Going Bovine by Libba Bray

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.
    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—a 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