncontrollably. The E-ticket¡¯s lost a little more color; Adventureland¡¯s totally gone, and the second line, Frontierland, is a hazy green. I cross my left leg over my right and put my backpack on top, hoping no one will notice, hoping the twitching will pass soon. The tremor travels. My right arm goes tight. I can¡¯t lift the sucker; it¡¯s like lead. Please don¡¯t let me have a seizure here. Please. Just let me make it to Florida. Out on the dark horizon, little bursts of flame pop up. They look just like the fire balls on top of the refineries. I even try to convince myself that that¡¯s what they are. But my gut says it¡¯s the fire giants out there. Getting stronger. Bigger. Waiting for me. My eyes get heavy watching them. The rhythm of the road lulls me to sleep.


    ¡°Cameron? I thought I¡¯d read some more of Don Quixote to you.¡± Mom¡¯s sitting beside me in my hospital bed, bathed in a pool of light. The curtains have been drawn sealing us into a little drapery cocoon. ¡°Would you like that?¡±


    Her voice wraps around me like a dryer-fresh blanket, and I drift in and out of the crazy knight¡¯s amusing adventures with Sancho Panza. ¡°¡®Take my advice and live for a long, long time,¡¯¡± Mom reads. ¡°¡®Because the maddest thing a man can do in this life is to let himself die.¡¯¡±


    After a while, Mom closes the book and strokes my hair. ¡°It¡¯s kind of nice, reading to you again,¡± she says. ¡°Do you remember when you were a kid and in the summers we would go to the library? I¡¯d let you pick out five books, and you could never wait till we got home. We¡¯d have to find a corner and sit and read them all before we left the library.¡±


    Why don¡¯t I remember that? How could my mom and I have shared the same experience but I don¡¯t remember it?


    ¡°Why did we stop doing that?¡± Mom wonders aloud. ¡°We just stopped going. You didn¡¯t want to, I think. And I was afraid of pushing you. I was always afraid of saying the wrong thing, so I stopped talking.¡±


    Mom¡¯s crying a little bit, quietly, the way she always does. She never utters a sound even when she¡¯s crying, and that makes me a little sad. Doesn¡¯t seem right. When you cry, people should hear you. The world should stop. I squeeze Mom¡¯s hand and she squeezes back. I don¡¯t say anything, but at least she knows I¡¯ve heard her.


    People drift in and out in my dream like actors in a play. Eubie comes to visit. He slips headphones on my ears so I can hear ¡°Cypress Grove Blues,¡± and I want to tell him that I¡¯ve been to New Orleans, that I¡¯ve seen Junior Webster, that I played bass for him, but it¡¯s a dream, and the words won¡¯t come. At one point, Dad sits on my bed, reading to me from a physics paper he¡¯s grading that¡¯s about supercolliders.

 Page 59

    In the corner, the muted TV plays the same cartoon of the roadrunner and coyote chasing each other in and out of doors. The last thing I see is the old lady from across the hall standing at the foot of my bed. She¡¯s dressed in a coat and hat and has a little suitcase with her.


    ¡°A house by the sea. Don¡¯t forget.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t,¡± I say, but I¡¯m not sure anyone hears me.


    And on TV, the coyote waits for the anvil to fall.


    CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


    Wherein the Angel Discusses the Wonders of Microwave Popcorn and Gonzo Gets Our Asses Stranded in the Middle of Nowhere


    When I wake up, it¡¯s morning, early. The light hasn¡¯t been up much longer than I have. People are asleep. Their heads rest against the windows and seat backs, their jaws spread wide, like the arms of a can opener left on a counter. Through the thin, wet layer of dew on my own window, the countryside rolls past. We¡¯re in Mississippi or maybe Alabama.


    A gray mist sits on the rooftops of little tar-paper shacks where clotheslines are strung across the front yards. The shirts catch the breeze like they wish they could sail on out of there, out of those small, junky yards with their rusted car shells and broken-down plastic toys. I breathe on the window a few times, watch it fog over and retreat, fog over and retreat.


    I like the feel of the road under me. The solid thump-thumpthumpthump-thump drum cadence of those big tires. Gonzo¡¯s out cold next to me, that big head of his resting on my shoulder. He mumbles in his sleep, and I wonder what dreams he has.


    ¡°Peekaboo.¡± Dulcie¡¯s face peers over the seat in front of me.


    ¡°What are you doing here?¡± I ask, looking around.


    ¡°There¡¯s some welcome.¡±


    ¡°Look, it¡¯s just ¡­¡± I lower my voice. ¡°I don¡¯t want people to think I¡¯m opening up a six-pack of crazy here on the bus. I¡¯ll get kicked off.¡±


    ¡°Looks like everybody¡¯s sleeping.¡±


    ¡°Can anybody else see you besides me?¡± I ask.


    ¡°I suppose they could if they wanted to, but maybe what they see isn¡¯t what you see,¡± Dulcie answers in her typically cryptic fashion. ¡°Hey, check it out.¡± She unfurls her wings slightly. Cameron rock, they read.


    ¡°Shouldn¡¯t there be an ¡®s¡¯ at the end? Cameron rocks?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. I ran out of spray paint. But the sentiment is one hundred percent there.¡± She rests her chin on the seat top and grips the sides with her hands. It makes her look like she¡¯s been beheaded. ¡°You seem a little tired, cowboy.¡±


    ¡°Weird dreams,¡± I say.


    ¡°Want to tell me about it? The doctor is in.¡±


    ¡°Just stuff about my mom. She was talking about how she used to take me to the library when I was a kid, and I didn¡¯t remember that at all. But just as I woke up, I did remember it. Crystal clear I could see myself sitting in my mom¡¯s lap over near the water fountain, and she was reading some rhyming book about monsters to me. She had on sandals and she smelled good, like shampoo. And I was happy. How did I manage to forget that?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a nice memory,¡± Dulcie says.


    We listen to the road thumpity-thumping beneath us, and for a few minutes it feels like we¡¯re the only two beings in the entire universe.


    ¡°Do you have some nice memories?¡± I ask, offering her some Cheesy Puff Fingers from our open bag. ¡°You know, from before you were ¡­¡± I gesture to her wings in a completely ineffectual way. ¡°You know.¡±


    Dulcie gets a funny little smile. ¡°I¡¯m making a nice memory right now.¡±


    ¡°Now?¡±


    ¡°Here. With you.¡± She downs two Cheesy Puff Fingers.


    ¡°But what were you before you were an angel?¡± I press.


    She takes a sip of my warm soda, makes a face. ¡°Does it matter?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. I think it does.¡±


    ¡°Okay, then,¡± she says, taking another drink from the can. ¡°I was somebody else.¡±


    ¡°What does that mean?¡± I say, getting pissed off. ¡°Did you have parents? A dog? A parakeet? A Social Security number? Can you remember? How do you feel? Is there a God? What happens when we die? Will I be like you, spray-painting my wings with misspelled messages and guiding people on stupid, insane missions?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not stupid, Cameron,¡± she says softly.


    ¡°I¡¯m out here on the road looking for some renegade miracle man, totally sticking my neck out for you, and you can¡¯t even answer one single f**king question!¡±


    The guy across the aisle opens one eye for half a second, then turns over, and I lower my voice. ¡°I think you owe me that.¡±

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    Dulcie wipes her mouth, but some of the Day-Glo cheese powder clings to her lip. ¡°All right. I¡¯ll answer one of your questions.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°I feel like I swallowed a Magritte.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    Dulcie reaches in for another Cheesy Puff Finger. ¡°You asked me how I feel. And my answer is: I feel like I swallowed a Magritte. Like on the inside, I¡¯m made of clouds and floating eyes, green apples, and slowly rising men in bowler hats.¡±


    ¡°You are officially the most annoying unreal creature ever.¡±


    ¡°Meet a lot of us, do you?¡±


    ¡°Lately it¡¯s gotten very weird.¡±


    ¡°Cameron.¡± She puts her hand on my arm. ¡°The point is, you¡¯re alive right now. Look around.¡± She widens her arms to include the sleeping passengers. ¡°Half the people I see aren¡¯t really aware. They aren¡¯t in the game at all. They never notice how fabulous stuff here is.¡±


    ¡°Like what?¡±


    ¡°Like ¡­¡± She thinks for a few seconds. ¡°Microwave popcorn.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re kidding.¡±


    ¡°Think about it. You put this flat bag of kernels in the hopper, wait four minutes ¡­¡± She opens her mouth and taps her fingers against her taut cheeks, making a popping sound. ¡°And voila! You¡¯ve got a steaming bag of buttery goodness right there.¡±


    ¡°This is your miracle of human existence?¡±


    ¡°No. But it doesn¡¯t suck. It¡¯s a simple pleasure, okay? You got any of those?¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± I say.


    She folds her arms over her armored chest. ¡°Such as?¡±


    ¡°Masturbation.¡±


    ¡°Yeah? What else?¡±


    I think about it for a good, long minute. ¡°Eubie¡¯s.¡±


    Dulcie sits, waiting. ¡°And?¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t think of anything else.¡±


    ¡°Well, how about pizza¡ªin-restaurant, not delivery. Water fountains. That chill on your arms when you go from an air-conditioned movie theater into the heat. The smell of Laundromats. Snow. CDs ¡­¡±


    ¡°No, not CDs, records. Gotta be vinyl.¡±


    ¡°Vinyl, then. What else?¡±


    ¡°You know I hate that you¡¯ve drawn me into this, don¡¯t you?¡± The morning light¡¯s falling on Dulcie in a way that makes her glow, and I have the impulse to say, This. Right here. Right now.


    I shrug. ¡°That¡¯s all I got.¡±


    She shakes her head. ¡°We¡¯ve got work to do, Bucko.¡±


    The bus driver¡¯s got his signal on. We¡¯re exiting.


    Dulcie gets up. ¡°That¡¯s my cue.¡±


    ¡°So, like ¡­ when will I see you again?¡±


    ¡°Soon,¡± she says, ducking into the john. ¡°Get out there and make some memories, cowboy. Oh, and don¡¯t forget to save the universe.¡±


    Five minutes later, the bus pulls into a rest-stop area. The sign welcomes us to the fine state of Mississippi. A bunch of eighteen-wheelers are parked near the gas pumps. The bus comes to a stop and the driver opens the doors. ¡°Y¡¯all wanna stretch your legs, get some air, go ¡¯head. Just be back on this bus in ten minutes. I got a schedule to keep.¡±


    Gonzo and I pile out with the rest of the road-weary passengers and head for the big green MegaMart across the parking lot.


    ¡°Awww, dude! They¡¯ve got the Mega XL Death Captain Carnage!¡± He runs for the bank of video games beside the tiny ATM machine. ¡°This is just the most awesome game ever! If you get to level three, you get a special battleax that lets you slice-and-dice your way through nursery rhyme characters. Sweet! Hey, you got a buck?¡±


    I give Gonz the dollar and in another minute I hear him killing beloved storybook characters with glee. There¡¯s an explosion, and the dish yells, ¡°Run away, Spoon! Save yourself!¡± I use the ATM. Buy a few more snacks. Get some change.


    ¡°Gonzo¡ª¡± I start to ask if I can use his phone, but I know he¡¯s terrified of using up his minutes. ¡°Listen, I gotta make a call. Keep an eye on the bus, okay?¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± he says, eyes glazed.


    Around the back is a pay phone. I drop in my coins and punch in the digits I know best. On the fourth ring, Jenna¡¯s sleepy voice answers.


    ¡°Hello?¡±


    ¡°Jenna?¡±


    ¡°Cameron? Oh my God, is that you? Where are you?¡±


    ¡°Shhh, don¡¯t wake up Mom and Dad.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± she says. And I know how hard it is for her to break the good-girl code for me. The line buzzes with static and the occasional click. ¡°How are you?¡±

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    ¡°I¡¯m okay. How is everybody there?¡±


    ¡°Mom and Dad are completely freaked. They put posters up all over town. And people have these brown and white ribbons on their trees that they say they¡¯re not taking down till you come home again.¡±


    ¡°Brown and white?¡±


    ¡°Like a cow.¡± She sucks in her breath. ¡°The cops are looking for you, Cameron. They traced your credit card to New Orleans. Cameron, why don¡¯t you just come home? Please?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t do that, Jenna. Not until I find the guy who can cure me.¡±


    ¡°What are you talking about? What guy?¡± She sounds like she¡¯s about to cry.


    ¡°It¡¯s ¡­ complicated. But I promise I¡¯m okay. Listen, Jenna, I need you to do me a favor.¡±


    There¡¯s a pause. The line is really bad. ¡°Okay.¡±


    ¡°Just let Mom and Dad know I¡¯m okay. I¡¯ll call back as soon as I can. I promise. I ¡­¡±


    Another phone picks up.


    ¡°Cameron? Cameron! Is that you? Where are you?¡± It¡¯s Dad¡¯s voice. In the background, I hear Mom telling him to let her talk. ¡°Cameron, just tell us where you are and we¡¯ll come pick you up. We love you. We¡ª¡±


    More clicks. A finger comes down on the clicker. ¡°They¡¯re tracing the call.¡± Dulcie¡¯s standing there. Something serious in her eyes makes me obey. Slowly, I put the receiver back into its cradle.


    ¡°You have to let them go, Cam. You have to move forward. You¡¯ve got a mission.¡±


    ¡°I know that, okay?¡± I explode. ¡°Just leave me alone, would you?¡±


    ¡°Leave you alone?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Totally alone?¡±


    ¡°Yes! God.¡±


    She bites her bottom lip. ¡°Okay. See you around, cowboy.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. See you.¡±


    I run across the parking lot to the bathroom island and push my way into the filthy hole of a men¡¯s room. The E-ticket scratches against my arm. Frontierland¡¯s gone even lighter, the lettering getting hard to read. How much time do I have left? In the cracked mirror, I look like Grade-D crap¡ªpale and stubbly.


    ¡°What the f**k are you doing?¡± I ask my fractured reflection. Tears sting at my eyes. A big guy in cowboy boots comes in and I splash water on my face.


    Out in the parking lot, two trucks gas up at the pumps. A family eats their fast-food meals in their station wagon with the windows rolled down. Two guys stand by a stack of tires, away from the pumps, smoking like a couple of idiots. And over where the bus was parked earlier, I see nothing but a big empty space.


    No. No, no, no, no, no.


    I push through the MegaMart doors so hard, the bell jangles like it¡¯s caffeinated. Gonzo¡¯s still at the Captain Carnage game.


    ¡°Gonzo!¡± I snarl.


    ¡°Dude, not now! The Teddy Vamps are on me.¡±


    ¡°I thought you were watching the bus!¡±


    ¡°The bus?¡± He doesn¡¯t take his eyes off the game.


    ¡°Yeah. You know, that long, rectangular vehicle that gets our asses out of here and is nowhere to be seen?¡±


    Gonzo finally looks up, wide-eyed.


    ¡°Yeah, exactly,¡± I say.


    We race outside to the parking lot and stand in the empty space where there used to be a bus to Florida.


    Gonzo swallows hard. ¡°It¡¯s ¡­¡±


    ¡°¡­ gone,¡± I finish. ¡°Congratulations. We are officially f**ked.¡±


    CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


    Wherein We Take a Van Ride with Possible Serial Killers


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand. I looked outside, like, maybe two seconds before and it was there, dude. I swear.¡±


    ¡°Two seconds,¡± I repeat.


    ¡°I swear!¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s go to the replay. Hmmm, oh, looks like maybe Gonzo was so busy smoking Little Miss Muffet he forgot. To watch. For the damn. Bus!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he says, hanging his head like a little kid who just peed on your carpet by mistake.


    ¡°Just keep looking for signs of civilization.¡±


    We¡¯re on a dirt road in the middle of freakin¡¯ nowhere. So far, we¡¯ve passed a farm that stank to high heaven, some cotton fields, and four ancient husks of tractors getting their rust tans in the sun. It¡¯s bright and the heat¡¯s beating hard on the back of my neck.


    ¡°Try calling her again,¡± Gonzo says.


    ¡°I¡¯ve tried. She¡¯s not coming.¡± I started yelling for Dulcie the minute we realized the bus was truly gone and we were on our own. But I guess she¡¯s taking that ¡°leave me alone¡± edict seriously.

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    ¡°Where are we, anyway?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I say, wiping the sweat from my forehead with my arm. ¡°Somewhere in Mississippi. Fuck!¡± I kick at a stone in the road, sending it skittering away through a cloud of dust.


    Gonzo starts coughing. ¡°Dude, I can¡¯t breathe right.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you dare panic on me,¡± I warn.


    ¡°I¡¯m not,¡± Gonzo squeaks, holding back a cough that barrels out anyway. ¡°Look, I¡¯ll just call my mom,¡± he says, whipping out his cell.


    ¡°Yeah. Absolutely. Wouldn¡¯t want to go another step without input from Mom.¡±


    Gonzo ignores my snarkiness. ¡°You said if there was an emergency, amigo. This counts as an emergency, right?¡± Before I can stop him, he pushes number one on his speed dial and in a second I hear him saying, ¡°Mom? ?Mam¨ª? S¨ª. Es Gonzo. Jeez, don¡¯t cry, Mom. I¡¯m fine. I promise.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, Mom,¡± I say to the air. ¡°We¡¯re just stuck on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere with no idea where we are or how to get out of here. Everything¡¯s great! Wish you were here!¡±


    Gonzo peels away from me. ¡°Listen, Mom, we need a little money. ¡­ I what? I sound sick? No. I feel fine. S¨ª.¡± He coughs. ¡°It¡¯s just dry. No, it¡¯s not pneumonia, Mom. No, I ¡­ yeah, I¡¯ve got my inhaler. The prescription¡¯s not more than three months old. Do you think I should get it refilled?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re all gonna die! Die! Die!¡± For Gonzo¡¯s benefit, I put my hands to my throat, stick out my tongue, and fall to the ground, spazzing.


    He covers the mouthpiece of the phone with his hand. ¡°Dude, that shit is so not funny. Mom? What do you mean the tests were inconclusive?¡±


    I can¡¯t deal. I wander off the road into the cool grass and let the long, tall blades skim my fingertips. There are a few cows out grazing. They look up, chewing, but I¡¯m not grass, so they ignore me. I inch closer to one. It¡¯s got big wet nostrils that sniff the air around me. Its tail flicks at the flies. We¡¯re nose to nose. She seems soft, and I reach out a hand to stroke her fur, which is warm from the sun. She lets me do it, just goes on munching grass while I smooth my hand across her wide back.


    ¡°How now, mad cow?¡± I say.


    ¡°Cameron!¡± Gonzo calls out.


    ¡°Catch you later, Bessie,¡± I say to the cow, who eats another mouthful of grass in response.


    When I reach Gonzo, he¡¯s pacing, and his face is sweaty. ¡°I knew I shouldn¡¯t have come on this trip,¡± he says, and he looks like he could cry. ¡°My mom said they found this spot on my lung on the chest X-ray. It could just be a blip on the film or a cyst¡ªor it could be something really bad, like cancer or a mutant virus or bacteria.¡±


    ¡°Or it could be your mom freaking out over nothing.¡±


    I offer him my hand, but he crawls over to his backpack in the grass and fishes out his inhaler. He pulls deep on it, but he¡¯s having a hard time calming down. He stands, trying to shake it off. ¡°A spot! That doesn¡¯t sound good. What do you think that could mean?¡±


    I grab Gonzo¡¯s shoulders a little too hard because he is annoying the crap out of me. ¡°I have bad news, man. You¡¯re going to live. Deal with it.¡±


    He twists out of my grip. ¡°I think we should go back, Cameron.¡±


    ¡°No way. I¡¯m not going back.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t go back by myself, dude. I could be dying.¡± He pulls deep on his inhaler again.


    ¡°You¡¯re not the one who¡¯s dying, Gonzo!¡± I¡¯d like to kick his ass all the way to Florida. He gives me that wounded-puppy look, effectively killing my karate fantasy. ¡°Doesn¡¯t she do this to you all the time?¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Scare the bejesus out of you?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s looking out for me, okay? You don¡¯t know her, Cameron. I shouldn¡¯ta left like that. Like my dad.¡±


    ¡°You ever think there was a reason your dad left?¡±


    He kicks at a pebble in the road. It skitters sideways into the long grass and disappears. ¡°Me.¡±


    ¡°Maybe it wasn¡¯t you.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s the best thing in my life. I know that.¡±


    I should just shut up. But I¡¯m so pissed off¡ªabout the bus, about the cows, about Gonzo¡¯s crazy mom, about everything¡ªthat I just want to slice and dice. ¡°Well, that¡¯s pretty damn sad, then. You ever think that maybe the best thing in your life would be to get the hell away from her before she turns you into a complete emotional cripple?¡±

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    Gonzo¡¯s left eye twitches. His mouth goes slack. And then he comes running at me full speed, swinging hard. ¡°Just shut up, man, shut the hell up! You don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about!¡±


    He lands a solid punch to my stomach, and that sucker hurts. I¡¯m doubled over, hoping my breath will have a return engagement with my lungs.


    ¡°Say you¡¯re sorry, pendejo!¡±


    ¡°Sorry,¡± I squeak out.


    He backs off, but he¡¯s still way pissed. ¡°My mom has given up a lot to raise me. She was supposed to be a singer.¡±


    ¡°Okay. I believe you.¡± When I¡¯m able to stand, I hand him his backpack. He stuffs his arms angrily through the straps. ¡°Did you ask her to do that?¡±


    ¡°Ask her to do what?¡± he says, giving a little hop to secure his pack.


    ¡°Give up her life for you.¡±


    He looks confused for a second. ¡°That¡¯s not the point. Look, just drop it, dude.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s dropped.¡±


    We start walking. In the field, I see the old lady, Mrs. Morae, from the hospital. She¡¯s sitting in a chair, holding on to her IV pole, like she¡¯s at a bus stop, waiting. Her face is grave. ¡°Watch out,¡± she warns.


    ¡°I will,¡± I say.


    She smiles at me. ¡°In a house by the sea with the air scented of lilies.¡±


    ¡°Dude, who are you talking to?¡± Gonzo¡¯s face is right in mine. I slide my eyes to the right, but the old lady is gone.


    The pins-and-needles sensation burns in my legs. ¡°No one,¡± I say. ¡°Just keep your eyes peeled for a car or a bus. Something other than gravel and dust.¡±


    We amble down the dirt road till we hit an old paved road that at least has a route sign. There¡¯s nothing coming in either direction yet.


    Gonzo¡¯s still riled up. ¡°I had appendicitis when I was eight, and she had to leave an audition to rush me to the ER. Okay?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure she¡¯s a good mom.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s great. A great mom. When we get to a town, I¡¯m out of here. I¡¯m going back, dude. If the world ends, it ends. You¡¯re on your own.¡±


    ¡°Whatever. Just keeping looking, all right?¡± I walk left and Gonzo goes right.


    I feel like I¡¯ve been swallowing stones. My muscles ache and my legs are heavy. The air is thick with the smells of cow dung, tractor exhaust, road dust, flowers, and something else. My eyes sting and my throat¡¯s irritated. Smoke. Could be crops burning. Small brush fire, maybe. So why is the hair on the back of my neck creeping to attention?


    I whirl around, searching for the source. In the distance, Gonzo¡¯s silhouette flickers around the edges, distorted by the squiggles of heat rising from the road. I start to call out, but my feet are summer-sidewalk hot. I hop back just as small puncture holes pop up along the ground. There¡¯s a hiss from below, and before I can shout a warning, the asphalt splits open with the force of a geyser. Steam, smoke, and flames shoot into the sky. The force of it knocks me back a few feet. I land hard, feeling the sting as my shirt is torn and my back is bloodied by gravel. One by one, the fire giants crawl out of the broken road and push themselves up. In the time it takes me to gasp, they zoom up to about eight feet and fan out into positions like loyal soldiers. The way ahead is consumed by an orange wall of heat.


    ¡°Gonzo!¡± I yell, but I can¡¯t see him. It¡¯s too bright.


    The fire giants stare down at me with their baleful eyes, and I feel myself sinking. I don¡¯t even know how to fight these guys. There¡¯s a stick on the road. I grab it and start swinging, Star Fighter style. The fire gods seem to find it amusing. They throw their heads back in a laughing howl that makes me shiver. One of them darts his head forward and flicks a serpentlike tongue around the stick. A red glow shoots up the wood. With a hiss, I drop it fast and it disintegrates.


    Several slink forward on all fours and sniff me. One growls. They¡¯re through f**king around. Their breath heats my skin. Suddenly, they pull up short. A van¡¯s cruising down the road. The sun¡¯s reflecting off the windshield. I have to put my hand to my eyes to block the glare.


    ¡°Hey!¡± I shout, waving my arms. ¡°Over here! Help!¡±


    I try to crawl toward it, but a fire giant blows me back. My body screams in pain as I tumble along the pavement. I try to get up but I can¡¯t.


    ¡°Gonzo!¡± I croak.


    The fire god pries open my mouth and covers it with his. He breathes out, filling my lungs with choking smoke. My body shakes. Somebody¡¯s pushing against my chest in a hard rhythm.


    ¡°Page Dr. Xavier!¡± Glory shouts. I¡¯m on a gurney, watching the fluorescent ceiling lights strobe over me fast. Mom¡¯s running alongside, trying to keep one hand on the metal rail. She looks worried. I¡¯m pushed through wide doors. More lights. Hard on my eyes. God, my body hurts so bad. Like I¡¯m being burned with lit matches.

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    I fight to clear my head.


    ¡°Give me suction now!¡± somebody calls. And then I hear my name again and again.


    ¡°Cameron!¡± It¡¯s Gonzo¡¯s yelling. He¡¯s running up the road. ¡°Dude¡ªwatch out!¡±


    The next thing I know, I¡¯m on the pavement of Farm Route 44 with a van headed right for me. I shut my eyes tight. There¡¯s a screech of braking tires. I can smell the scorched rubber and the pungent mix of hot gasoline and motor oil. When I open my eyes, my head is an inch from the front bumper. I see feet running toward me.


    ¡°Is he okay?¡± A girl crouches next to me. She¡¯s pretty in a neohippie sort of way. Her T-shirt reads CESSNAB CRUSADERS.


    A guy in a baseball cap comes over and checks me out, shining a little flashlight in my eyes, checking my pupils. He¡¯s got the same CESSNAB shirt on. They all do. ¡°You¡¯re lucky you weren¡¯t killed, friend. Can you stand up?¡±


    The guy helps me to my feet, but I¡¯m shaking all over and I have to lean against him to walk.


    ¡°Easy there, friend. Do you live around here? Where are your parents?¡±


    ¡°Holy shit!¡± Gonzo says, running up. ¡°Dude, you okay?¡±


    The guy in the baseball cap frowns. ¡°Friend, could I ask you to watch your language? There are ladies present.¡±


    Gonzo looks like somebody just took the pudding snack out of his lunch box. ¡°Uh, sure. Sorry.¡±


    ¡°I think you should come back with us,¡± the guy says, turning back to me. ¡°We¡¯ve got a doctor at our compound who can make sure you don¡¯t have a concussion or something else nasty, okay?¡±


    I nod and it¡¯s like a tiny revolver has fired inside my skull, pinging every part of my head with pain bullets.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name, friend?¡±


    ¡°Why do you want to know?¡± Gonzo asks.


    The guy holds up his hands. ¡°I only want to help, friend.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m Cameron,¡± I say. ¡°And this is Gonzo.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m Daniel.¡± The guy shakes my hand, which also hurts. He introduces the others, including the hippie girl, whose name is Ruth. ¡°I¡¯m just gonna move stuff around, get the van ready. Be right back.¡±


    Gonzo grabs hold of my arm and my skin screams in protest. ¡°Cam, dude, I don¡¯t think we should get in the van. We don¡¯t know these guys. They could be serial killers.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re not serial killers. They have matching shirts.¡±


    ¡°Think: who has vans, huh? Soccer moms and serial killers. They mentioned a compound. And ¡®getting the van ready.¡¯ Ready for what?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re tripping.¡±


    ¡°Dude. I¡¯m not getting in that van.¡±


    The dust on the road stings my eyes. I¡¯m hungry and tired and scared. ¡°Then stay here. I¡¯m going with them.¡±


    A smiling Daniel ambles over and puts his arm around me. ¡°Don¡¯t worry. We¡¯ll take good care of you, Cameron.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve got snacks in the van,¡± Ruth says. ¡°I¡¯ll bet you could use a snack.¡±


    They belt me into a seat in back. Gonzo¡¯s still on the side of the road, looking panicked. ¡°Cameron, don¡¯t you think we should wait here till your aunt and uncle come to pick us up? You know, your aunt and uncle, who are supposed to meet us out here any minute?¡±


    ¡°We can have them pick you up at the CESSNAB,¡± Daniel says. I don¡¯t know what a CESSNAB is and I don¡¯t care. Right now, I just want to drink a vat of water and lie down for about two days. I can barely hold my head up.


    Daniel extends a hand to Gonzo. ¡°You coming, friend?¡±


    Ruth smiles. ¡°We¡¯ll take you bowling.¡±


    Gonzo¡¯s revving as hard as the engine, like he doesn¡¯t know whether to be more freaked out about getting in the van with a bunch of possible serial killers or to take his chances alone by the side of a road in Godonlyknowswhere, Mississippi. I decide that Possible Serial Killers would make a good band name. I promise myself if I¡¯m cured, I¡¯ll start that band.


    ¡°Okay,¡± Gonzo says, climbing in at last. ¡°But I want to sit by the door.¡±


    CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


    Of What Happens When I Bowl a Perfect Strike and Learn Not to Hurt My Happiness


    Once we hit the road, the Possible Serial Killers start to sing a song I don¡¯t know. Something about showing your happiness and loving your happiness and defending your happiness. One of the guys tries to ad-lib some ¡°oh yeah¡¯s¡± until Ruth frowns and tells him it¡¯s ¡°a little competitive¡± and ¡°off message¡± and he stops.

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    I polish off a huge bag of pretzels and a big bottle of water, then fall asleep. When I wake up, we¡¯re driving up to a sprawling, glass-and-stone building on about a gazillion acres of land. At the far end is a bank with three drive-thru lanes. Everything is new. You can practically smell the paint. And out on the lawn is a big sign that reads CHURCH OF EVERLASTING SATISFACTION AND SNACK-¡¯N¡¯-BOWL.


    The van pulls into a freshly paved parking lot. The white lines are sharp. The whole place seems to sparkle. Gonzo¡¯s the first one out when the doors slide open. He¡¯s still in serial killer mode. Daniel gives me a hand getting to the door of the building. He punches in an elaborate alarm code and we walk in past two uniformed security guards. Daniel calls to them by name.


    ¡°Hey, Peter. Hey, Matthew.¡±


    They wave and get back to their heavy task of watching the mostly empty parking lot.


    ¡°How are you feeling?¡± Daniel asks.


    ¡°Better. Tired.¡±


    Daniel smiles, pats my back. ¡°You¡¯ve come to the right spot for healing. You¡¯ll see.¡±


    At first, I think we¡¯re in a mall. There¡¯s a food court with about six different kinds of cuisine. Fake ferns. A water fountain. And a bunch of stores. They all have CESSNAB in the name. CESSNAB Shirts. CESSNAB Tunes. CESSNAB Sports. CESSNAB Kids. CESSNAB Tech. There¡¯s even a CESSNAB Tattoo, where you can get forty-two variations on CESSNAB in different fonts or a bowling ball with wings on the side.


    ¡°What¡¯s CESSNAB?¡± I ask.


    ¡°It¡¯s this place.¡± Daniel spreads his arms wide. ¡°It stands for Church of Everlasting Satisfaction and Snack ¡¯N¡¯ Bowl.¡±


    ¡°So it¡¯s a church?¡± I say quickly.


    ¡°It¡¯s everything. Stores. School. Bowling alley. We¡¯ve got everything we need right here. Cool, huh?¡±


    Ruth falls in beside us. ¡°Do you want a CESSNAB smoothie? They¡¯re so good!¡±


    ¡°Great idea, Ruth. Cameron¡ªwhat flavor do you want? Strawberry?¡±


    ¡°Banana?¡± Ruth interjects.


    ¡°Uh, you know. Whatever.¡±


    Daniel and Ruth smile. ¡°Strawberry-banana!¡± they say at the same time. Daniel goes off to the CESSNAB Smoothies stand and comes back with four tall take-out cups. ¡°Strawberry-banana.¡±


    Daniel offers a cup to Gonzo. ¡°Gonzo?¡±


    Gonzo glares at them. ¡°No thanks. I¡¯m, uh, allergic to strawberries,¡± he says, which is total bullshit, I¡¯m sure.


    ¡°Gonz, they¡¯re not serial killers. And this is not going to kill you. It¡¯s a smoothie, okay?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m allergic,¡± he says emphatically.


    ¡°Thanks,¡± I say, taking mine. I drink about half. ¡°Huh. Weird.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± Ruth asks.


    ¡°It tastes just like vanilla.¡±


    ¡°Oh, they¡¯re all vanilla,¡± Ruth says. ¡°At first, we gave people a choice. But then we found they didn¡¯t like the blueberry as much as they thought they would or they wished they had gotten the strawberry instead, just like their best friends did. It was a big bummer. So we simplified things for them. Now, they can order whatever they want, but in the end, it¡¯s all the same flavor. You¡¯re guaranteed the same experience every single time. And you¡¯re having the same experience as everybody else. Cuts down on things like dissatisfaction, envy, competitiveness, longing, regret. All that bad stuff.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Huh.¡± I take another sip. The vanilla¡¯s good, actually. Thick and creamy. I don¡¯t really miss the strawberry and banana that much, I guess. I offer a sip to Gonzo, who glares at me.


    ¡°If you want more, it¡¯s no problem,¡± Daniel says. ¡°There¡¯s plenty for everybody. Part of the philosophy¡ªno wanting or waiting. No one has to feel dissatisfied. Here, everybody is gratified all the time.¡±


    Ruth¡¯s face goes dark. ¡°Except for some people.¡±


    Daniel sighs but it turns into yet another smile. ¡°Some people have a hard time with our beliefs. They have a hard time letting go of the negative.¡± He makes a pushing away motion with his hands, and Ruth follows suit. ¡°And embracing the positive.¡± They cross their arms over their chests like they¡¯re hugging themselves. ¡°So they leave and go out there again.¡±


    ¡°So stupid,¡± Ruth says.


    ¡°Troubled,¡± Daniel corrects. ¡°They¡¯re our troubled friends, Ruth, remember.¡±


    Ruth nods. ¡°Troubled.¡±


    ¡°No negative thoughts here.¡±


    ¡°None,¡± Ruth says, beaming. ¡°We are happy 24/7. Don¡¯t hurt your happiness.¡±

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    ¡°Don¡¯t hurt your happiness,¡± Daniel echoes. ¡°Here, it¡¯s on our key chains. Have one.¡±


    He hands me a bright yellow key chain with DON¡¯T HURT YOUR HAPPINESS in flowing, white script.


    ¡°Thanks,¡± I say. I¡¯m feeling better.


    An alarm sounds. On the walls, domed lights flare red. Gonzo drops to the ground and covers his head with his hands. ¡°I told you, Cameron! Didn¡¯t I tell you?¡±


    Suddenly, the room is flooded by guys in commando gear. ¡°Move, move, move!¡± they shout. They pass us by and surround a yellow sofa, where a young guy sits in his pajamas.


    ¡°Team leader! We¡¯ve got a situation!¡± one of the commandos shouts.


    ¡°Excuse me, Cameron,¡± Daniel says. He goes over to the kid on the couch. ¡°Thomas, what¡¯s wrong, friend?¡±


    ¡°Uh, I don¡¯t know. I just started feeling ¡­¡± He searches for the word. ¡°Sad.¡±


    Daniel gives Thomas¡¯s shoulders a squeeze and the kid winces. ¡°We don¡¯t feel sad, here, Thomas. Why do you want to hurt your happiness?¡±


    ¡°I totally don¡¯t! I don¡¯t know what happened. It¡¯s like I just couldn¡¯t help it. I was thinking about the time my dog, Snuffy, got hit by a car when I was six and how I still miss him, and it ¡­ the sad just snuck up on me.¡±


    ¡°Smoothie,¡± Daniel says to a commando, who opens the right side of his coat, displaying a dazzling array of cups.


    ¡°What flavor?¡± Daniel asks.


    ¡°Uh ¡­ mango?¡± Thomas answers. The commando hands off the cup and Daniel puts the straw to Thomas¡¯s lips.


    ¡°Here drink this.¡±


    Thomas takes a few sips like he¡¯s not really thirsty; he¡¯s just being polite. ¡°It tastes like vanilla.¡±


    Daniel¡¯s really concentrating. ¡°Just tell us what you want, friend. Tell us.¡±


    Thomas buries his head in his hands. ¡°I don¡¯t know. That¡¯s the problem.¡±


    ¡°Here. We¡¯ll help you.¡± The commando opens the left side of his coat. It¡¯s like a magazine rack of catalogs. Daniel calls them off. ¡°CESSNAB Jeans? CESSNAB Music? CESSNAB Golf? CESSNAB Games?¡±


    ¡°Games?¡± Gonzo comes out of his safety crouch.


    ¡°I¡¯m telling you, I don¡¯t know!¡± The poor guy¡¯s in a panic. Like he¡¯s lost his happiness and can¡¯t remember where he put it.


    Daniel puts a hand on his shoulder. ¡°Thomas. You know what you need? You need to go bowling.¡±


    This is greeted by a chorus of ¡°Amen¡¯s.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think ¡­¡± Thomas starts, but he¡¯s cut off by the choir.


    You¡¯re special.


    I¡¯m special.


    They¡¯re special.


    The whole world¡¯s special, so don¡¯t you forget it.


    The Universe wants us


    All to be happy,


    Full of smiles and all that stuff,


    All that stuff


    That¡¯s happy and smiley.


    So get happy, happy, happy right now!


    Get happy, happy, happy right now!


    Get happy, happy, happy right now!


    ¡°Come with us,¡± Ruth says, taking Gonzo and me by the hand as Daniel and Thomas lead the way to a set of wide double doors with the winged bowling ball insignia in the middle. Everyone gets quiet.


    ¡°What is this place?¡± I whisper to Ruth.


    ¡°This is our church. The Church of Everlasting Satisfaction. And Snack ¡¯N¡¯ Bowl.¡±


    ¡°Amen,¡± everyone intones, and the doors are opened wide.


    ¡°Get the f**k out,¡± Gonzo says under his breath.


    This has to be the biggest friggin¡¯ bowling alley I have ever seen in my life. Just row after gleaming row of well-maintained lanes bordered by litter-free gutters. There¡¯s not a scuff on the floor. An enormous TV screen encased in theater-worthy lightbulbs is suspended from the ceiling.


    ¡°Every single one of us knows what it¡¯s like out there,¡± Daniel says. ¡°The stress. The worrying¡ªam I good enough, strong enough, smart enough, pretty enough? How come Johnny got an A-plus on his paper but I only got a C? Is he better than me?¡±


    ¡°Why does only the winning athlete get a first-place medal?¡± another kid says, putting ¡°winning¡± in air quotes.


    ¡°Why do bad things happen? There must be a reason for it¡ªsomething you can avoid doing so you¡¯ll never, ever be sad,¡± a girl in saddle shoes says.


    A kid with a bowling ball tattoo on his arm speaks up. ¡°Why shouldn¡¯t we all just be happy all the time?¡±

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    ¡°Amen,¡± Daniel says. ¡°No questions. No fears. No un-happiness. That¡¯s why there¡¯s CESSNAB. Our friend Thomas had doubts. But we¡¯ll help him embrace the positive.¡±


    They all make the hugging motion. Daniel sets Thomas up in lane one. Ruth rubs his back. ¡°Think of something happy, Thomas, like getting new jeans.¡±


    Everyone makes a circle around Thomas, arms linked. They chant, ¡°Thomas is special. Thomas is special. Thomas is special.¡±


    Thomas takes a deep breath and lets the ball roll, shooting it straight down the middle. The pins smash to the ground in one stroke, and the TV lights up slot-machine style. An image of an angelic pin floats on screen. It makes an Okay sign with its fingers. An automated voice purrs, ¡°Way to go, friend!¡± Everybody whoops and hollers.


    Daniel smiles. ¡°See, Thomas? You can do anything. You can be anything you want!¡±


    The choir launches into another song: ¡°I can be whatever. You can be whatever. We can be whatever. Whatever, together.¡± They put their arms around Thomas and soon he starts singing along even though he¡¯s still not smiling.


    Daniel slaps me on the back. ¡°Hey, Cameron, why don¡¯t you give it a try?¡±


    I¡¯ve only been bowling twice and both times I sucked ass. I think I managed to hit one pin. ¡°I¡¯m a pretty lousy bowler.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve never bowled at the Church of Everlasting Satisfaction and Snack ¡¯N¡¯ Bowl before,¡± Daniel says.


    ¡°It¡¯s the bad thoughts that stop us. If you embrace the positive¡±¡ªRuth makes the hugging motion again and the other CESSNABers follow suit¡ª¡°you¡¯ll be fine.¡±


    The ball pops up from its dark cave and glides around the silver tracks, stopping right beside me.


    ¡°You have to believe you can do it, Cameron,¡± Ruth says. ¡°That you¡¯re entitled to happiness¡ªby any means necessary.¡±


    Believe I can bowl. Right. I can bowl. I step up to the line, pull my arm back, and let it fly. Right away it starts heading for the gutter. But then, something miraculous happens: it corrects itself. The ball rolls straight down the center, and the next thing I know I¡¯m listening to the crash of pins hitting the deck in a perfect strike, my first ever.


    Ruth jumps up and down. ¡°That was amazing, Cameron! See? See what happens when you embrace the positive? Go again.¡±


    ¡°Beginner¡¯s luck,¡± I say. ¡°Won¡¯t happen again.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re all winners here in the Church of Everlasting Satisfaction,¡± she says softly, and I want to believe her.


    ¡°Okay, thanks for taking care of my amigo here. This looks like fun, and we wish you well and shit,¡± Gonzo explains to the crowd. ¡°But we got, like, a mission of our own to get to. So if somebody could just give us a ride to the bus station¡ª¡±


    I pick up a second ball and let her rip. Bam! Right down the middle.


    ¡°That was awesome!¡± I shout, pumping my fist in the air.


    Ruth throws her arms around my neck. ¡°See? The universe doesn¡¯t want us to be unhappy, Cameron. The universe wants you to be happy all the time!¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I say. Yeah, why not? Why shouldn¡¯t I have whatever I want when I want it? And what I want is to be happy and safe like these guys. I don¡¯t want to think about prions and fire giants and Dr. X and saving the universe. I just want a smoothie.


    ¡°Cameron, we gotta motor,¡± Gonzo says.


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to go yet.¡±


    I march over to the next lane and roll another perfect strike followed by another. Everybody claps and makes some noise. They tell me I¡¯m wonderful just for being, and that I¡¯m increasing their happiness with my happiness.


    Four lanes over, Thomas bowls another flawless game, but he doesn¡¯t seem happy about it. At one point, he purposely throws the ball out of the lane and into the next one, where it sails down the center and knocks down every pin. Thomas stares at his feet. There¡¯s a small, muscular, ebony-skinned girl with a shaved head standing next to him. Besides Thomas, she¡¯s the only one who¡¯s not smiling. Suddenly, Thomas starts to bawl, and the alarms go off again. Ropes drop from the ceiling, and the commandos shinny their way down. They make a beeline for Thomas and usher him toward the door. Someone wraps him in a big yellow CESSNAB blanket, covering every part of him but his head.


    After my rousing victory in the Church of Everlasting Satisfaction, Daniel and Ruth take me to the CESSNAB Snackateria. They ask Gonzo if he wants to come, but he says he¡¯s going to kill things in the arcade to ¡°get the slime of happiness off.¡±

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    The Snackateria has everything you could ever want¡ªchips, soda, candy, pizza, burgers, fries. Every table has ordering stations where you can look through catalogs of stuff and order whatever you want. The shipping times have been crossed out and now there¡¯s an Instant button. When you push it, somebody rushes in from a back room and brings it right to you.


    ¡°Having to wait for things hurts your happiness,¡± Ruth explains. ¡°Want some more fries?¡±


    I say yes, and she gets me a new batch. They¡¯re perfectly hot and crisp, like the first batch.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry you had to see that with Thomas earlier,¡± Daniel says, shaking his head. ¡°Some people just can¡¯t adjust to being happy all the time.¡±


    ¡°Omigosh,¡± Ruth says, midfry, her eyes wide. ¡°When I first got here, I was a mess. Just a total and complete mess. Remember, Daniel?¡±


    ¡°Hmmm,¡± Daniel says meaningfully, though he seems way more into his fries than what Ruth is saying. He¡¯s arranging them in straight lines and putting a thin string of ketchup directly over the middle.


    ¡°I used to do pageants and stuff, but then I developed an allergy to spray tanner and I couldn¡¯t compete anymore? My whole world crumbled. I totally went into a depression, got all messed up on drugs and stuff,¡± Ruth explains. ¡°I was hurting my happiness. So they sent me to CESSNAB.¡±


    ¡°Whoa,¡± I say.


    ¡°Oh, not because they didn¡¯t want to deal, but because they loved me so much. I see that now,¡± she says, biting her already ragged nails. ¡°The first time I bowled and hit all those strikes, it was like I¡¯d won the evening gown competition and finished it off with a speedball! I totally cried. Everybody was so happy for me. And I just wanted to keep doing that, you know? To keep being all happy.¡±


    Daniel lays out another line of fries and does the ketchup art on them again.


    Ruth claps. ¡°Oooh! Tell him your story, Daniel.¡±


    ¡°I had major control issues,¡± he says, eating his fries one at a time. ¡°I grew up playing sports and being in honors classes, which was cool when I was on top. But by the time I hit sixth grade, I wasn¡¯t getting the top grade in math or pitching the best game. They¡¯d built another school in my town and these other kids were really good. I couldn¡¯t handle it. I cracked under the pressure. One day, I crawled into a locker at school and wouldn¡¯t leave it. They had to use the jaws of life to get me out. That¡¯s when I had my awakening. All that competition and winning and people being better at things than other people? It hurts your happiness.¡±


    I squirt a whole bunch of ketchup on my plate. It splatters my fries. Daniel looks a little sick. ¡°But doesn¡¯t it also make you want to try harder? That sense of competition?¡± I can¡¯t believe I¡¯m saying this. I¡¯ve never tried hard at anything in my life.


    ¡°That¡¯s where you¡¯re wrong, my friend,¡± Daniel says, smiling. ¡°It¡¯s our culture that teaches that. Not our nature.¡±


    Ruth looks me right in the eyes. ¡°Don¡¯t you just wish you could let that stuff go? All that worry?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I hear myself say. ¡°I do.¡±


    Daniel puts his arm around me like we¡¯re best buds. ¡°That¡¯s the great thing, Cameron. You can! Being happy is a choice totally within your control. The universe has arranged for you to be happy. You just have to accept it.¡±


    ¡°And here at CESSNAB, we¡¯ve got a lot of products to back that up, to keep the happiness going, so you never have to feel unhappy. Not for one, single second.¡± Ruth smiles at me in a flirty way. ¡°You seem happier since you bowled, Cameron. Am I right?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. I guess so,¡± I say.


    ¡°See?¡± Daniel pats me on the back. ¡°That¡¯s the power of this place.¡±


    ¡°We like to think of CESSNAB as a gated community for the mind, and the stuff that doesn¡¯t increase our happiness we just keep out,¡± Ruth chirps. ¡°Like your friend, Gonzo. He¡¯s ¡­ troubled,¡± she says, using the word Daniel supplied earlier. ¡°Full of fear. Fear is such a negative emotion, you know?¡±


    ¡°We find we don¡¯t need that here,¡± Daniel says. ¡°That¡¯s why we have the commandos, why we work to keep out the bad things. So we¡¯re always safe all the time. And if we¡¯re safe all the time¡ªno rejection, no bad news, no negative thoughts, no failure¡ªwe stay happy, and then our parents are happy that we¡¯re happy, and, you know, it¡¯s all good. It¡¯s a pretty simple philosophy, but it works.¡±

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    ¡°How do you pay for all of this?¡± I ask.


    ¡°We put together SPEW tests for the entire nation, plus all the prep materials, ¡®Everything you need to SPEW without a second thought,¡¯¡± Daniel says.


    ¡°So, what were you doing out on the road?¡± Ruth asks. When I don¡¯t answer, she puts her hand on mine. ¡°Hey. It¡¯s okay. We¡¯ve all been there.¡±


    Everybody¡¯s been so nice to me here. It¡¯s the first time since my diagnosis that I¡¯ve felt sort of normal, and I¡¯m afraid of f**king it all up. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t believe me,¡± I say.


    Ruth and Daniel stop eating and give me their full attention. ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± Daniel echoes. ¡°There are no secrets here. Secrets hurt your happiness.¡±


    I¡¯m too tired to keep hiding, so I tell them everything about my mad cow disease, our mission to try to find Dr. X and save the universe, the Wizard of Reckoning, and the fire gods on my ass. I half expect them to kick me out, but they don¡¯t.


    Daniel takes hold of my shoulder in a protective way. ¡°No one¡¯s gonna get you here, Cameron. The world is not going to end. I promise you that. You¡¯re one hundred percent safe. As for your disease, doctors are wrong all the time. They need sick people in order to make money.¡±


    ¡°Only people who want to get sick actually get sick. They do it to themselves,¡± Ruth adds. ¡°You can even think yourself well if you want to.¡±


    ¡°Yeah? You think so?¡±


    ¡°I know so!¡± Daniel says. ¡°I¡¯ve seen it happen. You can beat it.¡±


    I think how easy it would be to stay here, but Dulcie told me that I need Dr. X to be cured. Then again, where the hell is she?


    ¡°Cameron? You¡¯re making a frowny face,¡± Ruth says.


    Just thinking about Dulcie has soured my happiness, and I am pretty happy here. I could stay at CESSNAB and bowl and have a big smoothie and take it easy.


    ¡°Are you okay?¡± Ruth says, her hand hovering near the commando alarm.


    I give her a big smile. ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m good. Really good. In fact, I¡¯d like to stay for a while, if that¡¯s okay.¡±


    Ruth gives a little shriek and hugs me. Daniel claps me on the back. ¡°That totally increases my happiness, friend.¡±


    CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE


    About What Happens When I Learn the Secret of Perfect Bowling and the Revolution Goes Down Big-time


    For five days, I¡¯ve been learning how to become a part of the CESSNAB Crusaders family. In choir group, I picked up four new songs¡ª¡°Who Wants to Be Happy,¡± ¡°Happy Time Starts Right Now,¡± ¡°Everything About You Is Totally Perfect,¡± and ¡°Your Name Is Spelled Like ¡®Special¡¯ (Only with Different Letters)¡±¡ªand got to do a big tambourine solo, which I rocked. Daniel and Ruth took me to the CESSNAB video gaming center where we played Extreme Self-esteem Builder! and How Awesome Are You? And of course, there¡¯s church. Every day, we congregate in the huge, gleaming bowling alley, think our most positive I-am-special thoughts, and bowl perfect game after perfect game, which Daniel says is proof that we¡¯re doing everything right. The only blip on the happiness road came on day one, when I had a small seizure and woke up surrounded by five hulking commandos with giant smoothie cups at the ready. So I had some vanilla yum through a straw while Daniel explained that it was not the prions attacking my brain, I just needed to say my mantra over and over¡ªI am special; special people don¡¯t die¡ªand maybe order more stuff. And it¡¯s been great ever since.


    ¡°Dude, you are living in a dreamworld,¡± Gonzo says as I ponder ordering a pair of Extra-Cushion-Action CESSNAB Bowling Shoes from the Instant Satisfaction station in the Snackateria. He is definitely not increasing my happiness. ¡°They don¡¯t even have any killing games.¡±


    ¡°Mmmm-hmmm.¡±


    ¡°Five days, dude. Five f**king days of Smiling Zombie Nation. I can¡¯t bowl or make CESSNAB T-shirts or smoothie it for one more minute. I¡¯m telling you, these guys are freaky. Don¡¯t you think they¡¯re freaky?¡±


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t. And don¡¯t forget you thought they were serial killers.¡±


    ¡°They totally still could be, dude. They¡¯re fattening us up for the kill.¡±


    ¡°No, they¡¯re helping me get well.¡± I¡¯m not going to let him defrost my happy chill. ¡°Why don¡¯t you order something, friend? A new jacket or some tunes? You like music.¡±


    Gonzo snorts. ¡°Yeah, real music. Not this hideous, bowling-for-God CESSNAB shit that¡¯s been raping my eardrums all week.¡±

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    I take a deep breath; in my head, I list five things I love about myself. ¡°You know what, Gonzo? I want to help you find what I¡¯ve found. Here, have a key chain,¡± I say, handing him one of the sunny yellow giveaways they hand out whenever you do something even remotely good, like remember to put the toilet seat down. Sometimes they give you a key chain just for showing up.


    Gonzo drops my key chain present into a trash can. ¡°Yo, cabr¨®n, aren¡¯t we supposed to be on the road to Dr. X?¡±


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you supposed to have a spot on your lung?¡± I snap, and then I remember myself. ¡°Look, Gonzo, I¡¯m sorry. I don¡¯t want to hurt your happiness.¡±


    ¡°Dude, you¡¯re not hurting my happiness. You¡¯re just totally freaking me out.¡± He waves his hands in front of my face. ¡°Look at this place, man. It¡¯s some kind of happiness cult. It¡¯s not real. You don¡¯t want to stay here.¡±


    ¡°But I do. I feel great. No symptoms. No weird dreams. No sign of the fire giants. Gonzo, I think this might be the cure. There¡¯s no need to save the universe, because nothing bad can happen to me at CESSNAB.¡±


    ¡°Bad things can happen anywhere. That¡¯s life, amigo.¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯ve got a new life now, friend, and I¡¯d appreciate it if you¡¯d stop messing with it.¡±


    I don¡¯t want to get all worked up, so I leave Gonzo there by the Instant Satisfaction station and head for the library. I recognize the girl with the shaved head who¡¯s behind the counter. It¡¯s Thomas¡¯s bowling friend. Her CESSNAB shirt has a faint line through NAB and the word POOL has been scrawled just above it.


    ¡°Can I help you?¡±


    ¡°Hello, friend,¡± I say with a big smile. She doesn¡¯t return it, which is weird, because everybody smiles at CESSNAB. ¡°Um, I wanted to check out a book?¡±


    She points to the floor-to-ceiling stacks. ¡°Help yourself. Be happy.¡±


    ¡°Okay, thanks. Hope the day is as special as you are,¡± I say, quoting the line I saw on a T-shirt here.


    She snorts. ¡°Yeah. Me too.¡±


    The library is packed with more books than I have ever seen. I¡¯m hoping they have Don Quixote so I can finish my reading for Spanglish class¡ªnot that I¡¯m going back, but I would like to know how it all ends. The bottom two rows only seem to be filled with copies of Don¡¯t Hurt Your Happiness, so I go through the next two rows and the next. It¡¯s just more of the same, in hardcover and paperback. The whole library is stocked with copies of just that one book.


    ¡°Excuse me,¡± I say, hopping off the rolling ladder. ¡°But where are the other books?¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t have any other books,¡± Library Girl says. She¡¯s using a highlighter on her copy, underlining random words to make new, slightly naughty sentences. I wonder if she should be doing that but decide not to say anything.


    ¡°But ¡­ it¡¯s a library. Right?¡±


    She speaks slowly, like she¡¯s talking to a little kid. ¡°We found that a lot of the stories or words or even ideas contained in most books could be negative or hurtful or make you question your happiness or even question the concept of happiness as an ideal, and that just wasn¡¯t working for us.¡± Now she gives me a big smile that reminds me of Dulcie.


    ¡°Well, isn¡¯t that the point of books? To make you think about things? Come on. You have to have a copy of Don Quixote back there. It¡¯s a classic.¡±


    She whips open a drawer and pulls out a stack of papers stapled together, which she runs through until she finds what she¡¯s looking for. ¡°Ah. Sorry. Don Quixote. Complicated ideas and language. Some people found it hysterical, but others felt inadequate about not understanding it right away. We don¡¯t like to induce nonpositive experience feelings in people, so it had to go.¡±


    ¡°Catcher in the Rye?¡±


    ¡°One Holden Caulfield, sixteen, very angry, very negative, visits prostitutes and says bad words.¡±


    ¡°Lord of the Flies?¡±


    ¡°Too violent.¡±


    ¡°Comic books.¡±


    ¡°Wow¡ªout on all counts.¡± She ticks off the points on her fingers. ¡°Too dark. Too scary. Superheroes have unattainable powers, and are therefore not relatable and might make kids feel bad about themselves. Also, some suggestible kids might get ideas about jumping off buildings or trying to mind-meld the weather.¡±


    ¡°Ha¡ªgot one,¡± I say. ¡°Winnie-the-Pooh!¡±


    She shakes her head. ¡°Bears don¡¯t really talk. Might confuse the little ones.¡±

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    ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll take a copy of Don¡¯t Hurt Your Happiness.¡±


    She stamps the card and hands me the book. ¡°You can turn it in at the end of the week. Or whenever, really. It¡¯s just a formality. We find that requiring things of people and making them responsible is a big drag, and that is so not happy. Enjoy!¡±


    Grumpy thoughts threaten to invade my new sunny-day brain. I push them away and settle into one of the ergonom-ically correct Day-Glo yellow chairs and open to page one. You are special, it says in big block letters. Everybody is.


    ¡°Hey,¡± I say to the guy sitting next to me. He¡¯s totally into his CESSNAB electronic bowling game. The beeping digital score card shows three hundred perfect strikes in a row. ¡°Have you read this?¡±


    ¡°Some of it,¡± he says, without looking up. ¡°But I have friends who know other people who¡¯ve read it and they told me everything.¡±


    ¡°Well, I was just wondering about this thing on page one: You¡¯re special. Everybody is.¡±


    ¡°Yeah?¡±


    ¡°How can you be special if everybody is?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re just part of the specialness, I guess.¡± He makes another strike and the game congratulates him with an electronic ¡°That is awesome, friend. Way to go!¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± I say. ¡°Thanks.¡±


    ¡°No problem.¡±


    Page two: Happiness is the new Manifest Destiny. Go stake your claim on it!


    Page three: If you start to feel unhappy, buy something.


    Page four: Embrace the positive!


    I look up for a second. Library Girl is staring a hole through me. I start toward her, and she quickly opens the books on the return desk, stamping them a little forcefully.


    ¡°Finished already?¡± she asks in a fake-happy voice.


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°Was it enlightening? Life-changing? Mood-altering? Did it increase your happiness?¡± She fiddles with one of the ten earrings along her left ear.


    There¡¯s no doubt she¡¯s playing me. There¡¯s also no doubt that she¡¯s pretty hot.


    ¡°I¡¯m a-tingling with joy,¡± I say, matching her smile and wiggling my fingers like I¡¯m on some highly caffeinated drill team. It¡¯s sarcastic, and I know sarcasm hurts your happiness, but it feels kind of good to do it, like stretching a muscle I haven¡¯t used in a while. The corners of Library Girl¡¯s lips twitch into something resembling a smirk, an expression that feels one hundred percent real.


    ¡°Meet me in the bowling alley,¡± she whispers. ¡°Five minutes.¡±


    When I get there, the church is empty except for Library Girl. She¡¯s perched on my favorite ball return, chewing a huge wad of pink gum and blowing bubbles she pops with loud smacks.


    ¡°So, tell me,¡± she says, sucking a dead bubble back into her mouth. ¡°How do you like it here?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s great.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± she says, staring at the ceiling and swinging one leg. ¡°Great. Special. We¡¯re all special.¡±


    ¡°Exactly.¡±


    ¡°Wanna put that to the test?¡± she says.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°A little scientific experimentation. Go ahead. Bowl a perfect game. You can¡¯t lose. If you believe you can do it ¡­¡±


    ¡°¡­ Then you can!¡± I finish.


    ¡°So why don¡¯t you test it. Think the worst thing you could possibly think and let the ball roll. See if the universe gets mad.¡±


    ¡°If I get sad, the alarm will go off and the commandos will come in. So you can¡¯t really test it,¡± I say.


    ¡°Huh.¡± She pushes up her sleeves, revealing a pair of kick-ass biceps. ¡°Here¡¯s a secret,¡± she says, looking around. ¡°Sometimes, they¡¯re busy ordering stuff and don¡¯t watch. Like now.¡±


    She flips a switch and the balls come to life, bouncing along on their well-oiled, shiny grooves. My favorite purple ball is within reach. I haven¡¯t had any unhappy thoughts for days. I¡¯m out of practice. I¡¯m sort of annoyed at Gonzo for what he said earlier but not enough to really work myself up about it. Dulcie pops into my mind, the way she just left. And then a thought I have no control over works its way into my brain: What if I never see her again?


    ¡°Oooh, you look pretty bummed. Let her rip.¡±


    I throw the ball at the lane. It bounces and skitters across the smooth, polished wood, careening unpredictably. By all rights, it should hit the gutter, but it doesn¡¯t. Instead, it scoots right back to the center and delivers a perfect strike.


    ¡°Try again,¡± Library Girl urges.

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    I imagine all sorts of things this time: Mom and Dad and Jenna back at the hospital. Kids too poor to have Christmas. Beloved pets being put to sleep. Losing all my Great Tremolo CDs. Pep rallies. Still I hit strike after strike after strike. I couldn¡¯t lose if I tried, and I am definitely trying.


    ¡°Not so fun anymore, is it? Now for the rest of our experiment ¡­¡± Library Girl pulls a magnet from her pocket and does something to the console with it. Then she uses the magnet on the other lanes. ¡°This time, do what they say: embrace the positive.¡±


    I close my eyes and say my mantra: You can do it if you think you can. You deserve to win.


    When I launch the ball, it rolls down the center and drifts off to the side, sliding into the gutter and out of sight without knocking down a single pin. ¡°Whoa. What just happened?¡±


    Library Girl holds up her magnet. ¡°They¡¯re magnetized. There¡¯s a little magnet in the ball and another in the gutters. They repel the ball. Like I said, you can¡¯t lose. You achieve every time.¡±


    ¡°But it¡¯s not an achievement if the game¡¯s rigged.¡±


    Library Girl holds up two fingers on each hand, making quote marks in the air. ¡°Failure doesn¡¯t increase your happiness.¡±


    I give it six, seven more tries, and the best I can do is take out four pins. ¡°Maybe you made the game too hard now,¡± I say.


    ¡°Or maybe you¡¯re just not that awesome, special, and perfect all the time.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s harsh,¡± I say, even though my gut says she¡¯s right; I¡¯ve sort of gotten used to hearing only the good stuff. ¡°But what about what they say here, that competition hurts your happiness. We have to get rid of our bad feelings to be happy.¡±


    She rolls her eyes and lets out a growl. ¡°You can¡¯t ¡®get rid¡¯ of any of your feelings! We¡¯re human beings! When some jerk pisses me off, I have the urge to kick the living shit out of him. But I can¡¯t, because if we went around kicking people all the time, we¡¯d never be able to buy groceries or take the dog for a walk or eat out. It would be complete chaos. That¡¯s why we have civilization. And table manners.¡±


    ¡°Exactly! But that¡¯s why this church exists. To make us better people. And to be better people, we have to get rid of all our negative feelings.¡±


    ¡°No. We have to learn to live with them. What if those so-called negative feelings are useful?¡± Library Girl spins the shiny pink ball that¡¯s sitting on the metal grid waiting for a game. It wobbles like the Earth on its axis. ¡°I mean, suppose you take your anger and you channel it into a painting. Pretty soon, you don¡¯t care about getting back at that idiot who pissed you off anymore because you¡¯re totally into your painting. And then maybe that painting hangs in a gallery someday and it inspires other people to find their thing, whatever it is. You¡¯ve influenced the world not because you wanted to hug it and cuddle it and call it sweet thing but because one day you wanted to beat the crap out of somebody but you didn¡¯t. You made a painting instead. And you couldn¡¯t have made that painting without that feeling, without something to push off against. We human beings can¡¯t evolve without the pain.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Bad stuff happens.¡± She flicks out a switchblade and cuts through one of the commando ropes that¡¯s been left hanging after an earlier sadness incident and wraps the length around her wrist. ¡°People fail. They get dumped. They bomb tests. They lose the big game or screw up in a hundred small ways or get rejected or have to start over. They feel confused and scared. Or sometimes they just don¡¯t feel like they fit in. They¡¯re part of some kind of primal, universal loneliness and that¡¯s just the way it is and you have to learn to deal and a big vanilla smoothie is not the answer, you know?¡±


    ¡°But what if we didn¡¯t have to feel that?¡±


    ¡°But we do! It¡¯s what makes us human.¡±


    ¡°So you don¡¯t think human beings can be made happy.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t say that,¡± she says, fashioning the rope into a sort of double bracelet with a sliding knot. ¡°I just don¡¯t think happiness is a sustainable state. You can¡¯t have it all the time. That much happiness makes people unhappy. And then they start looking for trouble. They start looking for the next thing that¡¯s going to make them happy¡ªa happiness fix.¡±


    I feel like a balloon slowly settling to earth, slightly deflated but kind of glad the trip is over. It¡¯s weird, but it¡¯s sort of a relief not to have to be happy all the time.

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    ¡°So if you don¡¯t believe any of this, why are you still here?¡±


    ¡°To do what needs to be done.¡± Library Girl strokes the side of my face. ¡°Cameron, you are a really nice guy. And that¡¯s why I¡¯m sorry about this.¡±


    ¡°Sorry about what?¡±


    Superquick, she slips the rope bracelet over my wrists and tightens the knot so I can¡¯t move my hands.


    ¡°Hey!¡± I tug but it only tightens the knot.


    ¡°Don¡¯t struggle, Cameron. It¡¯ll be easier.¡±


    ¡°What the f¡ª¡±


    Alarms go off at an earsplitting volume, louder than I¡¯ve ever heard them.


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± I say, wishing I could cover my ears.


    ¡°That, friend, is the beautiful sound of revolution.¡± Library Girl tugs on the rope, and all I can do is follow her.


    Pandemonium has erupted in the rest of the Church of Everlasting Satisfaction and Snack ¡¯N¡¯ Bowl. People in varying degrees of CESSNAB dress run through the halls, screaming that we are under attack. The walls are crawling with commandos. It¡¯s like some kind of extreme soap-on-a-rope. Five teens with a shopping cart pass us by. At first, I think they¡¯re from CESSNAB because they¡¯re wearing the big yellow happy face shirts, but then I see it¡¯s really a sad face, a mad face, a stoned face, and a face with a raised middle finger under the chin. The shopping cart is full of books and newspapers, which they toss at anyone they see.


    A guy brandishing an open newspaper screams, ¡°The world¡¯s f**ked up! Stop ordering jeans and pull your heads out!¡±


    ¡°Happiness is a fascist state!¡± one of the hurlers yells. It¡¯s Thomas. ¡°What if I don¡¯t want to chill, huh? What if I miss my dog, Snuffy?¡±


    A guy in a CESSNAB sweatshirt zigzags by, hugging himself frantically. ¡°Embrace the positive! Embrace the positive!¡±


    Library Girl looks up into the ceiling camera. With a wicked grin, she leans over and kisses me hard on the lips.


    ¡°Whoa,¡± I gasp.


    ¡°Come on,¡± she says, dragging me into the radio station¡¯s recording booth. She bolts the door behind us, and for a split second, I have the crazy idea I¡¯m about to pop my cherry under the weirdest of circumstances¡ªa total coup de virginity. But Library Girl cuts my hands free of the rope handcuffs and abandons me for the console. Switches are flipped, knobs are turned, the volume is set at ten.


    ¡°Hand me that backpack that¡¯s under the CESSNAB locker,¡± she says.


    Still kiss-dazed, I bring it to her and she pulls out a well-worn copy of Anderson¡¯s Anthology of English Literature and opens to a bookmarked page. Her voice zips into the micro phone and floats out into the compound.


    ¡°Shakespeare, people. Complicated. Beautiful. Sad and violent. And the language is a bitch. Let me blow ya minds with a little Hamlet:


    ¡°To be, or not to be¡ªthat is the question:


    Whether ¡¯tis nobler in the mind to suffer


    The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,


    Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,


    And by opposing end them? To die, to sleep¡ª


    No more; and by a sleep to say we end


    The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks


    That flesh is heir to? ¡¯Tis a consummation


    Devoutly to be wish¡¯d. To die, to sleep;


    To sleep, perchance, to dream, ay, there¡¯s the rub;


    For in that sleep of death what dreams may come¡ª¡±


    The door shakes with pounding. An ax bites into the wood, scaring the shit out of me, but Library Girl keeps her lips pressed to the mike:


    ¡°¡­ who would fardels bear,


    To grunt and sweat under a weary life,


    But that the dread of something after death¡ª


    The undiscover¡¯d country from whose bourn


    No traveller returns¡ªpuzzles the will,


    And makes us rather bear those ills we have


    Than fly to others that we know not of?¡±


    The door bursts open with a sick splintering sound, and Ruth stumbles in. She takes one look at me there with Library Girl and her lower lip starts to quiver. ¡°Cameron. You are so hurting my happiness right now.¡±


    Daniel¡¯s right behind her, brandishing a torch. He speaks into his bracelet. ¡°Roger one-niner, we have a situation in the radio room.¡±


    ¡°Roger one-niner? Isn¡¯t that airplane code?¡± I ask.


    His lips go tight. ¡°It makes me happy to say it.¡±


    A commando squad, all wide shoulders and, holy crap, honest-to-God guns this time, arrives on the scene. They grab Library Girl, who tries to hold on to the microphone. The commando picks up the mammoth anthology and brings it down hard three times on her hands, making her scream in pain till she¡¯s forced to let go.

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    ¡°What are you doing?¡± I shout, running toward them.


    Daniel grabs a gun from the commando¡¯s holster, points it at me. ¡°Happiness. By any means necessary.¡±


    He lifts the gun by the nose and brings the butt down hard on my head, and the room slips away.


    CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX


    In Which Some People¡¯s Happiness Gets Its Butt Kicked and Gonzo and I Make Our Escape


    Blacking out isn¡¯t so bad, really. All in all, it¡¯s a lot more pleasant than, say, celebrating a family birthday at a medieval theme restaurant or pretending you care about your GPA. Unconscious, I float out into a black universe where stars are winking electric Christmas candles, past the Buddha Cow raising one hoof in a Zen salute. It¡¯s like I¡¯m on some cool ride, chugging past automated exhibits: Mom and Dad are sitting in the hospital cafeteria, not talking over cups of lukewarm coffee. They look like shit, like a couple of toothpaste tubes that have been grabbed in the middle one too many times till whatever¡¯s left is too hard to get out. Raina walks through the doors. She doesn¡¯t look like shit. She looks fresh and alive and full of promise. Dad sees her and stands up, gives a little smile. Mom watches him like he¡¯s a stranger she¡¯s seeing for the first time. Raina hands Dad some papers and says ¡°I¡¯m sorry¡± and ¡°If there¡¯s anything I can do,¡± and Dad answers, ¡°You¡¯re doing so much already, Raina.¡± In the way she blushes and tucks her hair behind her ear, in the way Dad pays attention to that one small gesture, Mom¡¯s face changes. She knows.


    The ride loops around. To my right, the roadrunner keeps pace with me. It zips into a cave, and when it comes out, it¡¯s the Wizard of Reckoning, the fire giants burning a giant black hole into the sky behind him. He reaches out, but the ride drops, making my stomach tingle. It creeps up the invisible mechanical hill toward a brightly lit room, where Glory¡¯s taking the empty bag off the IV pole. ¡°Just need to switch you out, honey.¡± She hooks the new fat pouch on the pole. The ride slows till I¡¯m even with her. Her face is like one of those carved totems I saw once in a book about Easter Island¡ªdark, beautiful, forever.


    She strokes my cheek, and I swear I can feel the warmth of her skin. Her big brown eyes look into mine. ¡°Cameron, child, are you awake in there?¡±


    ¡°I said, are you awake?¡±


    My aching eyes open to see Daniel sitting across from me in a chair with his arms crossed. He looks like his happiness is more than hurt; it¡¯s pissed and coming out swinging. I¡¯m tied to my chair and Library Girl is nowhere to be seen. At least the gun¡¯s gone. The bright lights of the Snackateria are little needles of pain slipping into my head.


    ¡°Yo! Cameron.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I croak. ¡°Where¡¯s Library Girl?¡±


    ¡°Who?¡± Ruth asks.


    ¡°Never mind,¡± I say. ¡°Where¡¯s Gonzo?¡±


    Daniel sneers. ¡°The midget freak? Maybe you can tell us. We haven¡¯t found him yet.¡±


    I¡¯d like to beat the crap out of him for calling Gonzo a midget freak, but I¡¯m tied to a chair and the lizard part of my brain has been activated and is now occupied with survival. Daniel gets right in my face. ¡°So, tell us: how long have you and your spies been planning this little attack?¡±


    ¡°Me? I couldn¡¯t even plan dinner. I didn¡¯t have anything to do with this¡ª¡±


    Ruth cracks me on the knuckles with the anthology.


    ¡°Ow!¡± I screech.


    ¡°That¡¯s for reading this depressing, hard stuff over the loudspeakers.¡±


    ¡°Wait, it wasn¡¯t me. I¡ª¡±


    She cracks my knuckles a second time.


    ¡°And that¡¯s for breaking the smoothie machine! They say it might take twenty-four hours to fix it. Twenty-four hours! That¡¯s like a lifetime!¡±


    Daniel paces the room. He¡¯s a little scary. In fact, I¡¯d give him just about anything that would increase his happiness right now before he goes commando on me. ¡°We saw the security camera footage¡ªshe kissed you! And you handed her the backpack. We know you¡¯re in this together. All the order stations have been hacked into so when you try to order a CESSNAB product you get rerouted to a book called My Happiness Wants Your Happiness to Go to Hell with quotes like ¡®Read a damn book already. It won¡¯t kill you.¡¯ ¡®People screw up all the time. Deal with it.¡¯ ¡®Not everybody gets to be famous.¡¯ ¡®If you¡¯re so special, why am I so annoyed?¡¯¡±


    ¡°Read that really bad one, Daniel!¡± Ruth says.


    Daniel flips on a screen and reads the word flashing there. ¡°No.¡±

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    ¡°I want a smoothie,¡± Ruth says quietly.


    Daniel¡¯s face is so close to mine I can see the acne cream on his chin. ¡°You¡¯ve hurt a lot of people today, Cameron. And now you¡¯re going to have to pay.¡±


    ¡°What if that hurts my happiness?¡±


    ¡°Little late for that. Friend.¡±


    ¡°Okay. I¡¯ll leave. You know? I¡¯ll just leave and never come back.¡±


    Ruth hits me with the book again so hard I swear Beowulf is lodged in my cheek. ¡°Ow! Quit it!¡±


    ¡°No, Cameron,¡± Daniel says, stepping back. ¡°Your lack of complete happiness is a threat to our happiness. It¡¯s like a cancer. And you know what you have to do with a cancer?¡±


    ¡°Hope it goes away?¡±


    Ruth drifts closer and I flinch, but five hundred years of the world¡¯s least exciting literature does not come near my flesh.


    ¡°No. We have to cut it out so the good cells can continue to grow.¡± Daniel turns to the commandos. ¡°Get him on his feet and meet me in the church. We¡¯re going bowling.¡±


    Ten minutes later, with two CESSNAB camo¡¯d goons on either side of me, I¡¯m half dragged into the packed Church of Everlasting Satisfaction and Snack ¡¯N¡¯ Bowl to face my doom. The church band is plugged in; they¡¯re playing an uptempo tune with a vaguely rock-pop beat. My head still hurts from where Daniel smacked me with the gun, but I think the words say something about happiness only belonging to the right kind of people.


    Daniel cuts a path through the throng and the band fades into a little feedback and then nothing. He stands in Lane #7, right under the big-screen TV that shows the dancing pins when you make a strike. The pins usually say things like Wow, you¡¯re awesome and The universe loves a winner, so the universe must really love you! The screen¡¯s off today. I imagine the pins have heard all about me and Library Girl and the supposed revolution and they¡¯re scowling and flipping me the bird and gathering implements of torture.


    Daniel holds out his hands like a preacher. ¡°Friends, I want you to know that the smoothie machine is being fixed.¡±


    The walls of the church shake with the sound of applause, wolf whistles, and whoo-hoos.


    ¡°I also want you to know that even though Cameron has hurt our happiness, he¡¯s really hurt his own happiness more. This is what happens when people don¡¯t embrace the positive. But are we going to let Cameron disappoint himself?¡±


    ¡°No!¡± the CESSNABers shout.


    ¡°That¡¯s right. Cameron is part of our specialness, and we¡¯re going to prove that our way is the right way, the only way. The universe wants Cameron to be happy, and all he has to do to be forgiven is to bowl.¡±


    Daniel flicks the switch, and the ball machine thunks and rolls into action. My favorite, the purple one with a really high shine, shimmies up to my hand and waits.


    ¡°Daniel ¡­,¡± I start, but he forces my hand onto the ball, his smile like a rictus grin. ¡°Pick it up, Cameron. Crusaders, let¡¯s give our troubled friend a little inspiration.¡±


    The band kicks in. Ruth¡¯s shaking a tambourine, and I don¡¯t mean to brag, but my tambourine solo totally kicks hers to the curb. For half a second, I consider staying. Maybe I could find that bliss state again. Maybe I could stay here, follow all the rules, be safe always. But as soon as the thought enters my mind, another one swims in and eats the first one like a shark. Fuck that, it burps.


    ¡°Here goes nothing.¡± My fingers sink into the holes of that purple beauty; I pull back and throw the ball into the lane, where it sails down the slick middle like it¡¯s always done, heading for a perfect strike. But the ball veers off course. It drifts toward the gutter like it has every time I¡¯ve ever bowled here, but instead of popping back out, it slinks into the loser trough with a loud rumble and disappears. Not a single pin falls. There is complete shock and silence.


    ¡°That can¡¯t happen,¡± Daniel says, eyes wide. ¡°Everybody¡¯s a winner here.¡±


    ¡°Do it again!¡± someone challenges.


    ¡°Great idea,¡± Daniel agrees, but his face is a little pale. ¡°Come on, Cameron. Embrace the positive.¡±


    I shrug. ¡°Your funeral.¡±


    Once again, the ball wobbles off course. It manages to knock off one measly pin before vanishing.


    ¡°Let me try it.¡± Daniel pushes me out of the way. ¡°Embrace. The. Positive!¡± he shouts, letting the ball fly, then watching in horror as his ball slips sideways, taking out only two pins at the far end. ¡°But ¡­ I¡¯m special.¡±


    ¡°Holy shit,¡± a kid named Luke shouts. ¡°No way!¡± He races for a ball at the same time his friend John does.

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    ¡°Dude, I¡¯m so going first,¡± Luke says.


    ¡°The hell you are,¡± John protests. They run out to the lanes, where Luke knocks down six pins to John¡¯s three.


    ¡°Ha! I beat you by three pins! In your face!¡±


    Ruth climbs on top of the Snackateria¡¯s Holy Cheese Fry machine. ¡°Luke, we¡¯re not competitive here. Everybody¡¯s a winner. Everybody is part of the team.¡±


    John doesn¡¯t hear her. He¡¯s too busy lining up his next shot. ¡°Think you can do it again, shithead?¡±


    Luke breaks into a grin. ¡°Dude, I will totally smoke your ass.¡±


    Daniel¡¯s practically screaming now. He¡¯s running across the lanes, dodging balls as they fly. ¡°Guys, we¡¯re all part of the specialness. Don¡¯t forget that.¡±


    Luke and John stop and stand there, looking at their feet. Luke takes a ball from the carousel and hands it to John, which makes Daniel smile.


    ¡°Ten bucks says I win.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re on.¡±


    The balls clatter into action. People start taking sides, cheering on either Luke or John. John makes a strike, a real one, and Luke yells, ¡°You suck!¡± and they both start laughing.


    The doors fly open. I can¡¯t see Gonzo in the crowd but I can hear him saying, ¡°Excuse me, excuse me, could you get out of the way you smoothie-loving happy freaks?¡±


    ¡°Gonz!¡± I say, picking his little man body up for a full-on hug.


    ¡°Can we go now?¡± he says. ¡°¡¯Cause after five days in this joint, I need to eat a bag of Cheesy Puff Fingers and listen to some hardcore face-melting music to get my synapses back to normal. If I never see a smoothie again, it¡¯ll be too soon.¡±


    A huge brawl breaks out in the bowling alley¡ªpeople trying to best each other, idiots throwing balls into each other¡¯s lanes, arm-wrestling matches, a few choir members playing air guitar¡ªwhile other CESSNAB Crusaders try to drown them out with happiness songs and chase them down for group hugs. They¡¯re so busy going crazy, they don¡¯t see Gonzo and me slip away. Even Peter and Matthew aren¡¯t at their stations in the parking lot. Just as we turn onto the road, I think I see Library Girl standing in a patch of trees, two streaks of white behind her back, but then she¡¯s gone, and I¡¯m pretty sure I imagined the whole thing.


    We walk the five miles to the nearest town, and just to torture me, Gonzo starts making up his own CESSNAB song about making your happiness cry uncle and feeding happiness to your dog so he has wicked happiness gas, and we laugh. It¡¯s a pretty long walk, but my body¡¯s cooperating and the Wizard of Reckoning feels a long way off, so far off he¡¯s not even a sound you can pick up with the sonar of your soul. And it¡¯s only when we get close to the highway and the constant hum of cars taking people to and away from places that could be home or a new start or nowhere in particular, just a spot on the endless road, that I see the Buddha Cows floating gently to earth like a surreal snow.


    But it doesn¡¯t seem worth mentioning, so I don¡¯t.


    CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


    Wherein We Crash at the Mister Motel and I Learn Some Stuff About the Ayatollah of Harsh


    We take a crappy room in an even shittier motel, the Mister Motel right off the interstate. The blinking neon sign shows a winking guy tipping his hat, the Mister of Mister Motel fame, I assume. He looks like he should have a speech balloon coming out of his mouth: Rent rooms by the hour, real cheap. The room we get is a dark hole that looks like it hasn¡¯t been changed in at least thirty years. Butt-ugly brown bedspreads and yellow paint on the walls. Dark, fake wood headboards. Threadbare carpet in a color that¡¯s best described as ¡°indiscriminately green¡±¡ªgreat at hiding stains. The only new addition, for some crazy reason, is a bright orange balloon tied to a chair. The balloon advertises a used car lot, Arthur Limbaud¡¯s Resale Beauties.


    Gonzo, of course, is freaked about hygiene issues.


    ¡°Do you suppose they use bleach on the sheets?¡± he says, sitting tentatively on the bed and hugging his backpack to his chest. ¡°I mean, really, you have to use bleach and the hot cycle to kill all the dust mites. And anything else.¡±


    I don¡¯t ask what ¡°anything else¡± means and I don¡¯t intend to. I¡¯m tired. I want to go to sleep and not wake up till morning, when I¡¯ll have to figure out how we get back on the road to Florida with no bus tickets and about three dollars to our names.


    ¡°I¡¯m just gonna call my mom,¡± Gonzo says. He uses a tissue to pick up the receiver of the Mister Motel phone, which looks as ancient as everything else.

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    ¡°What are you doing?¡± I say, putting my finger over the clicker to disconnect him.


    ¡°I told you, calling my mom. My cell¡¯s dead and I don¡¯t have the charger.¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t afford a phone call to your mom.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t like this place, man.¡± Gonzo starts to wheeze.


    ¡°Calm down, Gonz. You¡¯re okay. It¡¯ll all be fine, I promise. Just breathe, okay?¡± I say, talking to him like I would if I were his mom. If I can keep him from panicking, he¡¯ll be okay. I¡¯m not even sure he has asthma. I think he just has Freak Out lungs. Gonzo¡¯s not having any of my Zen master shit. He¡¯s tearing through his bag frantically, like a squirrel desperate for its nut.


    ¡°My inhaler. Dude, it¡¯s gone! Oh my God!¡± His face is really pale, and even I¡¯m getting a little wigged about him.


    ¡°Be cool, be cool. Don¡¯t freak on me. It¡¯s here, okay?¡±


    Gonzo¡¯s nodding, but he¡¯s saying ¡°Shit, shit, shit¡± under his breath. I¡¯m grabbing around in the bag, but I don¡¯t feel the inhaler.


    ¡°What if it¡¯s lost for real?¡± he wheezes. ¡°Or stolen. Shit. Call nine-one-one, man. Call nine-one-one!¡±


    I keep pawing through his bag. ¡°I¡¯m not calling nine-one-one. Calm down.¡±


    ¡°Dude, I can¡¯t breathe!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re yelling! If you can yell, you can breathe, all right? We call 911 and it¡¯s game over. We go back and I die in a diaper listening to instrumental light rock and the world goes poof and that is not gonna happen, so just get a grip.¡±


    The neon light from the parking lot falls across Gonzo¡¯s face like a strobe effect. His eyes are wide and he¡¯s clutching his chest.


    ¡°Please. Dude. This could be game over. Call nine-one-one stat! Tell them to bring a nebulizer!¡±


    I grab his shoulders hard and shake him. ¡°Gonzo! I am not going to let you die. Okay? I¡¯m not your mom! I am not rushing you into an early grave so I can get on with my life. Okay? Okay?¡±


    I¡¯m waiting for him to go medieval on my ass for talking about his mom that way, but surprisingly, he just nods, letting me get back to his bag. This time, I find the L-shaped metal canister. ¡°Here,¡± I say.


    Gonzo grabs it with both hands, shakes it hard, then positions it at his mouth like a tiny pistol and fires away. His eyes close as he holds his breath, waiting for the medicine to do its work. Exactly thirty seconds later, he takes another hit, holds his breath again until he can¡¯t anymore, and it all comes rushing out of him in a whoosh. There¡¯s a lot of coughing. In another minute, the color returns to his face. The air conditioner clicks on. It pushes the orange balloon back and forth in the artificial breeze.


    ¡°You okay?¡± I ask.


    He shrugs. He can¡¯t really commit to being okay. It might kill him.


    ¡°That wasn¡¯t cool, what you said about my mom,¡± he says quietly.


    ¡°Okay, sorry,¡± I say, because I don¡¯t have any fight left in me. ¡°Let¡¯s just crash.¡±


    I turn off the lamp and lie down. The room is tomb dark. Only hotel rooms ever get this dark, like they know it¡¯s their function to close you off from the world. When my eyes adjust to the lack of light, though, I can still make out Gonzo sitting on the edge of his bed, not moving.


    I sigh. ¡°Gonz, you¡¯re not, like, having heart palpitations over there or anything, are you?¡±


    ¡°No. I was just thinking.¡± His voice sounds weird in the dark. Hollow and detached, like he¡¯s as full of air as the orange balloon. ¡°You ever have, like, these totally random memories sometimes?¡±


    ¡°I guess.¡±


    ¡°I was thinking about this one time when I was a kid. I was, like, I don¡¯t know, five? Six, maybe? It wasn¡¯t too long after my old man took off. The kids next door had this new swing set. It was ridiculously tricked out: swings, clubhouse, slide, monkey bars. The whole bolo, man. Way cool. To a little kid, anyway.¡±


    He pauses, and I wonder where this little trip down memory lane is taking us. My pillow¡¯s heating up under my head. I flip it over, settle my head against the cool cotton.


    ¡°Anyway, they told me if I wanted to be in the club, I had to be able to cross the monkey bars without falling. Dude, those bars looked like they were about four thousand feet high. But it was the first time they¡¯d asked me over, so I didn¡¯t want to mess it up. One of the boys gave me a boost and I started making my way across. I was totally sweating it. But I got to the second one and then the third one. By the time I got to the fourth rung, they started cheering for me, telling me to keep going. It was this freakin¡¯ amazing feeling, like ¡­ I don¡¯t know how to describe it. I was doing it, you know? I was making it, muchacho. Two more to go and I¡¯d be home free.¡±

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    I can hear him playing with his inhaler; it makes a soft rattle.


    ¡°I was about to reach for the next one when I heard my mom scream my name. She was standing in our yard with this look of terror on her face. I could tell she was ready to run for me¡ªshe didn¡¯t trust, you know what I¡¯m saying? When I looked back at that next rung, it seemed about a million miles away. I didn¡¯t feel so sure anymore. I reached for it, but sorta half-assed, you know? And I missed. Fell down and broke my arm and a rib and started crying. The kids thought I was a weenie, and their moms said I couldn¡¯t come over anymore because they didn¡¯t want me getting hurt in their yards. I spent a few days in the hospital and my mom bought me a bunch of Fast Wheels cars that I told her I loved and then I buried them in the backyard later and told her I lost them and she acted all hurt and said I took things for granted just like my dad.¡±


    He makes a funny sound that at first I think is a hiccup. But then I realize he¡¯s crying. ¡°That was the first time ¡­ the first time I got that feeling ¡­ that ¡­ the only thing keeping me alive ¡­ was my mom. And I hated her for it.¡±


    Outside, somebody¡¯s getting ice. The machine thunks against the wall like a dying man¡¯s cough. It mixes with Gonzo¡¯s strangled, silent crying.


    ¡°So ¡­,¡± I start. ¡°So, you know, what did you have against the Fast Wheels?¡±


    The sniffling slows down. Gonzo shifts on the bed in the deep motel black. ¡°Huh?¡±


    ¡°I know you hated your mom. Shit, I don¡¯t blame you. But what did those little toy cars ever do to you to deserve such a fate? Buried alive. Dude, that¡¯s harsh.¡±


    Gonzo goes totally silent¡ªnot even a sniffle. For all I know, I¡¯ve pissed him off so completely, he¡¯s about to risk another asthma attack just to kick my ass. I position my pillow as a shield just in case I have to ward off forty-two inches of the Gonzman pounding at me in Little People fury. And then I hear it in the dark¡ªa bubbling laugh through tears.


    ¡°My friend,¡± he says with a snort. ¡°I am the Ayatollah of Harsh. Do not f**k with the little people. We will lay waste to your souls!¡±


    ¡°Oooh,¡± I say. ¡°Now you got me scared, dude. Terrified.¡±


    ¡°I put a freakin¡¯ fatwa out on those cars.¡± He¡¯s laughing so hard he sounds totally manic, but hey, whatever it takes to keep him up.


    I put the pillow back behind my head. ¡°Well, they didn¡¯t deserve to live. They were tools of the infidels.¡±


    ¡°Goddamn right,¡± he says, his voice less tight. He flops down on the bed.


    It¡¯s quiet for another minute, and I try to get my body to relax. My legs really ache, and I hope it¡¯s just regular, tired aching from the long walk.


    ¡°Cameron?¡±


    ¡°Yeah?¡±


    Gonzo turns on his side, facing me. I can make out the silhouette of him, my shadow friend. ¡°You ever think about it?¡±


    ¡°Think about what?¡± I say.


    ¡°Dying.¡±


    Do I ever think about it? What does he want to hear? That lately I think about how my mom¡¯s face looks when she¡¯s drinking her coffee in the morning, staring at her crossword puzzle like she just might beat it today. I think about driving with my dad to the lake the day before he and Mom bought the new house when I was eleven, him singing along to the radio and looking like all he wanted to do was keep driving and singing. I think about the Jenna who made me a Christmas ornament out of macaroni when she was six, and the current Jenna, Jenna of the dance team, Jenna who can¡¯t stand me, Jenna who will miss me when I¡¯m gone, even if it¡¯s just because I¡¯m not there to make her look so much better to the world. I think about the fact that I will probably never bone Staci Johnson, and there¡¯s not a damn thing I can do about it. I think about dying every day, because I can¡¯t stop thinking about the living.


    I fake a yawn. ¡°Oh, man, I¡¯m wiped out, okay?¡±


    Gonzo shifts onto his back. ¡°Oh, sure. No prob. Good night.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Night.¡±


    CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


    Which Treats of My Visit to a Keg Party and of My Chance Encounter with the World¡¯s Grumpiest Yard Gnome


    Within thirty seconds, Gonz is snoring lightly. It¡¯s 12:20, and I¡¯m wired. I can¡¯t turn on the TV, so I put on my shoes and pad out to the Mister Motel¡¯s parking lot with its magnificent view of I-10. A big semi roars past, followed by another. All those trucks carrying things that people think they can¡¯t live without¡ªnew sofas and light-up sneakers, ponchos and twelve different kinds of processed cheese in cubes, strings, squares, or shred pouches.

 Page 79

    I trip along the access road to the blinking yellow lights of the underpass. On the other side of the freeway, there¡¯s a Gas-It-N-Git all lit up like a fluorescent mirage.


    There¡¯s only one car in the lot and no people except the guy behind the counter, who¡¯s watching a little TV he¡¯s got by the register. I¡¯ve got three dollars in change in my pocket and I slide it all into the pay phone. My fingers are stiff. I keep dropping coins that I have to pry off the pavement.


    The phone rings a few times. Dad picks up. ¡°Hello?¡± he says in a barely awake voice. For a second, I don¡¯t say anything. I just listen to his sleep-heavy breathing on the other end of the line.


    ¡°Dad?¡±


    ¡°Cameron? Is that you? Are you ¡­ Say something. Please.¡±


    His voice sounds different to me coming from so far away over thousands of miles of thin wire. It doesn¡¯t sound pissed off and controlled. I hear other notes in it. Fatigue. Hope. Sadness.


    ¡°Cameron?¡± he whispers. ¡°I know you can hear me. I don¡¯t care where you are right this second. I just want you to know you are my boy. You¡¯re a part of me and I¡¯m a part of you. Always.¡±


    ¡°Dad?¡±


    ¡°Cameron?¡±


    ¡°Love you,¡± I say, just as a big semi roars past on the highway, taking more stuff to more people to pack around the empty spaces of their lives.


    Mom¡¯s waking up. I hear her asking Dad what¡¯s going on, who¡¯s he talking to, did the doctor come in? Dad tells her it¡¯s nothing, go back to sleep.


    ¡°Cameron?¡± Dad whispers. ¡°Can you hear me, pal?¡±


    A recorded operator voice politely asks me to deposit more change, but I don¡¯t have any more, so I hang up. It feels like there¡¯s a walrus sitting on my chest, and my eyes sting. I¡¯d give anything to get high right now, to get good and numb.


    There¡¯s a girl at the other end of the Gas-It-N-Git standing around like she¡¯s waiting for something. She¡¯s got on shorts and a fake fur jacket, even though it¡¯s muggy and my T-shirt¡¯s sticking to my chest in places, leaving those little pellets of sweat, like a giant connect-the-dots. I nod to her on the way in, and she ignores me, which is fine, really.


    The unnaturally bright lights hit me like a punch. That and the rancid nacho cheese smell from the big dripper beside the counter is working me over pretty good. The speakers administer a muzak dosage of a Copenhagen Interpretation song. The DJ¡¯s soporific voice follows the end notes. ¡°And that was ¡®Words for Snow¡¯ by the Copenhagen Interpretation, from the Wonder Whatever Happened to Them files. ¡­¡±


    I move toward the back, stopping to pull the  p**n  magazines out of their protective plastic coverings. The guy behind the counter¡¯s watching me in the convex We See You So Don¡¯t Even Think of Shoplifting Here mirror. Shit, there¡¯s no way this guy¡¯s gonna let me buy beer. I waste time picking up stuff I have no intention of purchasing: Cheap toy guns. Disposable razors. Cans of beans. Couple of snow globes. Jumbo packs of AlmostReal Fruit Leathers. Finally, I open the cooler, letting the frigid air wash over me, and grab a Rad Xtra Energy drink. If I¡¯m going to be wired, I might as well go all the way. When I go for a bag of Corny Doodles, my coordination goes haywire. My muscles stiffen up; I grab hold of the wire display for support and send the whole row of chips to the ground.


    ¡°What do you think you are doing?¡± the clerk shouts in very precise English, like he¡¯s been practicing. His name tag reads EMPLOYEE #12, and I wonder if he¡¯s got a name or if his bosses just don¡¯t give a shit what it is.


    He¡¯s yelling at me. ¡°You think this is funny? You think this is a funny joke? Go on. Get out of here!¡± he shouts, pushing me through the front doors. ¡°You are on drugs. Get going before I call the cops.¡±


    Back in the parking lot under the hazy lights, I gulp in the air, trying to calm my body. My E-ticket meter flares, then fades, and when I look, Frontierland has been completely erased. I¡¯m down two health bars, as Gonzo would say. I wish I had my soda. The chick in the fur vest is still standing there, a lollipop in her mouth. Underneath all that makeup, she¡¯s not so old. Maybe fifteen. Sixteen. It¡¯s hard to tell with girls.


    ¡°Whadjoodo?¡± she asks.


    ¡°I beat his high score on Captain Carnage. He¡¯s pissed.¡±


    She doesn¡¯t laugh, and it depresses me.


    She takes the lollipop out of her mouth. ¡°If you wanna take something you have to put something on the counter first. Like you put a few candy bars there and ask if you can keep them on the counter while you get the rest of your stuff. They always say sure and then they think you won¡¯t rip them off. They stop watching you.¡±

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    I¡¯m not real sure on the etiquette for advice on shoplifting so I just say, ¡°Cool. Thanks.¡±


    Some guy drives up in a tricked-out SUV. ¡°Tara, where the hell you been?¡± he shouts through the open passenger window.


    Taking the lollipop out of her mouth, she yells back, ¡°None of your f**king business!¡±


    ¡°Why you gotta talk that way? Let¡¯s go to the party.¡±


    Tara tosses the lollipop into the parking lot. ¡°I¡¯m out of cigarettes.¡±


    ¡°I got cigs. Who¡¯s this?¡± he asks, nodding in my direction.


    Great. Just what I need.


    ¡°Whaddyou care,¡± she says. ¡°Maybe he¡¯s my new boyfriend.¡±


    ¡°I just came here for a soda,¡± I say.


    ¡°Yeah? Where is it, then?¡± the guy in the SUV taunts.


    If this were a movie, I would bust a secret move so fierce the entire place would be razed to the ground. I¡¯d finish with something snappy like ¡°And don¡¯t forget my soda, punk¡± while I strolled off into the night. But it¡¯s not a movie, and I just stuff my twitching hands into my pockets like the big mad-cow-disease-afflicted chickenshit that I am.


    ¡°You¡¯re not the boss of me!¡± Tara shouts to the guy in the SUV. ¡°I can do whatever I want. In case you forgot, we are broken up, Jus-tin!¡± She gives it a head swivel for added effect and puts her arm around my waist, which is basically like painting a target on my chest.


    ¡°I should be getting back,¡± I say, stepping away from her.


    Jus-tin! turns on his inside car light. I can see he¡¯s wearing a blue trucker hat and an oversized football jersey, and a huge diamond stud in his right ear. He¡¯s got a scruffy brown beard. ¡°Aw, come on, Tara. You don¡¯t mean that, baby.¡±


    She turns to me. ¡°Do you have any cigarettes?¡±


    ¡°Sorry. No.¡±


    ¡°Can you get some?¡± she asks, sidling up to me. I notice with no small percentage of fear that the Justin guy looks like he could seriously kick my ass.


    ¡°That guy won¡¯t let me back in,¡± I say, holding out my hands in a ¡°sorry¡± pose. They¡¯ve stopped spazzing, so there¡¯s that, at least.


    Employee #12 stands near the doors with his arms folded across his chest, letting us know we are not welcome in his Gas-It-N-Git lot. It¡¯s a cops-will-be-called stance. An I-am-an-action-hero-of-the-all-night-mart stance. I wonder how he would sound saying ¡°Don¡¯t forget my soda, punk¡±?


    ¡°Dammit,¡± Tara says, chewing at a ragged nail. She saunters over to the open passenger window on the SUV. ¡°Gimme a smoke.¡±


    A lighted cigarette is passed through the window. She takes a deep puff, blows out some smoke, and just like that, opens the door and crawls in. There¡¯s some intense kissing. Justin turns off the interior light.


    ¡°Okay, later,¡± I say, walking back toward the hulking shadow of the interstate.


    ¡°Wait!¡± Tara calls. She¡¯s hanging out the window, her arms dangling, the cigarette stuck between her first and second fingers. ¡°You wanna go to a party?¡±


    We drive through the sleeping town. The traffic lights have gone to blinking yellows, and the streets glisten from an earlier rain. Tara tells me her five-minute life story. She¡¯s fifteen. She lives with her mom, who works as a nail technician and brings home free polish and cucumber lotion to the trailer they share with four cats. ¡°The whole dang bathroom smells like cucumber and cat poop, I swear,¡± she says, offering me a cigarette, which I decline. Tara hates school but loves a show about supermodels and wants to be one.


    ¡°She just did a boat show,¡± Justin tells me with a mix of pride and wariness. Like he only wants other guys to notice that he¡¯s with a hot girl, not actually notice the hot girl herself. Justin¡¯s eighteen but still a junior. He also lives with his mom and her ¡°sorry-assed retard of a boyfriend¡± in a ¡°crappy, two-bedroom apartment near Enormo-Mart.¡± For money, he bags groceries and sells the odd bit of pot, which is why hitting Brian Kinner¡¯s party is ¡°so vital.¡±


    They finally ask me about myself. Usually I would edit my story, say as little as possible so I could stay in hiding mode. It¡¯s been my M.O. my entire life¡ªliving just below the radar. But tonight, I¡¯m so tired I just tell them everything. It feels good not to hold myself in check.


    ¡°Mad cow disease?¡± Tara says, exhaling smoke. ¡°Is that something you get from sex?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I say. ¡°It¡¯s not contagious.¡±


    ¡°Wow,¡± Tara says. ¡°That¡¯s so sad. Justin, don¡¯t you think that¡¯s so sad?¡±

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    ¡°Yeah. Real sad. Hey, you wanna get high?¡±


    Justin pulls the SUV over into the post office parking lot under a sign advertising that THE NEW CANCER STAMPS ARE HERE! and we smoke a joint. After the third or fourth toke, my head¡¯s bobbing on my neck like one of those bobblehead toys you see on dashboards. Welcome back to Numbsville, population: one.


    ¡°Can¡¯t wait to get out of this town,¡± Tara mutters, eyes closed, head lolling against her seat back.


    Justin scratches at his scruffy attempt at a beard. His hair sticks out from under his trucker hat in long, scraggly wisps. ¡°¡¯S not so bad.¡±


    Tara looks at him like he¡¯s just said all babies should be euthanized. ¡°Yes it is. It sucks.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m here,¡± he says quietly.


    Tara snuffs out the joint. ¡°I¡¯m baked.¡±


    ¡°You cool back there?¡± Justin asks me.


    ¡°Ummn¡± is all I can manage in my semiconscious state.


    ¡°Time for a little fun,¡± Justin says.


    He fires up the SUV and we drive through a neighborhood of insta-mansions¡ªhuge, sprawling houses, some with their own turrets. The walkways are lit up with in-ground electric torches. Alarm signs dot the edges of the lawns.


    ¡°Tara, take the wheel.¡±


    Tara puts her left hand on it and we inch toward the curb. Justin pulls a baseball bat out from under his seat and leans his body out the side window. He swings the bat hard, knocking a mailbox off its stand.


    ¡°Whoa,¡± I say. Or at least, I think that¡¯s what I say. I¡¯m stoned. For all I know I could have said, ¡°Board the cows! We¡¯ve come to enslave your marigolds.¡± This makes me laugh, chuckling all to myself in the back.


    Justin bangs away at the mailboxes. He misses one or two, which he blames on Tara¡¯s driving.


    ¡°Fine. Drive yourself,¡± she says, pouting. But she doesn¡¯t give up the wheel, and on the next one, he hits pay dirt. The mailbox is knocked completely clear of its post. It skips across the street with a grating clank, making little sparks on the asphalt. Lights flip on in the house. A dog barks with intent. Tara giggles high and loud. A stoner laugh. Justin tucks the baseball bat back under the seat and drives off fast. We run aimlessly up and down streets with names like High Court, Royal Acres, Imperial Lane, King¡¯s Row, every street striving to be more important sounding than the last. Even the roads have aspirations here.


    Justin rolls onto Westminster Lane. He cuts the SUV¡¯s lights and slinks into the driveway of a dark house.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t this the McNultys¡¯?¡± Tara asks.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Justin answers. ¡°They¡¯re away.¡±


    ¡°How d¡¯you know?¡± she teases.


    ¡°My mom¡¯s retard boyfriend cleans their pool. He said they¡¯re in Spain or Portugal or some city like that.¡±


    ¡°Charlie McNulty is president of the student council at our school. He¡¯s supersmart,¡± Tara explains, like a tour guide. It strikes me as funny and I laugh to myself.


    ¡°This way,¡± Justin says, taking us to the back. Around the side of the house is a wooden fence. Justin opens the gate into the backyard. The place is freaking huge. It¡¯s got a nice stone patio with a huge gas grill, teak patio furniture, and a glass table with an umbrella shooting out of the middle. And there¡¯s the pool Justin mentioned. It¡¯s a clear blue that lets you see the pattern of red and yellow Mexican tiles around the sides. I can smell the chlorine coming off it.


    Justin shucks his pants and shirt, getting down to his skivs. I¡¯m afraid he¡¯s going to take those off, too, but he doesn¡¯t. He slips into the water in his underwear and pushes away from the side on his back. Tara¡¯s having trouble with her clothes, but soon she¡¯s down to her bra and underwear. I can see the outline of her dark hair against the thin pink fabric of her panties. It gives me a hard-on. No way I¡¯m stripping down now.


    ¡°What¡¯s the matter, Cameron? You shy?¡± She takes my hands in hers and starts pulling.


    ¡°No,¡± I protest, hoping she doesn¡¯t steal a look below. ¡°It¡¯s my disease. I can¡¯t swim. It¡¯s not good for me.¡±


    ¡°Bummer,¡± she says before taking a flying leap into the pool. Water sluices up the sides for a good five seconds after. ¡°I like making an entrance,¡± she says. ¡°Otherwise no one notices you.¡±


    In the end, I take my shoes off and stick my feet in, letting the lukewarm water lick at my ankles. It feels good, and not just because I¡¯m stoned. I make a mental note to add this to Dulcie¡¯s list of things worth living for. For some reason, I keep seeing her rolling her eyes at me, that big, goofy grin stretching her face like Silly Putty. On my private list, I add her smile. She doesn¡¯t have to know.

 Page 82

    ¡°This is great,¡± Tara says. ¡°When I¡¯m a model, I¡¯m buying a house just like this one. Maybe I¡¯ll even buy this one from the McNultys and everybody who was ever mean to me can just eat shit when I¡¯m all famous and everything.¡±


    ¡°Baby, you can build your own house,¡± Justin says.


    ¡°Yeah, I can, can¡¯t I? Better than this one,¡± Tara giggles. She swims over to Justin and wraps herself around him, spider style. They float together like that, kissing. I look around the yard like I¡¯m interested in the landscaping.


    Tara laughs. ¡°I think we¡¯re embarrassing Cameron,¡± she says in a little singsong voice.


    Justin gently pushes away from Tara and stretches for the side of the pool.


    ¡°Hey!¡± Tara says, treading water. ¡°Where you going?¡±


    ¡°I gotta take care of business.¡±


    Just like that, they climb out and dry off with some towels they take from a neat stack in a cabinet by the back door. They peel off their wet underwear. I look away and pretend I¡¯m not getting another hard-on thinking about riding in an SUV with a girl who¡¯s not wearing any panties.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± Tara says once they¡¯ve got their clothes on again.


    ¡°Hold up a sec.¡± Justin¡¯s riffling through the sideboard of the grill. He pockets some BBQ sauce and a bottle opener.


    ¡°Should you take that?¡± I ask. My head¡¯s starting to clear a little. It¡¯s not as cottony.


    ¡°They have everything. They won¡¯t miss it.¡±


    When we get back into the SUV, Justin opens the glove compartment and tosses the bottle opener in there. It joins three more bottle openers, a cigarette case, some photographs of other people¡¯s families, keys, and a dog collar.


    ¡°You take all that?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°I like having their stuff. I like knowing they don¡¯t win all the time.¡±


    ¡°Justin,¡± Tara whines. ¡°We¡¯re gonna miss the party.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell me what to do,¡± he says, real low and quiet.


    Tara rolls her eyes and squeezes the water out of her pony-tail. ¡°Gimme a cigarette.¡±


    We drive out of the mansion neighborhood through a good-but-not-as-expensive one into an okay one, falling through the pecking order of neighborhoods till we¡¯re in a run-down section with a bunch of ranch houses guarded by crappy, American-made cars and trucks.


    Justin parks the SUV at the end of a long line of cars. We follow him down the street to the house where all the lights are blazing and party sounds blurp from the backyard. Two kegs are the only furniture in the back. Some kind of metal-rap mix blares from stereo speakers pulled out through the sliding glass doors and parked precariously on the uneven concrete patio.


    A heavy guy in a black wrestling T-shirt greets Justin with a complicated handshake that ends with them both bumping chests. ¡°Justin. Whassup?¡±


    Justin shrugs, hands in his pockets. ¡°Not much, bro. How¡¯s the action?¡±


    The big guy looks around. ¡°So-so. Too many guys, not enough girls. Hey, Tara.¡±


    ¡°Hey, Carbine,¡± Tara says, taking a drag off a new cigarette. ¡°This is Cameron. He¡¯s dying of mad cow disease.¡±


    Carbine nods at me. ¡°Cool. Want a beer?¡±


    ¡°No, that¡¯s okay.¡±


    He hands me a full cup. ¡°Here you go.¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± I say, taking it.


    Carbine throws some playful punches to Justin, who fake wrestles him back, and I wonder who decided this was supposed to be the okay male greeting. Hi, good to see you. Let me show you how glad I am by beating the crap out of you.


    They stop hitting each other and Carbine says, ¡°Yo, Justin. Can we do a little bidness?¡±


    ¡°Lead the way, bro,¡± Justin says, and they disappear.


    A guy walks up and takes the beer out of my hand, drinking it and handing me back the empty cup. Tara sees some girls she knows and runs over to whisper with them in a huddle like girls do. It¡¯s in their DNA.


    I wander through the house. A strip poker game has taken over the kitchen. One girl¡¯s down to her bra and jeans. A guy¡¯s sitting there in his tighty-whiteys. I grab a handful of chips and head into the living room. The guys stand around in clumps, eyeing the girls who sit on the couches, drinking and talking and waiting for the guys to make a move so they can hook up. The ones who do hook up walk to the back rooms and don¡¯t come out. Some poor dude¡¯s out cold on the couch and his friends are writing ASSWIPE across his forehead in permanent marker. The news is on TV. I¡¯m transfixed by pictures of flames tearing through some town. I wish I could hear what the anchorwoman was saying. There¡¯s only the crappy closed captioning, which says something about poasssble asson, which I think means ¡°possible arson.¡± On the scene, mustachioed guys in mirrored sunglasses and baseball caps stand around taking notes. Somebody switches the channel to wrestling.

 Page 83

    I push through the screen door and walk out into the yard, where it¡¯s mostly quiet. You can see stars here. A smiling yard gnome like the one from Dad¡¯s photos keeps watch over a rock garden. This one¡¯s about three feet tall, with white hair and beard, red cheeks, a Viking helmet, brown pants, and a chain-mail tunic.


    I have no idea where I am or how the hell I¡¯m going to get back to the motel. It¡¯s a good thing Gonzo¡¯s a heavy-duty sleeper, because if he woke up and found himself alone, he¡¯d have a full-blown panic attack. I step back, accidentally toppling the yard gnome.


    ¡°Sorry, little guy,¡± I say, righting him.


    ¡°I¡¯d prefer that you not refer to me as ¡®little guy.¡¯¡±


    That pot must have been better than I thought, because I could swear the yard gnome just said something. ¡°Excuse me? Did you just t¡ª¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s derogatory. I don¡¯t refer to you as skinny guy, now, do I?¡±


    Holy shit. I¡¯m talking to a yard gnome.


    Somebody barrels down the street too fast, taking off the side mirror on a sedan. I look around but there¡¯s no one I can turn to for verification.


    ¡°Did you see that? He didn¡¯t even stop,¡± the yard gnome says without losing his cheery smile. ¡°This neighborhood is going to hell.¡±


    ¡°Who ¡­ who are you?¡± I croak.


    ¡°My captor¡ªthe man who stole me from a fraternity house¡ªcalls me Grumpy. Of course, he¡¯s also the sort of educated gentleman who pisses on me when he comes home drunk, so there you are.¡±


    ¡°Okay. Not loving the name Grumpy. What do you want to be called, then?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Ah, a question of identity, ¨¢g?tr. Who would you be if you didn¡¯t know who you are? How do you put a name to your soul, your essential sj¨¢lfr?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t look at me. My parents named me Cameron after some actor they liked.¡±


    ¡°Exactly. You¡¯ve been assigned an identity since birth. Then you spend the rest of your life walking around in it to see if it really fits. You try on all these different selves and abandon just as many. But really, it¡¯s about dismantling all that false armor, getting down to what¡¯s real.¡±


    ¡°And what¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he says, sounding weary. ¡°But I can tell you what it isn¡¯t. It isn¡¯t standing in somebody else¡¯s yard, smiling and rosy-cheeked while the dogs sniff you for a crap post. It isn¡¯t having teenagers steal you in the night and take you on vacations where they snap your photo in front of the Matterhorn or Old Faithful or a KOA campground just for grins. It isn¡¯t the mailman giving you a kick for fun. It isn¡¯t this.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯ve never spent a party talking to a yard gnome. In fact, I¡¯m not convinced you¡¯re not a hallucination.¡±


    ¡°I give you my word that I am as real as you are. You asked my name.¡± His voice gets deeper, majestic. ¡°I am Balder, son of Odin, brother of H?er, friend to all.¡±


    ¡°Balder, wasn¡¯t he a Norse god?¡± I say, remembering all my mother¡¯s bedtime stories.


    ¡°Indeed.¡± He sounds pleased. ¡°I am. Or I was. Once, in another time, another world. But Loki, the trickster, cursed me,¡± he growls. ¡°And I found myself in this false form, forced to travel endlessly the nine worlds of Yggdrasil in the possession of others until I could find one who could understand, who had the sight to see through to my true nature. You are that soul, and now you will guide me to Ringhorn.¡±


    This whole thing is starting to make me wonder if maybe I should get on some serious meds pronto.


    ¡°Ringhorn is my ship, which waits for me. If I can make it to the sea, to Ringhorn, the curse shall be lifted and I shall be free. At last, I feel the winds of luck have shifted¡ªthank the gods.¡±


    A dog comes sniffing through the grass. It gives Balder a quick once-over, lifts its leg, and lets go all over him before trotting away.


    ¡°Could you turn on the hose, please?¡± he asks with a heavy sigh.


    I find the knob for the hose, crank it to medium flow, and follow the green rubber snake of it back to Balder. With my finger over the nozzle so it sprays like a real shower, I give him a good dousing. Finally, he sputters that it¡¯s enough and I turn it off.


    ¡°Hold on,¡± I say, running toward the house. ¡°Don¡¯t go anywhere.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re quite the wit,¡± he grumbles.


    In the kitchen, a couple of guys are fighting near some half-dressed girls. Carbine¡¯s shouting, ¡°Break it up! Break it up, dudes!¡± and pulling them off each other. No one sees me as I grab the roll of paper towels and sprint back outside.

 Page 84

    ¡°Here,¡± I say, blotting him dry. I can¡¯t believe I¡¯m toweling off a yard gnome. He¡¯s still damp but better than he was.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± he says. ¡°You¡¯re most kind.¡±


    No one has ever called me kind. Selfish. Weird. Unreliable. Frustrating. But not kind. I¡¯m not sure what to say.


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome.¡±


    A handful of guys push through the screen door and congregate by the window air conditioner unit, where I know they can¡¯t hear us.


    ¡°How have you come to be here in this place? What trick of fate has allowed our meeting?¡± Balder asks.


    I shrug. ¡°Somebody invited me to a party. Now I don¡¯t know how to get back to the motel.¡±


    ¡°You have money?¡±


    ¡°Not much,¡± I say.


    ¡°Hmmm. Well, I wouldn¡¯t ordinarily advocate stealing,¡± he muses. ¡°But the idiot who lives here keeps his drug money in a jar under his bed.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Carbine looks like he could kill me without even breathing heavy. I don¡¯t think I want to tangle with him.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll do it,¡± the gnome says.


    ¡°I¡¯m not trying to insult you, but how exactly can you do that?¡±


    ¡°I am bound to the one who owns me, taking whatever form they deem necessary. If you take ownership, I am pledged to you. You can grant me the use of all my faculties.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± I say. ¡°What do I do?¡±


    ¡°Place your hand over my heart, and say what words form in your own.¡±


    I put my hand on his chest. It¡¯s cold, wet, and ceramic, and I feel like an A-1 ass**le. ¡°I, Cameron Smith, do grant this yard gnome slash possible misplaced Viking god, Balder, use of all his faculties to use as he sees fit. And stuff.¡±


    Immediately, there¡¯s a thump against my hand, followed by another, a clear heartbeat growing stronger, and Balder¡¯s chest warms. The painted coating bubbles up, dissolves, and is sucked into his pores. Sun-bronzed flesh emerges in its place. His beard softens; tendrils of it touch the collar of his chain mail, making him look like an eccentric guitarist for some Texas blues band. His cheeks blaze red, and his painted-on smile morphs into a very real, very wide smile. Those gray-blue eyes twinkle with wonder, and two thin streams of tears trickle down his red cheeks and disappear into his thick beard. The yard gnome is as alive as I am.


    ¡°Holy freakin¡¯ Ragnarok!¡± I gasp.


    ¡°Noble Cameron, I am forever indebted to you,¡± he says with a little stiff bow. He wipes his face dry. Mischief glints in his eyes. ¡°Now, to help you. Carbine¡¯s bedroom window is around the side of the house to my right. If you will give me what you call a boost, I shall crawl in, plunder, and return with the money. It would be best if you were to carry me past the others, allowing me to ¡®play dead,¡¯ so as not to arouse their suspicions. Let us make haste.¡±


    As a kid, I imagined lots of different scenarios for my life. I would be an astronaut. Maybe a cartoonist. A famous explorer or rock star. Never once did I see myself standing under the window of a house belonging to some druggie named Carbine, waiting for his yard gnome to steal his stash so I could get a cab back to a cheap motel where my friend, a neurotic, death-obsessed dwarf, was waiting for me so we could get on the road to an undefined place and a mysterious Dr. X, who would cure me of mad cow disease and stop a band of dark energy from destroying the universe.


    Five minutes after I¡¯ve helped him in, the gnome appears at the window again, a big wad of crumpled bills in his hand. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m a bit rusty yet. Grab my legs!¡± he whisper-shouts. I pull him to safety and he presses the bills into my hand. ¡°I took the whole of it, three thousand dollars, just to be sure.¡±


    ¡°Whoa.¡± I can¡¯t stop staring at all that green.


    ¡°Quickly,¡± Balder admonishes.


    I shove the bills deep into my pockets. ¡°I feel kind of bad taking this.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± the gnome says. He wobbles on shaky legs toward the yard. ¡°His wealth is ill-gotten. And once he dressed me as a ¡®Hootchie Mama¡¯ and posted Internet pictures on a fetish site called Naughty Gnomes. I cannot adequately convey the trauma of it. Now. The telephone is in the living room by the TV. I¡¯ve seen cabs here before¡ªCounty Cab, 1-800-333-1111. When you¡¯ve been taken hostage as much as I have, it helps to pay attention.¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± I say.


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome.¡±


    After I make the call, I come out to find the guys who were smoking the J now crowded around Balder. ¡°Hey, man, I¡¯ll bet this little guy would make a good football or target practice.¡±

 Page 85

    Balder¡¯s face is a mix of terror and sheer pissed-off-ness. Given the chance, he¡¯d run these guys through, I bet.


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t do that,¡± I warn.


    The guy closest to Balder shouts, ¡°Yeah? Why not? You gonna kick my ass?¡±


    Lovely. Gee, I hope we¡¯ll be friends forever. ¡°Naw, man. I just saw this big dog come and take a piss on him.¡±


    He jumps back fast, and the other guys laugh and high-five each other. ¡°Awwww, dude! Close one. Dog piss!¡±


    Somebody sticks a head out the door. ¡°Yo! They¡¯re showing Chainsaw Motel on the late show! Get your sorry asses inside.¡±


    ¡°All right! Cannibals!¡± the guys yell, and stumble-run to the house.


    Balder lets out the breath he was holding. He bows. ¡°That was a nice thing you did. You are indeed noble.¡± With his chain mail and domed helmet, he reminds me of some weird, courtly little knight. ¡°Please allow me to read your fortune in the runes.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°The runes,¡± he says, drawing a small leather pouch from his pocket. ¡°We from the North use them as tools of protection and divination. Here.¡± He offers the pouch. ¡°Draw one.¡±


    I pull out a smooth stone with a weird ¡°R¡± etched into it.


    ¡°Ah,¡± Balder says, lighting up. ¡°Raido. The rune of travelers, for it means a journey will be undertaken. The journey will be important and there will be no getting around it.¡± He puts the pouch back. ¡°You might need the services of a warrior. I would be happy to ride into battle with you, if you chose to take me with you on your journey.¡± He shoots me a hopeful look.


    How the hell am I going to explain this to Gonzo? My cab pulls up to the curb. The driver honks once. I stand up and brush the grass from my jeans. ¡°Okay, here¡¯s the deal: I¡¯m traveling with a friend, Gonzo. You have to talk to him, too, because he already thinks I¡¯m going insane, and I don¡¯t need any more help on that front. Got it?¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re going to Florida. There¡¯s a beach there. I don¡¯t know if your ship will be waiting for you or not¡ªI mean, I can¡¯t promise anything¡ªbut it¡¯s a shot.¡±


    He bows deeper this time. ¡°The gods have truly sent a wise one to me. I shall honor your wishes, and I shall make one condition of my own.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°You and your friends are not to take any unauthorized pictures of me. I do not wish to show up on your Internet page posed in front of any national monuments or next to dubious signage with some obnoxious caption underneath. I¡¯ve had quite enough of that.¡± His expression is as no-fooling as they come.


    ¡°Got it,¡± I say.


    I lift him in my arms like a baby. On the way to the cab, Balder gives one last look at the cul-de-sac¡ªthe weedy yard, the rock garden littered with butts, the cars lining the block like conformity guards. He gives a small wave, and I think maybe he¡¯ll miss this place after all, but then his fingers slowly bend till only the middle one¡¯s left standing.


    CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE


    In Which I Learn That Two Very Small People Can Add Up to a Major Pain in the Ass and We Nearly Bite It at the Konstant Kettle


    Gonzo¡¯s gotten up in a bad mood. He¡¯s not happy that I went to a party without him. He¡¯s not happy that I don¡¯t have exact change for the soda machine. He¡¯s not happy about getting his lazy ass up before noon, even though the Mister Motel¡ªwhile being lax about the sort of cretins who rent their rooms¡ªis pretty serious about their eleven o¡¯clock checkout policy, and I am not about to be charged another full day rate so Gonzo can sleep in. But once I introduce Balder, the talking Viking yard gnome, Gonzo is unhappy for a whole new set of reasons.


    ¡°I¡¯m just gonna verify this one more time, dude: I¡¯m having breakfast with a yard gnome,¡± he says, once we¡¯re established in a booth at the Konstant Kettle, located conveniently to the right of Mister Motel. He hasn¡¯t touched his breakfast.


    ¡°I am Balder, god of wisdom, second son of Odin,¡± Balder explains between sips of tea. He¡¯s wedged in the corner, where no one else can see him eating.


    ¡°Okay, you¡¯re a delusional yard gnome,¡± Gonzo says.


    ¡°Let¡¯s not talk about delusional,¡± I warn, looking around the place. I¡¯m sure everyone¡¯s noticed us¡ªthe twitchy teen, cranky dwarf, and talking yard gnome¡ªbut no, people are just going about their business here, digging into their corned-beef hash and eggs. It¡¯s kind of funny and sad how people never really notice what¡¯s going on, just like Dulcie said once. I wonder if I¡¯ll ever see her again.

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    Balder¡¯s eyes narrow. ¡°You don¡¯t believe me.¡±


    Gonzo finally spears a slimy egg. ¡°Uh, let me see. Hmmm ¡­ no. No, I don¡¯t believe the yard gnome is a Viking god. Call me crazy.¡±


    ¡°Gonzo,¡± I start, but he holds his hands in a time-out ¡°T¡± and turns to Balder.


    ¡°Let¡¯s stop talking shit and be honest here. You¡¯re a dwarf. I know it. You know it. Just own it, man. Stop the self-hate.¡±


    ¡°Very well. I shall prove that I am Balder.¡± He hands Gonzo a table knife. ¡°Run me through with this smallish but worthy sword.¡±


    Gonzo stops midchew. He opens his mouth full of gnarly egg-toast mash. ¡°You want me to shiv you with a dull butter knife?¡±


    ¡°I want you to try to kill me,¡± Balder explains. ¡°To make my blood flow like the Leiptr.¡±


    ¡°Dude, I¡¯m eating,¡± Gonzo whines.


    Balder smiles. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I cannot be harmed. That is the power of Balder the great.¡±


    ¡°Listen¡ª¡± Gonzo starts. Without warning, Balder pushes himself onto the knife in Gonzo¡¯s hand. The blade disappears in his rounded belly.


    ¡°Aaahh!¡± Gonzo cries. A few heads pop up in our direction. I use my body to block any view of Balder.


    ¡°Would you guys chill?¡± I whisper through tight lips.


    Balder pulls the knife neatly from his skin and lays it on the table. It¡¯s completely clean.


    Gonzo¡¯s face is white. ¡°Dude, you are freaking me out.¡±


    I put my hand on Balder¡¯s stomach. There¡¯s no wound. ¡°How did you do that?¡±


    ¡°I am immortal.¡± Balder takes a sip of his tea. ¡°You see, I had a fearsome dream that I would be killed, and so my mother, Frigg, traveled to the underworld to beg for protection. She went to everyone in the realm and made each one promise not to hurt me. All swore an oath, save the tiny mistletoe bush, who was too young to make such a promise. Thus, I was protected.¡±


    I vaguely remember my mom telling me this story. It seemed different when she told it, but I can¡¯t remember¡ªall that stuff is disappearing from my head, misplaced files I can¡¯t always find. Mom. If she were here right now, she¡¯d be pitching a fit about Konstant Kettle. She¡¯d probably tell the poor waitress that Constant shouldn¡¯t be spelled with a ¡°K¡± and that they¡¯re contributing to ¡°education erosion.¡± That¡¯s the sort of stuff that always embarrassed me about my mom. I feel bad about not calling. She¡¯s probably going nuts. I use the complimentary pack of crayons to draw on my napkin.


    ¡°For sport, the others would try to kill me¡ªthey¡¯d throw stones and darts, even spears,¡± Balder chuckles. ¡°I remained unharmed.¡±


    Gonzo smears an inch of butter on his toast. ¡°And I thought dodgeball was sadistic. I¡¯d hate to take a Viking gym class: ¡®Hey, Timmy, dodge the spear and ¡­ oh, sorry, Timmy. Listen, you don¡¯t need more than one arm, not really¡¯¡±


    ¡°May I finish?¡± Balder says, clearly annoyed.


    Gonzo reaches over him for the jelly. ¡°I thought you were finished.¡±


    ¡°When a Viking warrior dies, they make a pyre upon a mighty vessel, set him on it, and send him off to Valhalla, the hall of the gods in the afterlife. It¡¯s a very noble death.¡±


    Gonzo rolls his eyes. ¡°Set on fire? Yeah, sounds like big fun. Can you pass the ketchup?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t expect you to understand,¡± Balder says. ¡°You are not noble.¡±


    ¡°I came on this trip, didn¡¯t I? I didn¡¯t have to do that? Cameron, tell him I didn¡¯t have to do that.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t have to do that,¡± I say.


    Gonzo points at me with his fork as if to say, See, you ass**le?


    Balder sizes Gonzo up. ¡°You¡¯re quite small, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    Gonzo narrows his eyes and tightens his grip on the fork. ¡°I don¡¯t really think you¡¯re in a position to be talking about somebody¡¯s size, are you, dude?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not a question of size. It¡¯s a question of stature. In my travels, I¡¯ve learned to speak five languages. I¡¯m versed in science, the arts, music.¡±


    Gonzo stares at him. ¡°You¡¯re a freakin¡¯ yard gnome. Dude.¡±


    ¡°Dwarf,¡± Balder grumbles.


    ¡°Piss post!¡±


    ¡°Ignoble.¡±


    ¡°For Chrissakes, can we just get along and eat in peace?¡± I say with a sigh. I don¡¯t feel so great. My head¡¯s throbbing and my stomach hurts. I don¡¯t think it¡¯s my CJ, just an old-fashioned hangover. I look down at the napkin, where I¡¯ve crossed out the ¡°K¡± in Konstant and replaced it with the proper ¡°C.¡±

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    ¡°I¡¯ll be right back,¡± I say.


    ¡°Where you going?¡± Gonzo sounds panicked.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be right back. You guys just ¡­ get to know each other. Bond,¡± I say.


    Balder offers Gonzo the butter knife. ¡°Perhaps you would like to stab me again?¡±


    ¡°Cameron, don¡¯t leave me with the freaky yard gnome!¡± Gonzo pleads, but I¡¯m already up.


    There¡¯s a pay phone in the way back next to the men¡¯s bathroom. I drop in all the change I¡¯ve got and make the call. It rings four times and goes to voicemail. I hear my mom¡¯s familiar message¡ª¡°Hi, this is Mary Smith. I can¡¯t come to the phone right now because I¡¯ve probably been carried away by griffins. But if you leave your name and number, I¡¯ll get back to you just as quickly as Hermes would.¡± There¡¯s a pause, and then she says to me, ¡°Cameron, did I do that right? Oh! We¡¯re still recording! Oh my goodness ¡­,¡± and her laugh is cut off. That message used to annoy the crap out of me¡ªmy mom being all spacey and mom-ish. But right now, hearing her voice is the best thing in the world, like waking up and realizing there¡¯s no school. There¡¯s a beep, and my stomach tightens.


    ¡°Um, hi, Mom. It¡¯s me. Cameron. Well, you probably figured that part out,¡± I say, sounding like the biggest dork. ¡°Anyway, I¡¯m okay. I want you to know that first. And, you know what? Keep grading those moronic English Comp 101 papers, because otherwise, we¡¯re all gonna be getting our gas at the K-W-I-K S-E-R-V and drinking our E-X-P-R-E-S-S-Os at the Konstant Kettle, two K¡¯s. Seriously, the world needs you. You matter. A lot. Okay, I gotta go, ¡¯cause the griffins are here and you know how much they hate to wait. Love you,¡± I add quickly, and hang up.


    I turn and bump into somebody reading a newspaper. ¡°Sorry,¡± I mumble.


    ¡°No problemo,¡± comes a familiar voice. Dulcie lowers her newspaper. Her bright pink hair has been twisted into short, corkscrew curls that wiggle when she shakes her head. ¡°You would not believe the things people put in the personals these days.¡±


    ¡°Dulcie! Where¡¯ve you been?¡±


    ¡°You said you wanted to be left alone.¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡± I trace a crack in the tile with my foot. ¡°Sorry. I promise not to be an ass**le from now on.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t make promises you can¡¯t keep,¡± Dulcie says, laughing. Like a pair of excited puppies, her wings perk up and spread out till they touch the walls of the narrow hallway. I glance nervously toward the restaurant. ¡°You might wanna ix-nay on the ings-way?¡±


    ¡°What? These?¡± She fluffs them so I can see today¡¯s artwork, a mural of rainbows. ¡°Don¡¯t worry¡ªpeople only see what they want to see.¡±


    Right on cue, a lady barrels into the narrow hallway and asks if Dulcie is in line for the bathroom. Dulcie shakes her head, and the lady goes right on in without so much as an extra blink.


    ¡°I¡¯m just curious, what did she see?¡±


    Dulcie shrugs. ¡°Who knows? Everything hunky-dory in Camland? It¡¯s been a while.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. It¡¯s been a weird couple of days.¡± I tell her about missing the bus, CESSNAB, the party, and Balder.


    ¡°I¡¯m special, you¡¯re special,¡± Dulcie sings.


    ¡°How do you know¡ª¡±


    ¡°Must¡¯ve been on a greatest hits CD. Great and special,¡± she says quickly. ¡°Anyway, I¡¯ve been thinking¡ªI know you said to leave you alone, but I don¡¯t think that¡¯s such a good idea, Cameron. You need me.¡±


    ¡°I need you?¡± I try to think of a comeback, but the truth is, I¡¯m just happy to see her.


    ¡°You¡¯ve got grape jelly on your cheek,¡± she says, brushing it off. ¡°Oh, also? Something just came in.¡±


    ¡°Came in where? Angel Central?¡± Dulcie doesn¡¯t answer me. ¡°Wow, do you have cubicles? Is there middle management and one annoying angel who drinks all the coffee but never remembers to make a fresh pot?¡±


    Dulcie gives me a playful punch in the arm. ¡°Very funny, Cameron. You know, I¡¯d love to tell you all about it, but, sadly, then I¡¯d have to kill you. Anyway ¡­ this just showed up. It¡¯s recent footage of Dr. X.¡±


    She pulls out an MP7 player and presses Play. Grainy video rolls. A guy in a lab coat in a white room. It¡¯s vaguely familiar. ¡°Wait¡ªI¡¯ve seen this guy before! The night the fire giants showed up, I did an Internet search and it led me to him. It led me to Dr. X.¡±


    ¡°Everything¡¯s connected,¡± Dulcie says softly, and ups the volume.

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    The quality¡¯s crap, and every few words are replaced by a mumbly hiss. ¡°¡­ So close to finding the answer ¡­ pssssttttt ¡­ The passage of time is an illusion; time ¡­ pssstttt ¡­ does not exist, or rather, we live in all time, always ¡­ psssstttt ¡­ as if we could reach out and touch what has come before, what is yet to be ¡­ pssstttt ¡­ and here is the most important thing of all ¡­ psssssttttttt ¡­¡±


    Suddenly, the video jumps to something else. It¡¯s like the channel¡¯s been turned and we¡¯re smack-dab in the middle of somebody¡¯s vacation footage¡ªjumpy shots of people in shorts walking around, crowd sounds, chirpy music, furry cartoon characters waving. The camera pans over a gate studded with colorful planets and gears. A sign reads: TOMORROWLAND¡ªTHE FUTURE THAT NEVER WAS. The video freezes and a little Play Again triangle pops up.


    ¡°What the hell happened?¡± I ask.


    Dulcie sighs. ¡°Sorry. I was lucky to even get this.¡±


    ¡°What does he mean by all that ¡®time doesn¡¯t exist¡¯ stuff? I mean, how about, ¡®Hey, here¡¯s the cure you need. Oh, and let me tell you how to close the wormhole and save the universe. Just turn left in Alabama and you¡¯ll be fine.¡¯¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Cameron. I know this is frustrating.¡±


    ¡°You think?¡±


    ¡°And I don¡¯t mean to make it harder, but I think our clock is ticking a little faster now. If the wizard gets to Dr. X first, they¡¯ll pull him back through the wormhole, and then it¡¯s all over.¡±


    ¡°Great,¡± I say.


    She bites her bottom lip. ¡°Did you get a sense from that? Anything at all?¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°Nothing.¡±


    Dulcie¡¯s expression is unreadable. ¡°Okay. Well, I¡¯m going to see what else I can find out about Dr. X. You keep pushing on, following whatever signs you find.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯re going again?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m here whenever you need me.¡± She breaks into a goofy grin, and I want to tell her not to go, to stick around and meet the gang, have some pancakes. I want to say something cool, something to keep her smiling, but I can¡¯t think of anything. ¡°Voc¨º ¨¦ a vaca do meu contentamento,¡± I say, quoting a Great Tremolo song.


    Dulcie gives me a weird look and bursts out laughing. ¡°You are the cow of my contentment? Wow. I¡¯m speechless.¡±


    ¡°Is that what it says?¡±


    ¡°¡¯Fraid so.¡±


    ¡°I knew that.¡±


    ¡°Course you did.¡± Her laugh dies. She shrinks back, her eyes wide.


    ¡°What¡¯s the matter?¡± I say, following her gaze to the front of the restaurant, but I don¡¯t see anything unusual. A hostess behind the cash register next to a stack of menus. People paying. A guy in a United Snow Globe Wholesalers shirt wheeling in a dolly full of boxes. A man picking his teeth with a toothpick. Bus boys and waitresses running back and forth with trays and loaded bus tubs. The guy delivers the box, and the hostess opens it up. She pulls out a snow globe, which she shakes vigorously before mounting it on a high shelf above the cash register.


    ¡°Dulcie?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s nothing,¡± she says weakly. ¡°See you down the road, cowboy. Here¡¯s the paper. And Cameron? Be careful.¡± And just like that she¡¯s gone.


    ¡°Hey, you forgot your player!¡± I say, but she doesn¡¯t materialize.


    I give Dulcie¡¯s paper a quick scan. There¡¯s the usual mess of the incomprehensible mixed in with the ridiculous, but I do see an ad for cheap tickets to Daytona Beach. I take that as a sign we¡¯re on the right path, though truthfully, it¡¯s as right as any other random thing I want to assign meaning to¡ªcartoons, the Great Tremolo, the way Staci Johnson flicks her ponytail. I smooth out Junior Webster¡¯s scrap of a compass¡ªto live¡ªfold it neatly, and tuck it back into my pocket along with the MP7.


    When I get to the dining room, some kind of fight has broken out. People are clumped together in spectator fashion, cheering.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± I ask the guy next to me.


    ¡°Some kinda wrestlin¡¯ promo, I think. It¡¯s entertainin¡¯, I¡¯ll say that much. Them little guys got lots of spunk, I tell you what.¡±


    ¡°Little guys?¡± I croak. Oh no they di-in¡¯t. ¡°Excuse me, excuse me!¡± I say, pushing through. Balder¡¯s on the table, and people are lined up, throwing whatever they¡¯ve got at him¡ªknives, forks, coffee cups, rocks. One little girl hurls her waffle and it bounces off his round belly like a spongy boomerang.

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    ¡°Two dollars a shot! All comers welcome!¡± Gonzo shouts. He¡¯s running between everyone, gathering money in Balder¡¯s Viking helmet.


    ¡°I cannot be injured, for I am Balder. ¡­¡± A knife sticks into his arm, but he keeps going. ¡°Son of Odin ¡­¡± A fork lodges into his skull. ¡°Brother of Hoor,¡± he says, pulling them both out. ¡°Immortal.¡±


    ¡°Yeah? Let¡¯s just see about that.¡± A guy in a mall security guard uniform pulls out his piece and shoots Balder in the chest. There¡¯s a gasp from the crowd. Instead of going down, Balder does a little dance.


    ¡°Boo-ya!¡± he says, and I¡¯m pretty sure that¡¯s the original Norse.


    ¡°Well, I¡¯ll be,¡± the mall guard says. Everyone claps and cheers.


    ¡°Two bucks!¡± Gonzo insists, pocketing greenbacks from the shooter.


    ¡°Okay, show¡¯s over!¡± I announce, running up and yanking Balder off the table. ¡°You¡¯ve been great. Be sure to come out and see our show at the monster wrestling truck arena this weekend. Thank you. Thanks so much. Thank. You.¡± As the breakfasters settle back at their tables, I level a sharp gaze at both Gonzo and Balder. ¡°Way to keep a low profile, guys.¡±


    ¡°He started it,¡± Gonzo grumbles.


    Balder gives me one of his courtly bows. ¡°I did not mean to cause trouble, Cameron the Noble.¡±


    ¡°When I said ¡®bond,¡¯ I meant, like, tell some stories, trade a few fart jokes, draw pictures of the waitress with a mustache. Not cause a scene.¡±


    ¡°Look how much cash we got, though.¡± Gonzo shows me Balder¡¯s helmet full of green. They¡¯re both so excited, it¡¯s impossible to be mad at them anymore.


    ¡°All right. Okay. But don¡¯t do that again. Look, let¡¯s just pay the check and¡ª¡± I smell an acrid stench that makes my eyes water. There¡¯s something familiar about it. ¡°Do you smell that?¡± I ask, goose bumps rising on my arms.


    ¡°Smell what?¡± Gonzo asks.


    Wispy black smoke slithers across the floor and coils around my legs, and they start trembling. My body feels as if it¡¯s on fire. My throat muscles clench.


    ¡°Guys ¡­,¡± I croak.


    ¡°Cameron?¡± Gonzo asks, his eyes full of concern.


    ¡°It¡¯s them,¡± I manage, just as the kitchen doors are blasted off their hinges with the force of an explosion. The fire giants have found us.


    ¡°This part of the wrestlin¡¯ show?¡± a man at the next table asks his friends.


    A second explosion rocks the Konstant Kettle. People scream as debris rains down and flames pop from the walls. But I can see they¡¯re more than flames; they¡¯re ginormous, burning men with black holes for eyes and mouths made of sharp, flickering teeth. They¡¯re fast and determined and merciless, and they bring chaos in their wake. With glee, the fire giants leap from the walls and land wherever they like, smashing tables, kicking chairs, ripping up flooring; everything they touch burns down to ash. Two of the creatures crawl along the ceiling, biting into it with their teeth, tearing huge holes in the cheap white acoustic tiles. The place fills with choking smoke. Mothers grab children; truckers leave their All-U-Can-Eat Freedom Pancake Towers untouched; the waiters and busboys abandon the kitchen and coffee stations and run for the safety of the exits, screaming in panic.


    ¡°Cameron! Dude! We gotta get out of here!¡± Gonzo¡¯s offering me his hand, but I can¡¯t move. My legs won¡¯t work.


    The smoke parts, and the Wizard of Reckoning gleams in the firelight like some cyborg knight, a black cape fluttering behind him. He¡¯s added a cape, cheeky bastard. He seems taller and stronger than the last time we met. My brain¡¯s saying run but my body won¡¯t translate the command. The wizard points right at me, and my stomach goes into free fall. Leg muscles jerk and twitch and tighten up completely, and I crumple to the floor.


    ¡°Cameron! Get up, dude!¡± Gonzo shouts.


    Using my arms, I drag myself under the table and hug my knees to my chest, struggling for breath. Across the restaurant, the Wizard of Reckoning peels his space suit from his chest. In the center is a big black abyss, and I feel like I¡¯m being pulled in.


    ¡°No,¡± I croak. ¡°Not yet.¡± I close my eyes tight, trying to resist the pressure squeezing me on all sides.


    And then, I feel nothing.


    Open my eyes, and I¡¯m lying in the grass blinking against the light of the sun. The choking smoke is gone. In fact, the air smells sweet. Really sweet. Like flowers. I sniff in a big noseful of it.


    ¡°That¡¯s lily of the valley you smell. Delightful, isn¡¯t it?¡±

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    ¡°Ahhhhh!¡± I scream. I sit up quickly and scramble backward on my hands, spider style. My eyes do a quick inventory: flowers, grass, paper lanterns, bright sun overhead. And a few feet away is the old lady from the hospital. She¡¯s still in her gown with her tags around her wrist, but now she¡¯s also wearing a wide-brimmed sun hat and a cow-hide-patterned apron. She snips at things in her garden with a pair of long, thin shears.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on? Where am I?¡± I gasp.


    The old lady smiles and opens her arms wide. ¡°This is the place I told you about¡ªmy house by the sea.¡±


    ¡°What? This is crazy¡ªtwo seconds ago, I was in a restaurant and it was burning and ¡­¡± I hear it. The sea. I turn around. Behind me is a two-story farmhouse overlooking a calm ocean. The waves lap the rocky shore, back and forth, back and forth, making me sleepy. Peaceful.


    ¡°For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth.¡± The old lady scrutinizes me. ¡°You¡¯ve got a spot of jelly on your cheek, dear.¡±


    I wipe at my face. ¡°Okay, seriously? I¡¯m starting to freak out.¡±


    ¡°No need for that,¡± she says, and hums to herself. ¡°The Copenhagen Interpretation. I just love them! I hear they¡¯re Inuits?¡±


    ¡°I ¡­ I left my friends in the diner with the fire giants and the freaking wizard.¡±


    ¡°Agents of chaos,¡± she snaps. ¡°Oh, these are frightening times. Are you sure you¡¯re all right, dear?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m so tired. Just want to sleep.¡±


    The old lady purses her lips as she flattens out the long stem of one weed, trying to figure out where to make the cut. ¡°You could do that. There is a bed right upstairs with a window that looks out on the sea. Very good for sleeping. But I thought you were searching for that doctor, the one with the cure for what ails you.¡±


    ¡°Dr. X?¡± I murmur. Sleep sounds so nice right now. ¡°Yeah. I¡¯m supposed to find him. That¡¯s what Dulcie told me.¡±


    The old lady cuts the stem and the weed shrivels up and dies. Something else comes up right away, a blue flower. ¡°Well, you could stay here, if you like. Get off the road. Go to the beach. Or we could make waffles. I adore waffles, do you?¡±


    ¡°Waffles are good,¡± I say.


    ¡°They didn¡¯t have waffles in that wretched hospital. Just that damn gluey oatmeal,¡± she snipes.


    ¡°The thing is, I¡¯m supposed to save the universe, ¡¯cause it ¡­ it needs saving,¡± I say, but I¡¯m so exhausted. ¡°Maybe just a quick ¡­ nap.¡±


    I lay my head down in the soft grass and go to sleep. At one point, I open my eyes, and I¡¯m back in my bed at St. Jude¡¯s, the TV showing the coyote chasing the roadrunner, the numbing hum of the respirator and feet padding down corridors filling my ears. I drift back into sleep. But in my dream, I see Gonzo and Balder back in the diner, trying to fight off the fire giants and the Wizard of Reckoning by themselves, and I think, I¡¯m the one who got them into this mess. I can¡¯t sleep; I have to go back.


    I wake with a start. The old lady¡¯s still tending her garden. ¡°Feeling better, dear?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I say.


    ¡°Did you make up your mind about those waffles?¡± she asks, examining another long vine, her scissors paused above it.


    ¡°I can¡¯t,¡± I say. ¡°I have to get back to my friends.¡±


    The old lady lets the vine spring back and moves on to another. ¡°Very well. Another time. Oh, my dear, I left my watering can over there. Could you bring it to me?¡±


    ¡°Where?¡±


    She waves in the direction of the green fields. ¡°Out there. You¡¯ll find it.¡±


    Tromping through the tall grass, I¡¯m stopped in my tracks by the sight of a roadrunner. It¡¯s standing there calmly, just watching me.


    ¡°Hey,¡± I say, inching closer. ¡°Hey there, little fella.¡±


    The minute I get close enough to touch it, the roadrunner takes off. It stops about a hundred yards away and looks back at me, like it¡¯s waiting for me to come after it.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be right back with that can!¡± I yell.


    The old lady keeps singing her song, something about sand castles and ninjas. I chase after the roadrunner, going faster and faster, reaching my hand out to touch its feathers. My fingers close around air, and I hit the ground hard, coughing and hacking as the dirt fills my mouth like smoke.


    ¡°Cameron! Cameron!¡± Gonzo¡¯s holding a wet napkin to his mouth with one hand and trying to pull me out from under the table with the other. ¡°Come on, cabr¨®n¡ªmove your bony ass!¡±

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    I give one good cough. My legs finally get the command and I push out of there with enough force to take Gonzo with me.


    ¡°Where¡¯s Balder?¡± I scream.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know!¡±


    ¡°I am here!¡± The world¡¯s most badass Viking yard gnome is on the counter by the cash register using a dinner plate as a shield and a steak knife as a sword. ¡°No doubt Loki has sent this treacherous wizard and his dragons to test me,¡± he shouts. ¡°Fear not! I will slay them all and use their bones to adorn my table at Breidablik before I would allow them to harm you, noble Cameron!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m here, too, you know!¡± Gonzo shouts.


    ¡°Live to fight another day, my friend,¡± I say, grabbing him and pushing through the door into the smoky parking lot. People race away from the burning restaurant, searching for a safe spot in the madness. The sky¡¯s unnaturally dark. Lightning boxes the clouds with quick uppercuts of electricity. Howling, the fire giants stretch over the top of the restaurant and beat their chests in triumph.


    Just then, an enormous boom rattles the entire parking lot, and everything¡ªthe Konstant Kettle, the Mister Motel, the cars and trucks¡ªis sucked into the swirling black hole above. The sky closes. There¡¯s nothing left but flames and smoke and bystanders, and curiously, the restaurant¡¯s collection of snow globes.


    Across the freeway, the freaked-out patrons of the Konstant Kettle wave down cars, yelling for help. We run as fast and as far as we can, until we¡¯re about a mile down the road. In the distance, a fleet of fire trucks screams toward the big orange fireball that used to be a restaurant. The Kettle is Konstant no more.


    Gonzo comes toward me, wild-eyed. He makes a time-out T with his hands. ¡°Okay. Pause game: what the hell just happened?¡± He¡¯s panting.


    ¡°From the depths of Hel,¡± Balder whispers.


    ¡°That guy was the same one we saw in New Orleans,¡± Gonzo continues. ¡°What¡¯s he doing here with those creepy fire acrobats? And don¡¯t tell me this is about some old dead jazzman¡¯s gambling debts, ¡¯cause I ain¡¯t buying that mierda anymore.¡±


    ¡°I¡ªI think they¡¯re following us.¡± I¡¯d cry, but I¡¯m too scared.


    Gonzo puts his inhaler so far into his mouth I think he¡¯s going to eat it. ¡°Holy Shithenge,¡± he says when he can talk again. ¡°Why? What did you do to piss them off? Whatever it was, tell them you¡¯re sorry!¡±


    Balder strokes his beard. ¡°This is some treachery brought about by Loki, I¡¯ve no doubt. The trickster god is ever in play and will do his part to bring about the twilight of the gods.¡±


    ¡°You are freaking me out, gnome man!¡± Gonzo screeches.


    ¡°Chill, both of you.¡± Another siren wails past us on its way to the fire. I take a deep breath, try to calm myself. ¡°He¡¯s called the Wizard of Reckoning, and those guys with him are the fire giants. They¡¯re not from this world. They got here through the wormhole Dr. X opened up. They are the dark energy that¡¯s going to destroy the world. I think they¡¯re following us to Dr. X¡¯s secret location, because he¡¯s the only one who can close the portal. They take him out first, it¡¯s game over for everybody.¡±


    Gonzo takes another puff on his inhaler.


    ¡°That¡¯s why we have to find Dr. X as soon as possible,¡± I explain.


    ¡°This Dr. X will heal the rift and make it all better, as you say?¡± Balder asks.


    ¡°Absolutely,¡± I promise.


    Gonzo reaches into his pack and comes up with a bottle of SPF-to-the-tenth-power lotion. He rubs a big dollop on his face; it leaves big white streaks under his eyes. ¡°Hold up¡ªhow do you know all of this is true?¡±


    ¡°Dulcie told me.¡±


    Gonzo laughs. ¡°Oh sure, right. It must be true because you heard it from the hot angel who lives in your head! For all we know, she¡¯s the one bringing the end of the world,¡± Gonzo says.


    ¡°She¡¯s not.¡±


    ¡°Ha!¡± Gonzo starts throwing stuff into his pack. ¡°You know what? Forget this, yo. I¡¯m-a call my mom as soon as I can get to a working phone.¡±


    ¡°She doesn¡¯t live in my head. She¡¯s real,¡± I say, but I don¡¯t know if I¡¯m trying to convince Gonzo or myself.


    ¡°Yeah? So how come she doesn¡¯t come around?¡± Gonzo puts his hands on either side of his mouth and calls out, ¡°Paging all supernatural chicks with wings! Conference on the side of the road near the burning pancake palace!¡±


    ¡°Fuck you.¡±


    ¡°Whatever,¡± Gonzo snaps right back. ¡°I¡¯m just saying, it¡¯s hard to believe in all this crazy without a little proof.¡±

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    Proof. The MP7 player in my pocket.


    ¡°You want proof? You got it.¡± I pull it out, find the link, and press Play. But where Dr. X used to be is just white noise, followed by the vacation footage of Disney World. Gonzo makes a disgusted laugh deep in his throat. Even Balder¡¯s looking at me with a mix of wariness and pity.


    ¡°It was here. I swear it.¡± I press Play again and again, but it¡¯s gone.


    Gonzo¡¯s gaze is steely. ¡°I didn¡¯t have to come, but I did. But you told me there was something in it for me, too, and so far, amigo, I got a lot of trouble and no payoff. Tell me why I should stick this out.¡±


    ¡°Because Cameron is our brother, our friend, and we do not abandon our friends,¡± Balder chides.


    ¡°Thanks, man,¡± I say.


    ¡°No matter if he has lost his wits completely and speaks like one whom the dogs should tear asunder in a mercy killing,¡± Balder continues. ¡°This is a quest. I pledged my loyalty to Cameron back on the cul-de-sac. I shall see it through till the end.¡±


    The way he says ¡°end¡± makes me feel all wonky inside.


    Gonzo just stands there, staring at the burning diner in the distance. He has every right to call his mom and head back to Texas, but I hope he won¡¯t. The truth is, I¡¯ve kind of gotten used to his neurotic weirdness, and I¡¯d miss it if he left. Maybe that¡¯s what real friendship is¡ªgetting so used to people that you need to be annoyed by them.


    ¡°I¡¯ll tell you what, pendejo,¡± Gonzo says. ¡°We better invest in some adult diapers, ¡¯cause if those freaks show up again, I¡¯m gonna need ¡¯em.¡±


    I could almost hug him.


    ¡°Yeah, so, you know, let¡¯s kick some parallel-universe dark-energy ass and shit,¡± he adds, trying not to look scared.


    ¡°A wise choice. But we must gain some protection against these travelers from Muspelheim and Niflheim. I shall cast the runes and seek their prophecy.¡± Balder reaches beneath his tunic and pulls out the leather pouch.


    Gonzo makes a face. ¡°Dude, you weren¡¯t, like, keeping those in your pants this whole time, were you? I mean, use a wipe or something first. Damn.¡±


    Balder shakes the pouch till it clacks. Eyes closed, he grabs a rune, places it on the patchy ground. It¡¯s just a piece of rock etched with a symbol that reminds me of an ¡°M¡± wearing a bra.


    ¡°Hmmmm.¡± Balder strokes his beard. ¡°Mannaz.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± Gonzo says, his inhaler hovering near his mouth again. ¡°Is that some bad juju? Are we marked for death? Give it to me straight, Gnome-Man!¡±


    ¡°Man is the augmentation of the dust,¡± Balder intones. ¡°So says the rune.¡±


    ¡°What the hell does that mean?¡± Gonzo asks.


    ¡°I cannot know, but I will invoke a prayer of protection for our journey. It is all I can do.¡±


    Balder chants something in a language I don¡¯t understand. The wind changes direction, bringing the smell of scorched earth mixed with spring flowers. Ragged streaks of smoke cut across the blue sky like the claw marks of some great beast. I don¡¯t see how we can possibly protect ourselves from something so totally random. There¡¯s no plan for something like that. ¡°Shit happens¡± is more than just a T-shirt slogan.


    ¡°So ¡­ you think that¡¯ll help us out?¡± I ask hopefully.


    Balder gathers his runes, hides the pouch again. ¡°I believe as surely as I believe that Ringhorn is waiting for me and that I shall return to my home and the hall of the gods.¡±


    I sigh. ¡°Your runes have any prophecy about how we get out of here?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t do another bus, dude. I¡¯m nauseated just thinking about it,¡± Gonzo says.


    ¡°Yeah, well, since we are currently wanted men, I think buses are a bad idea.¡± I take a look around, trying to get our bearings, but there¡¯s not much help¡ªhighways, faceless industrial complexes, gas stations. A green and white road marker points the way to Bifrost Road under the overpass. ¡°Gonzo, how much money do you have?¡±


    He pulls out wads of crumpled bills he collected from the patrons of the Konstant Kettle and adds them to what he¡¯s got in his pocket. ¡°Forty-eight dollars and ¡­ twenty-five¡±¡ªhe drops a penny¡ª¡°twenty-four cents.¡±


    Adding that to my leftover two thousand nine hundred and ninety dollars of stolen drug money, we¡¯ve got enough for plane tickets for sure. But Gonzo doesn¡¯t have a driver¡¯s license. No ID, no flying. And since Balder¡¯s too bulky to fit in the overhead bin, we¡¯d have to check him as luggage. Crap.

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    High above the crisscross of highway, a murky rainbow shines under the wisps of smoke, staining the sky like an oil slick. It dead-ends in the distance near the rippling pennants of a car dealership. And then I remember the orange balloon in our room.


    ¡°Come on,¡± I say, shouldering my backpack. ¡°Screw mass transit. It¡¯s time we got ourselves some wheels.¡±


    CHAPTER THIRTY


    In Which We Buy a Car and the Gnome Gets a New Outfit


    We have to use fifteen dollars of our precious cash to cab it across those highways to Arthur Limbaud¡¯s lot. The place is huge¡ªacres of cars with prices shoe-polished across the windshields. Nothing as low as what we need, though. It¡¯s looking grim. We make our way to the low concrete building in the center. It¡¯s decorated with colorful plastic flags that flap in the breeze, going round and round like the blades of windmills. Inside the showroom, beautiful shining cars sit on raised, revolving platforms. These are the Don¡¯t Even Look Because You Can¡¯t Afford Us cars. A tall man in a Western-cut suit, cowboy boots, and a cowboy hat strides over. His face is weathered as an old map, lines everywhere. He¡¯s got a solid black mustache and a toothpick poking out of the side of his mouth, which he works with his tongue, rolling it back and forth. ¡°Hi-dee,¡± he says, shaking my hand hard. ¡°Arthur Limbaud¡ªthat¡¯s an ¡®O,¡¯ not an ¡®aw¡¯ by the way. Welcome to Limbaud¡¯s Resale Beauties: Every Car a Beauty. That¡¯s our motto. What kin I do fer you, gen¡¯lemen?¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± I start.


    ¡°You two boys going somewheres special? Let me guess, you just gradjeeated high school and now you wanna see this fine country of our¡¯n? Am I right?¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir,¡± I say, copping my best Eagle Scout imitation. ¡°You are right.¡±


    ¡°Well, ain¡¯t that grand. Where you headed first?¡±


    I say ¡°Montana¡± at the same time that Gonzo says ¡°Florida.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a long trip,¡± I say.


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s mighty fine, mighty fine.¡± Arthur smiles with the toothpick between his teeth, which are the color of nicotine stains. ¡°What kind of beauty did you have in mind?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re sort of on a budget,¡± I say, hoping he doesn¡¯t laugh and throw us out when he hears what we¡¯ve got to spend.


    ¡°We work with all kinds here, son. No budget too small.¡±


    ¡°We need something for under three thousand dollars ¡­,¡± I say, watching Arthur¡¯s smile fade. ¡°Or so.¡±


    ¡°Three thousand, huh?¡± he says, letting out a long whistle that vibrates the toothpick in his mouth.


    ¡°Or so,¡± Gonzo adds.


    ¡°That do put me in a bit of a pickle,¡± Arthur says, shaking his head sadly. ¡°But seein¡¯ as you boys got your hearts set on seein¡¯ the country, and since I were a young man myself once, lemme see what I kin do fer ya. Hold on.¡±


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you just fax our itinerary to the police?¡± I say to Gonzo as Arthur disappears into the office.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± he says.


    ¡°Could you get me one of those free Danish?¡± Balder asks. He¡¯s propped up on the hood of a shiny pick-up truck like a bizarre cross between a hood ornament and a traffic-accident victim. I bring him a Danish and some strong black coffee with nondairy creamer that freckles the surface with little white marks. It looks diseased, but Balder drinks it anyway.


    ¡°I hope you can hold your coffee, yard gnome, because we¡¯re not stopping,¡± Gonzo says.


    ¡°I¡¯m the one who¡¯s clever enough to eat the free food before we get on the road.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know how long those things have been sitting there,¡± Gonzo says with a shudder. ¡°Or who¡¯s been touching them. They¡¯re like little pastries of salmonella.¡±


    Balder licks a big dollop of cream cheese out of the middle. ¡°Ummm.¡±


    Gonzo pales. ¡°You¡¯re one sick dude.¡±


    Arthur returns. I grab Balder and shove the rest of the Danish in my own mouth. I feel him sigh under my arm.


    ¡°Weeeell now, boys, never let it be said that Arthur Limbaud wouldn¡¯t work for his money. I looked at my records and it jes¡¯ so happens that I got a car might work out, a very special ve-hicle. It¡¯s a rehabbed Caddy called the Cadillac Rocinante. Boys, they do not make cars like this anymore. I mean that¡ªthey stopped production on ¡¯em back in ¡¯sixty-eight. She¡¯s a special car, yessir. And she can be all yourn for ¡­ what¡¯d you say you had? Four thousand dollars?¡±

 Page 94

    ¡°Three thousand,¡± I remind him.


    Arthur points his toothpick at me. ¡°A smart bidnessman. I like that. Three thousand dollars it is.¡± Arthur M. Limbaud¡¯s dry, cracked face spreads into a grin that makes the short black hairs of his mustache stand at attention. ¡°Son, you have got yourself a deal.¡±


    This means for sure we are buying a piece of shit that no one else would touch. I don¡¯t care if it¡¯s held together by spit and rubber bands. I just need something that costs less than three thousand dollars and can get us to Florida in one piece.


    ¡°Sounds great,¡± I say. ¡°Uh, can we see it?¡±


    ¡°Getting there, buckaroo. It¡¯s a process.¡± Arthur puts his arm around me. ¡°See, son, when I sell somebody a car, I feel like I¡¯m sellin¡¯ ¡¯em a little piece of me. I¡¯m like their daddy. So, seein¡¯ as that¡¯s how I feel, I¡¯m gonna take the liberty of givin¡¯ you some father-son advice. You ready for me?¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir.¡±


    Arthur lets his tongue twirl the toothpick in his mouth for a full ten seconds. With tobacco-stained fingers, he pulls it out and pokes it at me. ¡°A car is a lot like a woman. If you treat her right, give her what she needs when she needs it, she¡¯ll get you where you¡¯re going and not give you a peep of trouble. But if you treat her bad, she¡¯ll cut out on ya. You unnerstand me?¡±


    That¡¯s it? That¡¯s his father-son advice? Christ.


    ¡°Yes, sir. Got it.¡±


    ¡°Fine, fine.¡± He claps, then rubs his hands together. ¡°All-rightythen. Let¡¯s go see your beauty.¡±


    He leads us out through rows of gleaming cars with their orange advertising balloons tied to the windshield wipers. Gonzo looks hopefully at each car, expecting the next one to be it. I¡¯ve got Balder in my arms.


    ¡°What¡¯s that there, yer mascot?¡± Arthur asks, pointing to Balder.


    ¡°Sort of,¡± I say.


    ¡°Cute little feller.¡±


    Arthur turns a corner and we¡¯re on a second lot tucked away behind a service garage. The cars here are like the kids who never get adopted on those TV news programs, the ones who¡¯ve been shut away in Romanian orphanages their whole lives. Arthur takes us to the very end of the lot, where a big boat of a car sits. It¡¯s a sort of gold color sprayed over a light blue, with dents in the passenger side door. On the front hood where an ornament should be sits a pair of large cattle horns. They¡¯ve been rigged to the front with wire. It makes it seem like the car has a mustache.


    ¡°Gen¡¯lemen¡ªthe Caddy Rocinante!¡± Arthur pries open the passenger door with a loud creak. ¡°Slide on in. Feel ¡¯er out, boys.¡±


    We crawl in and settle back against the cracked vinyl seats. The foam padding¡¯s coming out in spots. This car has the vehicular equivalent of mange. And an oversized boom box has been affixed to the dashboard by the previous owners. But the giant steering wheel¡¯s solid in my hands, and I love looking out past the cattle horns at the sun sparkling in bursts off the hoods of other cars.


    Arthur hands me the keys. ¡°Start ¡¯er up.¡±


    The Rocinante grumbles, wheezes, shakes, and finally purrs into service. I¡¯ve never had my own car.


    ¡°How¡¯s she feel?¡± Arthur shouts over the engine.


    ¡°Awesome,¡± I say, enjoying the vibrations under my fingers.


    ¡°Dandy,¡± Arthur says. ¡°We¡¯re all set for the paperwork.¡±


    Reluctantly, I cut the engine and slide out. Arthur takes the keys again. ¡°I just need your license and a parent to cosign.¡±


    ¡°Y-you do?¡± I stammer. ¡°My parents are dead.¡±


    Arthur¡¯s mustache twitches. The toothpick rolls from one side of his mouth to the other. ¡°We-eee-lll, son, we got ourselves a sitchooashun. You ain¡¯t a legal adult, and I can only sell to legal parties.¡±


    Without the Caddy, we¡¯re stuck hitching or trying to get on a bus or train, where we are sitting ducks for every cop with a scanner. We need this car.


    Balder waves his arm over Mr. Limbaud. ¡°These Star Fighters are not worth the trouble,¡± he says in a weird, artsy-fartsy voice. ¡°You will help them escape.¡±


    Arthur¡¯s toothpick falls out of his mouth. ¡°Did that thing just talk?¡±


    ¡°I ¡­ he ¡­ um,¡± I sputter.


    Balder closes his eyes and lifts a hand. ¡°Let them go.¡±


    ¡°Holy moley! How¡¯dyoo get him to do that?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s a ¡­ toy,¡± I improvise. ¡°A prototype.¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯ll be damned,¡± Arthur says. ¡°What else does he say?¡±

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    ¡°Uh, here,¡± I say, pushing an imaginary button in Balder¡¯s back.


    ¡°Who¡¯s your Caddy!¡± he says, bright and chirpy.


    Arthur¡¯s eyes grow to the size of quarters. He laughs, slapping his knees. ¡°Who¡¯s your Caddy! Now don¡¯t that beat all!¡±


    ¡°Every Jeep¡¯s cheap!¡± Balder chirps.


    ¡°Amazing,¡± Arthur says. That sharky mind of his is circling something.


    ¡°Oh yeah,¡± Gonzo adds. ¡°You can get ¡¯em programmed to say all kinds of things.¡±


    ¡°No kidding? Say, listen. I might be able to forget you¡¯re not eighteen if you could leave me this guy. Somethin¡¯ like ¡¯is would bring in all sorts of customers. We could do commercials!¡±


    ¡°This one¡¯s not quite right yet,¡± I say. ¡°Few bugs in the system.¡±


    Arthur¡¯s face goes mean. ¡°Well, that¡¯s a gall-darn shame. You boys sure woulda looked fine in that Caddy.¡±


    ¡°You can get another! You can get another!¡± Balder says in his adopted parrot voice.


    ¡°Right! I can send you a brand-new one as soon as I get to Montana. To my dad¡¯s workshop. My dead dad¡¯s workshop. His workers are still there. Working. Then you can program it to say things in your voice.¡±


    ¡°Well now. That is a fine idea. Gen¡¯lemen, you got yourselves a car.¡±


    Ten minutes later, with the papers signed and the money in his yellowed fingers, Arthur shows us back out to the lot and the Caddy¡¯s brought round. A secretary wiggles out of the front seat. She¡¯s all in pink, like somebody who got stuck in a cotton-candy machine for a night.


    ¡°Here you go, now,¡± she says, dropping the keys in my hand. ¡°Y¡¯all be careful.¡±


    Arthur takes hold of her arm. ¡°Carol, hold on a minute. You have got to see this. These fellas have a toy¡ªwell, you just have to see it.¡±


    He pushes on Balder, hard, in the stomach. I can see that our gnomy friend is pissed. He¡¯s not going to talk. No way. But Arthur keeps pushing. ¡°Come on, now. Say somethin¡¯, dammit!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, see, the bugs¡ª¡± I start to explain.


    ¡°He was talkin¡¯ fine a minute ago. I¡¯ll get the sumbitch working.¡±


    Arthur picks him up and shakes so hard Balder¡¯s whole face flushes bright red. I can see from the set of Arthur¡¯s thin lips that he¡¯s determined. He¡¯s not letting our gnome down till he dances for Daddy. ¡°Come on, now,¡± he says, giving Balder one last, hard shake. ¡°Do somethin¡¯ else, dangit!¡±


    And that¡¯s when Balder pees on him.


    We pull the Caddy into the parking lot of a Toys Mahal and duck inside. I stand guard while Gonzo rips open a Life-Sized Surfer Sammy box, switching out Balder¡¯s pee-wet pants for Sammy¡¯s black, neoprene surfer leggings complete with dragon etchings up the side. Some kid is in for a bad birthday.


    ¡°We¡¯re gonna get caught,¡± Gonzo says, looking around like a man hunted.


    ¡°Not if you stay cool,¡± I say.


    ¡°They¡¯ll take us to jail. It¡¯ll go down on our permanent records and we¡¯ll never go to college. We¡¯ll end up flipping burgers for the rest of our miserable, nonproductive lives.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m almost in,¡± Balder says. ¡°There.¡± He looks great. Like a guru of the lawn. ¡°Take the board, too.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s stealing,¡± Gonz argues.


    ¡°Who got you a Cadillac?¡±


    ¡°Give him the board,¡± I say.


    Balder hops on it, bending his knees, fighting imaginary waves. ¡°Wicked.¡±


    ¡°How did you get the idea to Star Fighter him?¡± Gonzo asks once we¡¯re on the road and sharing a drive-thru meal together in the front seat. ¡°What if he¡¯d seen the movie?¡±


    ¡°It was a calculated risk,¡± Balder says. He¡¯s camped out in the spacious back like the king he thinks he is.


    ¡°How did you even know about Star Fighter in the first place?¡± Gonzo asks.


    ¡°One of my kidnappers was a devotee of science fiction. He took me to those¡ªwhat are they called? Fields of battle where people dress as Visigoths and androids and those marauding teddy bears who are strangely lethal?¡±


    ¡°Teddy Vamps,¡± Gonzo fills in. ¡°Dude, you¡¯ve been to all the cons! All right.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. I have been photographed with the one they worship as a god, Silas, son of Fenton,¡± he says, mentioning the name of the director revered by millions.


    ¡°Silas Fenton? You took a picture with Silas Fucking Fenton? Oh my God! Balder! You sly little kick-butt gnome. You are the man!¡±

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    Balder leans back against the seat, his arms behind his head. ¡°Damn right.¡±


    We drive on, the Caddy and its bull-horn hood ornament cutting a colorful figure through the slick sedans and dime-a-dozen SUVs. Some little kids press their noses to the windows of their child-locked doors, gaping at us. Gonzo opens a bag of chips and hands it to Balder, who takes a handful and forwards it to Gonzo.


    ¡°Dude, I can¡¯t believe you whizzed on him.¡±


    Balder wipes his hands on the Sammy Surfer bandana he¡¯s now wearing around his neck. ¡°He was very disrespectful. I have learned much in my current form. I have seen how those supposed to have no power can be disregarded quite easily. Just because I¡¯m small doesn¡¯t mean I have no worth.¡±


    Gonzo nods. ¡°Say what-what.¡± He puts a stubby fist on the back of his seat rest.


    ¡°What-what,¡± Balder says. He reaches up and bumps fists with Gonzo, and they go back to eating their chips in satisfied silence.


    CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE


    Wherein We Make Up Bumper Stickers and I Introduce the Joys of the Great Tremolo


    We drive for miles. The Caddy takes us past ordinary sights that seem amazing and new glimpsed from open car windows on an unexplored road. Out in the fields that run alongside the endless highway, prisoners in orange scrubs that read PASSAMONTE CORRECTIONAL UNIT pick up trash with long pointed sticks and drop it into the huge Santa sacks tied to their backs. Parker Day¡¯s blindingly white teeth glare from a billboard for Rad Sport¡ªOPTIMUM PERFORMANCE DEMANDS THE OPTIMUM SODA EXPERIENCE! Dogs stick their heads out to catch the breeze and we answer their howls with our own. An eighteen-wheeler rumbles by on the right, shaking the Caddy. UNITED SNOW GLOBE WHOLESALERS. FREEZING LIFE BEHIND GLASS. HOW¡¯S MY DRIVING? CALL 1-800-555-1212. Above us, the clouds drift along in a blue, indifferent sea.


    To pass the time, we make up bumper stickers and deliver them in movie trailer announcer voices.


    ¡°I thought I was having an existential crisis, but it was nothing.¡±


    ¡°My honors student sells drugs to your honors student.¡±


    ¡°I know you¡¯re stalking me.¡±


    ¡°Please don¡¯t tailgate: body in trunk.¡±


    ¡°Quantum physics has a problem of major gravity.¡±


    When we get hungry, we eat at greasy-spoon diners, where Balder and I order things with names like ¡°The Count of Monte Cristo Sandwich¡± (a fried egg in a ham-and-toast ¡°mask¡±) and ¡°Devil Dogs¡ªhot dogs so good you¡¯ll swear you¡¯re sinning!¡± Gonzo always orders the grilled cheese. It¡¯s the only thing he deems safe.


    We drive through interstate rainstorms that last all of ten minutes, like the weather¡¯s just in a bad mood. I like looking out through the metronome of the windshield wipers at the rain bouncing off the bull horns. When the storms pass behind us, the sun cuts through, and sometimes there¡¯s a greasy smudge of a rainbow.


    At the Georgia-Alabama border, we park the car on the shoulder and Gonzo and I stand with one foot on either side of the WELCOME TO GEORGIA sign, just so we can say we were in two places at the same time. Then we hold Balder between us so he can say he did it, too. I like the way Georgia looks, so different from Texas. All those tall pine trees and that rich, red dirt, like the ground bled and scabbed over, like it¡¯s got a history you can read in the very clay.


    We talk about stupid things, things that don¡¯t matter, like why no one ever has to go to the bathroom in action movies or what you¡¯d do if you found a suitcase full of money. Gonzo wants to start a dwarf detective series called ¡°The Littlest PI¡± or ¡°Dwarf of Destiny.¡± Balder argues that you can never know about destiny: are the people you meet there to play a part in your destiny, or do you exist just to play a role in theirs? I tell them about my secret cartoon fantasy, the one where the coyote stops chasing the roadrunner, sells all his contraptions of death, buys a boat, and goes fishing instead.


    What I don¡¯t tell them is that every time I look up at those frequent billboards for personal injury lawyers or HAMBURGERS NEXT FIVE MILES, I see the Small World characters smiling and waving me on. Marionette Balinese girls dancing. A Mexican boy in sombrero playing the guitar. The alligator with the umbrella. The Inuit fishing boy with his plastic fish.


    It¡¯s tempting to say, ¡°Hey, check it out¡ªthe animatronic Don Quixote on his wooden horse just winked at me.¡±


    But then they might not let me drive.


    A Copenhagen Interpretation song comes on. Balder sings along.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know you were a CI fan,¡± Gonzo says.


    ¡°A most harmonious band,¡± Balder says, air drumming. ¡°They performed for my people at Breidablik.¡±

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    Gonzo and I exchange glances.


    ¡°It¡¯s true!¡± Balder insists. ¡°They fell from the sky with their odd instruments, and we feared that Ragnarok was upon us.¡±


    ¡°Ragnarok.¡± Gonzo makes a face. ¡°Is that a musical festival?¡±


    ¡°The end of the world in Norse mythology,¡± I say, remembering my mom¡¯s lessons. ¡°The doom of the gods.¡±


    ¡°They spoke a strange tongue, but their song was a charm against ill. While they played, peace reigned. Enemies stood as friends. The giants lay down in contentment. Even the Valkyries refused to choose the dead. We feasted. And then, the clouds opened once more. They were gone, leaving behind only the northern lights.¡±


    The sky¡¯s filling up with dark clouds. Time for an afternoon downpour. Cars flip on their headlights, bracing for the coming rain. Our rigged boom box flickers into a staticky symphony of pops, crackles, and occasional burps of words. With the precision of a code breaker, I turn the knob, listening for the sonar of life in the distance, happy when we get a sudden blurp of sound; it makes me feel like I¡¯m moving toward something, that it¡¯s only a signal tower away and getting stronger.


    ¡°Could we please find something else? This is torture,¡± Balder pleads.


    ¡°How do you feel about the Great Tremolo?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Is it static?¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s a CD,¡± I say, feeling around on the front seat for the disc I burned.


    Balder yawns. ¡°Wonderful.¡±


    Gonzo does the honors, and soon, the car¡¯s thumping to the head-banging pleasure of Portuguese love songs on ukulele and recorder.


    ¡°What is this shit?¡± Gonzo asks, a smile tugging at his lips.


    ¡°The Great Tremolo. The master of love in any language.¡±


    The Great Tremolo starts to sing in his high, shaky falsetto and that¡¯s it. Gonzo is officially gone. He¡¯s crying he¡¯s laughing so hard, which of course makes me laugh, too. The Great Tremolo goes for a high note and we nearly piss our pants. Balder has chosen to ignore our immaturity. He¡¯s stretched across the backseat with his eyes closed, probably taking a little gnome snooze.


    ¡°Dude, where did you find this?¡± Gonzo chokes out.


    I wipe away tears. ¡°Wait¡ªturn it up. This is his big ukulele solo!¡±


    Gonzo slaps his leg, chortling. ¡°He¡¯s tearing that uke up! Go, badass girly-singing man!¡±


    ¡°I bet the women throw their underwear,¡± I crack.


    ¡°I want to throw my underwear! Pull over so I can take it off!¡±


    A rumble of thunder rolls over us. The first big splats of rain hit the windshield, a heavy one, two-three. Four. The Great Tremolo sings out from the rigged boom box.


    ¡°Hey, Gonz, what¡¯s he saying?¡± I ask, catching my breath.


    Gonzo snorts in disgust. ¡°I don¡¯t know, man, it¡¯s Portuguese. I¡¯m Mex-i-can?¡± he says, drawing it out. ¡°This may come as a shock to you, pendejo, but not all brown people are the same.¡±


    ¡°Sorry,¡± I say. ¡°I still wish I knew what he was saying.¡± And for the first time, I really do.


    ¡°Eu considerei a sua cara e sabia a felicidade,¡± Balder murmurs from the backseat, his eyes still closed. ¡°I looked upon your face and knew happiness.¡±


    Without further warning, the sky opens up and cries.


    CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO


    Of What Happens When We Take a Detour Through Hope (Georgia)


    It¡¯s a soaking rain, and I decide it¡¯s better to pull off and wait it out rather than risk the Caddy¡¯s mostly bald tires on the slick highway. A sign advertising a rest area blinks white and blue in the gloom. And just behind that is a little white sign that says HOPE, GEORGIA, TWO MILES. There¡¯s a feather emblem next to it.


    ¡°Dude, why are we here?¡± Gonzo asks. ¡°You know I was kidding about my underwear, right?¡±


    ¡°Just seems like a good place to wait out the rain,¡± I say. I¡¯m not mentioning the feather. Maybe it¡¯s the state mascot or something.


    ¡°Okay. I¡¯m crashing. Wake me up if anything happens,¡± Gonzo says, joining Balder, who¡¯s been snoring for the last half mile.


    If I¡¯m supposed to find something here, I can¡¯t imagine what that could be. There¡¯s not much to Hope. It¡¯s a one-stoplight kind of town. They don¡¯t even have a strip mall, which I think might actually be against the law. I drive slowly past an old clapboard Church of the Nazarene. A closed gas station with a tire yard next door. A couple of houses tucked away far off the road so all I can see of them is a snatch of white or a glimpse of brick. The road veers off to the left and becomes a narrow lane that runs past a dilapidated hardware store with a chipped sign: PARTS SOLD HERE¡ªNEW, USED, NECESSARY. And that¡¯s it. The street dead-ends at a guardrail and a wall of pine trees. There¡¯s an old man sitting on the front porch of the hardware store, his hands on his knees. I pull over and ask him how to get back to the interstate.

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    ¡°What yo¡¯ lookin¡¯ fo¡¯ is just over yonder,¡± he answers, pointing a shaky hand straight ahead at the DEAD END sign.


    ¡°There¡¯s no road there,¡± I say.


    ¡°You can leave yo¡¯ car heah. Yo¡¯ friends be safe. You go on yonder, now. Got things to see.¡±


    ¡°We really have to get back on the highway,¡± I say, wishing Gonzo¡¯s door wasn¡¯t unlocked. ¡°Thanks again. Have a nice day.¡±


    I step on the gas in reverse, and the Caddy shudders and dies.


    The old man shuffles over and pops open the hood without even asking. ¡°Go on, now. I¡¯ll take a look at yo¡¯ car.¡±


    For a second, I wonder if I should leave my friends here with a stranger. But this guy is eighty if he¡¯s a day. The worst he could do is take out his teeth and inspire us never to neglect our flossing.


    I step over the aluminum guardrail and duck into the trees. The rain¡¯s slowed to a blue-gray mist that sticks to my jacket. The ground¡¯s soft with pine needles and the occasional crunch of a cone. The air smells like it¡¯s just been born. Light bleeds through the spaces between the trees. At first, I think it¡¯s the sun coming out, but it¡¯s brighter, like someone just turned on the lights in a stadium. The water droplets on the trees; the brown carpet of pine needles under my feet; my jeans, shirt, and hands¡ªeverything glimmers in that strange white light, and then I see the small, worn path off to the right. I follow it through the maze of pines, the light getting stronger all the way, till I find the source of it¡ªa ginormous ash tree, big as a house.


    ¡°Whoa,¡± I murmur. The tree takes up the whole clearing. A tangle of branches sticks out in every possible direction, and every one of those branches is alive with about a million different scraps of paper.


    ¡°Hola, cowboy.¡± Dulcie steps out from behind the tree. She glows like she¡¯s a part of it. I¡¯m so happy to see her that I have the urge to scoop her up into a big bear hug, but I don¡¯t know if full-body contact with angels is cool or not, and it¡¯s not one of those things I feel like testing.


    ¡°Hola back. Where¡¯ve you been?¡± I say instead.


    ¡°Places. Hey, what do you think of this, huh?¡± She pats the tree¡¯s milky-colored trunk.


    I smirk. ¡°It¡¯s called a tree. We have lots of ¡¯em.¡±


    Dulcie arches an eyebrow, but that grin isn¡¯t far behind, and God, what is it about girls in general and this one in particular that I would sit in a room all day coming up with jokes just for another one of those funky smiles? ¡°I promise you, cowboy, you haven¡¯t seen a tree like this one before. Take a closer look.¡±


    I finger one of the scraps of paper on a low-lying branch. On closer inspection, I see it¡¯s actually more like a leaf¡ªlike somebody stuck a note on the tree and it grew veins and bloomed there.


    ¡°Go on. Read it,¡± Dulcie says.


    The paper is so yellowed with age that I¡¯m afraid it¡¯ll crumble in my hands. Even though I¡¯m drenched, it¡¯s somehow dry. The handwriting¡¯s hard to make out.


    ¡°What does it say?¡± Dulcie asks.


    ¡°It says, I wish to marry Tobias Plummer.¡±


    She nods. ¡°Nice one. Read another.¡±


    I bend another leaf toward me. This one is fresher, and the words seem as if they¡¯ve been printed out on a computer. ¡°I wish I could get a Game Guy for my birthday.¡±


    ¡°Huh,¡± Dulcie says. ¡°Good luck with that, kid.¡± She plucks a paper leaf off.


    ¡°Should you be doing that?¡± I say, and just like that, it grows back.


    One by one, I read them off:


    I wish my daughter were cured of her sickness.


    I wish I had a new job.


    I wish the girl in fourth period at Bethel High School would notice me.


    I wish I could feel the sun on my face. Nothing feels warm to me anymore.


    I wish I knew what to wish for.


    ¡°What are these?¡± I ask, letting the branch snap back into place.


    ¡°Wishes. It¡¯s a wishing tree.¡±


    ¡°A wishing tree,¡± I repeat.


    ¡°It grants wishes,¡± she says, like I should know this.


    ¡°So, what? People write out their hopes and dreams and place them on the tree and the tree says, ¡®Poof! There you go. A big steaming plate of All Yours. Enjoy!¡¯¡±


    Dulcie wobbles her hand in an¡ªish motion. ¡°Sort of.¡±


    ¡°Sort of?¡±


    ¡°Sort of.¡± Dulcie picks some pine needles out of her wings, which aren¡¯t decorated with flying cows or painted to look like Holsteins today. They¡¯re just normal. If wings can ever be considered normal. ¡°I¡¯m starving. You got any candy?¡±

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    I stick my hand in my pocket and come up with two Juicy Cute Bears stuck together like a candy sideshow act. ¡°Just these guys.¡±


    ¡°Fork ¡¯em over. Minus the pocket lint.¡±


    I defuzz the bears, and Dulcie peels them apart, offers me one. When I decline, she pops the red one in her mouth and closes her eyes in a swoon. ¡°God, I love sugar. Greatest invention ever.¡±


    ¡°Getting back to the tree. ¡®Sort of¡¯ sounds pretty random, if you ask me.¡±


    ¡°Well, you have to know what to wish for. Take this one.¡± She plucks a wish from high on a branch. ¡°I wish I were famous. Okay, first question: Why does this person want to be famous? To be worshipped? Adored? To get noticed? To make gobs and gobs of money? You have to look inside the wish and find the heart. So maybe what this person really wants, the heart of it, is to find somebody who adores her. She goes out to wherever it is people go to become famous and just gets knocked down and out and around like a pin-ball flipper. And one day, as she¡¯s walking on the beach totally bummed, this person comes along, and to him, she¡¯s a rock star. He adores her, and with him, she feels adored, famous. In a roundabout way, she¡¯s gotten what she really wanted. Wish granted.¡±


    The rain dribbles down again, hitting the ground in a soothing patter.


    ¡°What kind of self-help-philosophy-lite bullshit is that?¡± I ask. ¡°Somebody puts her wish up here expecting to have it come true and this ¡­ tree makes a completely arbitrary decision about what may or may not be the ¡®heart¡¯ of the wish? That¡¯s retarded!¡±


    Dulcie bites the head off the other Juicy Bear. ¡°Your skepticism is duly noted.¡±


    ¡°How about this? How about if the Wishing Tree grants people their freaking wishes exactly as they requested?¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t work that way.¡± She picks some Juicy Bear out of her back teeth.


    ¡°Well, the way it works is stupid.¡±


    Dulcie looks at me¡ªI mean really looks at me. It¡¯s like she¡¯s seeing straight through to my cells. ¡°No guts, no glory, cowboy,¡± she says quietly.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Make a wish. See if it comes true.¡±


    She comes nearer, and I can smell her along with the rain and the pine. She has a scent that¡¯s familiar and comforting, like all the things you wish you could take with you on your travels to make you feel less alone. Dulcie tilts her face up to mine. Her eyes remind me of the ocean in winter¡ªgray, stark, a calm surface hiding a serious undertow; something you only go into if you¡¯re sure you can handle it, and if you can¡¯t, well, too late now.


    ¡°I ¡­ um, I don¡¯t have any paper,¡± I say.


    She leans in. Her whisper warms my ear. ¡°Pocket.¡±


    ¡°Huh?¡±


    She hops over a twig, balances on one foot. ¡°That thing at the back of your pants.¡±


    I reach into my back jeans pocket and find Junior Webster¡¯s cryptic note to me: to live.


    ¡°Pen?¡± I say.


    She hops to the other foot. ¡°I don¡¯t do pens. You¡¯ve got one in your jacket. It¡¯s leaking.¡±


    A large inky splotch stains the left side of my Windbreaker. Annoyed, I wipe the pen off and sit on the only dry patch of ground. For the longest time, I listen to the soft percussion of the rain while trying to word my wish airtight. None of that ¡°I want to be famous and instead I get a guy on the beach¡± crap for me.


    ¡°How ya doin¡¯?¡± Dulcie asks. She¡¯s stretched out on a branch Cheshire-cat style.


    ¡°Do you mind? I¡¯m thinking. This is for the big money.¡±


    She spreads her hands in a no harm, no foul gesture. ¡°Don¡¯t let me rush genius.¡±


    Finally, I write down the only thing I can think of and stick it on a branch. My wish disappears into the tree, and a baby leaf pokes out. In the veined paper, I can see the words struggling to be born.


    Dulcie hops down. ¡°What did you wish for?¡±


    ¡°Use your X-ray heat vision super angel powers to find out.¡±


    ¡°Just a messenger, remember?¡± Dulcie winks. ¡°Well, whatever it is, I¡¯m sure it¡¯ll come true.¡±


    ¡°Sort of,¡± I say.


    ¡°Sort of.¡±


    Suddenly, she reaches her arms around my neck and just as quickly, she jumps back. I feel the empty space between us like an extra person.


    ¡°Got it!¡± she says, waving something in her hand. It¡¯s a really old one. A last plea to the universe from some weary traveler passing through Hope on the road to wherever he¡¯s going.


    ¡°Ah,¡± she says, smiling. ¡°Now, this is brilliant.¡±

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    She opens her palm, exposing the heart of some anonymous desire to me.


    It reads only, I wish ¡­


    CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE


    In Which I Pick Up a Necessary Part


    I don¡¯t know how long I sit with Dulcie. Time seems elastic there under the Wishing Tree. We play charades, which are an exercise in the completely indecipherable and unintentionally hilarious. Mostly, Dulcie hops and twirls and makes wide-eyed faces that, I learn, could stand for anything from Bolshevik Revolution to aurora borealis. My body feels loose and light from laughing. A few feet away, Dulcie totters around like a cat with something on its tail.


    ¡°Alcoholic ballerina!¡± I shout, and she rolls her eyes. ¡°Blowfish in a death spiral! The reason the dinosaurs are extinct!¡±


    She stops, hands on her hips, and blows a lock of hair from her forehead. ¡°Falling star!¡±


    ¡°Wow. You officially suck at this game. I just pwned an angel at charades. Go, me.¡±


    Two of the paper leaves drop to the ground. The ends curl up and decompose.


    ¡°What just happened?¡± I ask.


    Dulcie plops down next to me. ¡°Those wishes have been granted. Sort of.¡±


    There¡¯s something that¡¯s been nagging at me for the past hundred miles or so.


    ¡°Dulcie ¡­,¡± I start. ¡°What happens once I find Dr. X and he cures me and the wormhole is closed?¡±


    Her eyes are closed, her head back. ¡°The world is saved, and you are cured. Huzzah!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I know. But, like, what happens to you? Do you stay here or go back to wherever it is you¡¯re from? Will I ever see you again?¡±


    She jumps up suddenly. ¡°Hey, wanna see me pretend to be an ice sculpture? I¡¯m really good at it. Watch this.¡± She stands perfectly still, hands pressed together, her left foot balanced against the inside of her right knee. ¡°You kinda have to imagine the caviar in small bowls around my feet.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re avoiding the question.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± she says, dropping the pose. ¡°I¡¯m avoiding the answer.¡±


    ¡°I just wanted to know what¡¯s next,¡± I say.


    ¡°You people slay me,¡± she says with a laugh, and there¡¯s an edge to it. ¡°Always worrying, ¡®What will happen? What¡¯s next?¡¯ Always everywhere but where you actually are. You just don¡¯t get it.¡±


    ¡°Get what?¡±


    ¡°Here. Now. This.¡± She gestures wide, turns around. ¡°This is it, cowboy. The whole ride. Pay attention.¡±


    ¡°Thanks for enlightening me with your advanced angel wisdom,¡± I snipe.


    ¡°Whatever¡¯s needed,¡± she says, without a trace of sarcasm.


    The rain picks up again. In the blink of an eye, Dulcie¡¯s stretched out on a branch above me, shielding me from the damp with a wing.


    ¡°Nice umbrella,¡± I say.


    ¡°Like I said, whatever¡¯s needed.¡±


    My dreams kaleidoscope in and out of each other. I¡¯m lying in my hospital bed, listening to the whirr of a respirator, Glory marking something on my chart. I¡¯m in that house by the sea, listening to the tide come in, while the old lady arranges her lilies in a vase. Back to the hospital room, Mom and Dad reading, the TV on, forgotten, Parker Day hosting a game show. The old lady¡¯s house, a closed door. ¡°Want to see inside?¡± she asks, her hand on the tarnished knob. I shake my head. She smiles, takes her hand away. ¡°Some other time.¡±


    I¡¯m with Dulcie. I can¡¯t hear what I¡¯ve said, but she laughs. She¡¯s beautiful.


    Something goes wrong. The Wizard of Reckoning grabs hold. Dulcie¡¯s arms reach out for mine, but I can¡¯t get to her. A dark hole opens in the sky, and they¡¯re pulled inside.


    The fire giants lay waste to everything in their paths, and when everything¡¯s gone, they open their jagged mouths wide, one last time, and blow, engulfing me in flame.


    When I wake, the woods are calm and quiet, sweet with pine. Dulcie¡¯s gone. A feather rests on my thigh. Nothing¡¯s written on it. It¡¯s blank and fresh as new snow. I bring it to my nose and breathe in her scent.


    The rain has stopped by the time I get back to the Caddy where Gonzo and Balder are still crashed out and snoring away. The old man calls to me from his rocking chair on the front porch. ¡°Got yo¡¯ car workin¡¯ fine now. Jes¡¯ needed a lil rest.¡±


    ¡°Thank you. Um, how much ¡­¡±


    ¡°Nevah mind that, young fella. I got som¡¯m you need. Step on in heah.¡±


    He hobbles into the shop and the chair goes on rocking. There¡¯s nothing to do but follow him. If this shop has anything that anyone from the last century needs, I will be shocked. A layer of dust an inch thick covers every surface. The walls are filled with mismatched bins and worn storage drawers. Above each one are plates that say NEW or USED or, more mysteriously, NECESSARY. The old man shuffles along, peering at the titles, searching for something. Occasionally, he makes little sounds under his breath¡ª¡°hmmm¡± or ¡°uh-uh¡± and once an exasperated ¡°Now, that ain¡¯t it.¡±