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—the official food of high school. Funny, I used to hate the kids in my high school for any number of small and big annoyances; now I hate them only because they get to be alive longer than I do. The turnout’s surprisingly big. Apparently, seeing the Mad Cow Kid is a better draw than girls’ volleyball or guys’ lacrosse, which isn’t saying much.

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

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

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