Going Bovine

by Libba Bray

  “Fair enough,” I say.

  Somebody’s done the unthinkable and changed the channel to the news and our story. They cut from our flyer to Arthur Limbaud at the lot of his Resale Beauties. He’s sitting on the hood of one of his best, shiniest models, with his secretary by his side, not missing an opportunity to work it. It doesn’t matter that the sound’s muted, because I know what he’s saying. He’s telling them about us, about the car. They flash a picture of the Caddy up there, and we are in deep shit now.

  The drunken idiot guys have stopped playing. They’ve broken out into a real fight. Other people are getting in on it now, either trying to break it up or land a few punches, too. Two guys fall into our table, and the crowd falls with them. Somebody pulls Jenna out of the mix on her side, a big dude in a Midgard University shirt. He’s a good-looking guy.

  “Careful there,” he says.

  “Thanks,” Jenna says.

  He sticks a hand out. “Name’s David Morae.”

  “Jenna Smith.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jenna Smith.”

  Jenna laughs and shakes his hand. He’s got her full attention, and that’s just the opening I need to slip away.

  Rescue Gonzo, pack up, and leave. Now. Immediately. That’s the plan as I make my way through the hordes of spring breakers, trying to find a three-foot-six-inch dwarf sporting the world’s most ridiculous mustache. I don’t see him anywhere. It’s wall-to-wall people. I bump into a blond chick.

  “Sorry,” I say, trying to move past her.

  “Cameron? Is that you? Oh. My. God.” Staci Johnson’s standing right in front of me, holding a beer in a plastic cup. “You look so hot!” The next thing I know, Staci Johnson kisses me, and it’s like a mind eraser. “Where were you going?” she asks.

  “Nowhere,” I say.

  “Want a beer?”

  “You bet.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  In Which I Discover Eleven Dimensions All in One Person

  My whole body has that light, early-drunk feel. I’ve had three beers—not enough to get ugly or sick, just enough to be riding out a pleasant, mellow groove. Staci’s only had two. She’s very giggly. We dance for a few songs, and then Staci suggests we go back to my room. She wants to “see it.”

  “So, this is it,” I say, letting her in. Balder’s not on the bed. I guess he went out. The bedside lamp is still on; so’s the TV. I flip it off.

  “Great room,” Staci says, flopping onto the bed.

  “Thanks,” I say, like I have anything to do with this shithole.

  “You know I always liked you.” She bites her lip. Her shirt’s fallen off her shoulder. She’s wearing a black bra. “But you seemed like you only went out with those smart, punker kinda girls. Remember when we were lab partners in seventh grade?”

  “Yeah.”

  She traces a circle on my leg. “I gave you my school picture with Love, Staci on it. You were so nice. Hey, you’re not drinking.” She puts her still-full cup to my lips. “Drink, drink, drink.”

  The beer’s warm and a little flat. Some of it dribbles down my chin and onto my shirt.

  “Oops,” she giggles.

  I abandon the cup on the nightstand. Staci leans back on her elbows, giving me a calculated shy look. “So … did you ever think about me?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Shut up!” She swats at me playfully. “For real? Did you ever think about asking me out?”

  I shrug apologetically. “I thought you only went out with the Über Genetic Specimen types.”

  “The what?”

  “The Chet King guys.”

  “That is so not true!” She hits me on the leg again, and I wonder if I’m going to be completely bruised by the end of the night. She gets a serious look on her face. I’m not sure what to do, so I sit there and hope something brilliant comes to me. After a minute, she says, “Do you remember when I was dating Tommy?”

  “Sure.” Everybody remembers that. For a year, they were like one name, StaciandTommy, with daily hallway PDA. When school started again, they had become Staci. And Tommy.

  “You know how he went to Dallas for the summer, for football camp?”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, like I follow Tommy’s every move.

  “He stopped calling me, and I knew, I just knew he was with somebody else. He’d hooked up with this skank from Plano.” Staci looks really small sitting on the cheap bedspread with her shirt falling down. “You know how I found out? I heard him talking to Bobby Wender and David Mack about her. He said she was the best he’d ever had.”

  I think about my dad and Raina, and I wonder if they’ve ever done it, and if so how many times? I wonder if Dad feels guilty. Or maybe he feels great. I wonder if my mom knows and if she cares. How do people stay in love, anyway? Is it a choice? Or is it like those plants we studied in biology that mutate into something new and totally different but are still part of the same plant family?

  I’ve never been in love. I will die without knowing what it feels like to need to see one person’s face when you go to sleep at night, to crave seeing it when you wake up. I wish I knew.

  “Hey, Staci?” I say. “You okay?”

  She tries to smile. “He’ll be sorry. I’ve got big ideas. You know?”

  “Oh. Sure. I mean, of course you do.” We’re in that weird no-man’s-land. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to kiss her or just keep listening.

  “Can I tell you something?” she asks.

  “Sure.”

  “I’ve got this idea.” She sucks on a strand of her hair in a way that gets a rise in my pants. “Are you sure you wanna hear it? I mean, it’s probably stupid.”

  I put the pillow over my crotch. “I absolutely want to hear it.”

  Staci takes a sip of her beer and puts it back on the edge of the nightstand. “Okay. You know how, like, when you go to a restaurant they always have a host or hostess to seat you?”

  I nod.

  “Well, I was thinking of doing a reality show where people compete for a shot at being the host or hostess of a nice restaurant. We could call it The Hostess. Or The Host if a guy wins. Or, no, no! We’ll do girls first and call it The Hostess and then guys and call it, The Host. I’m not talking about some cheesy restaurant like they’ve got in our shitty town. Like good restaurants in Dallas or Atlanta or something. I’ve already got all these ideas for stuff they’d have to do in the competition. … Am I boring you?”

  “No. God, no.”

  Staci gives me a big, slurpy kiss on the cheek. “You are so friggin’ cute, Cam! Okay, so, like, they would have to deal with problems, like if a homeless couple came in and wanted a table—but, like, they’d have money that we’d give them as a setup and a reservation, so what do you do? Do you seat them and gross out everybody in the restaurant and piss off your boss? Or do you tell them you can’t find the reservation and wait for them to flip out on you? Stuff like that. And every week, somebody gets voted off until there’s a winner.

  “I was a hostess for a summer at Hooray, It’s Wednesday’s and it’s not easy. People yell at you or they wanna switch tables all the time or sometimes, sometimes they just seat themselves even though there’s a big friggin’ sign up front that says HOSTESS WILL SEAT YOU.”

  “Sounds tough.”

  “Exactly.” Staci crawls across the bed and kisses me. “You’re so cute,” she whispers. I hear a weird sound in the room. A snort or a cough. Something. There’s Balder, sitting in a chair by the window, taking in the whole scene.

  “Uh, excuse me for a minute,” I say, removing Staci’s arms. “Just a sec.”

  Balder’s sitting stone-still with that cheery grin. “Sorry, buddy,” I whisper. Before he can protest, I put him in the back of the closet.

  “Now, where were we?” I ask, slipping back to the bed.

  Staci crawls on top of me again. We kiss some more. I’m getting hard. I feel Staci up and she doesn’t object, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything in girl langu
age. Any second now, I could do “the wrong thing” and “the wrong thing” could end with me getting my face slapped and an evening spent in solo gratification. Since the feeling up has gone okay, I venture out a little more and find the buckle on her bra. There’s no face slap. My fingers struggle to liberate the hooks, which were no doubt made by a group of nuns in a convent factory somewhere. Staci sits up. Shit, I did “the wrong thing.”

  “Here,” Staci says, giggling. “Let me help you out with that.” She gives me a coy grin, bites her bottom lip, and puts her hands behind her back so that her breasts are practically in my face. Two seconds later, the bra is flung across the room, landing on the TV. She’s still got her shirt on, though. “Hold on. I have to pee.” She stumbles off to the bathroom.

  Oh my God. I think I’m about to have sex. With Staci Johnson.

  I don’t know what to do. Should we have music? I feel like we should have music. But all I’ve brought are those Great Tremolo CDs. I’d kill for a Junior Webster album right about now. But Tremolo will have to do. I put in “Viver É Amar, Amar É Viver” and push play.

  The toilet flushes. Staci comes back out and practically falls into the bed. This makes her laugh some more. “What’s this?” she says, meaning the music.

  “The Great Tremolo. You ever hear it?”

  Staci wrinkles her nose. “No. Wait, are they one of those Scottish bands? Is he singing in Scottish right now?”

  “It’s not a band. The Great Tremolo is a guy who sings Portuguese love songs that always end badly.”

  “Oh.” Staci straddles my lap. She’s brushed her teeth with my toothbrush in the bathroom. Between the toothpaste and the beer, her breath has a weird scent—mint mixed with grapes gone bad.

  “He plays the ukulele, too.” I’m losing my mojo. Like the bathroom break was just enough to make me nervous again. “So do you wanna hear some more of his stuff?”

  Staci licks her lips. “Is that what you wanna do?” She slips her hands up my shirt and rubs them over my nipples. It seems like something she’s read in a magazine and wants to try out. Jesus, she’s going to town. My nipples are in danger of being erased.

  “Here, just listen to one song,” I say. I grab her wrists and take her hand off my chest. I turn up the volume as Tremolo whisper-sings the line about looking at his lover’s face and seeing happiness. It’s sort of beautiful. Cheesy, but heartfelt and sad and happy all at once.

  Staci laughs so hard I think she’ll fall off the bed. “Omigod. This guy sucks so bad. It’s hilarious. You should totally put this on your MyNet page or something.”

  I nod, suddenly wishing she weren’t here. I looked upon your face and knew happiness. I wonder if my dad has ever felt that about my mom or if my mom has ever felt that about Jenna and me. I feel kind of shitty for leaving them behind like I did, without a note or any kind of goodbye. I don’t know, for the first time, the song hits me in the gut. Under the recorder, beneath the sort of bizarre lyrics is that pain Eubie talked about. This longing for something, for someone, all your atoms dreaming toward somebody else’s. And just like that, Dulcie’s face flashes in my mind. The way the light’s all soft around her face, the goofy expressions she makes, the look of wonder when she smiles.

  “Amor, amor, o meu amor,” the Great Tremolo sings, and for the first time, I feel every note of it.

  “What a retard,” Stacy laughs.

  I turn the music off. Suddenly, I don’t want her to hear any more of this. I don’t want to make fun of the Great Tremolo.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks, sitting up on her knees. Her shirt’s half off.

  “Nothing,” I say. I kiss her hard on the mouth. I want to blot out everything.

  Staci giggles. “Cam, I didn’t know you had it in you.” Her eyes are half closed and her mouth opens. I kiss her again and again. I keep kissing her, chasing a feeling that’s staying just out of reach.

  Staci fumbles with the buttons on my Levi’s. Her warm hand slips inside my boxers, and I don’t want her hand to go away, ever.

  “Um, I don’t have anything on me. …”

  “It’s okay,” Staci says, kissing me some more.

  This goes against all the responsible You Can Get Knocked Up the First Time/Don’t Drink and Drive/This Is Your Brain on Drugs/STDs Don’t Discriminate programming I’ve gotten through years of “very special guest speaker” assemblies in the auditorium. But then I remember I’m dying and it doesn’t really seem like the time for caution.

  “You sure?” I ask. I’m practically panting when I say it.

  In answer, Staci pushes me back on the bed. We shed clothes like we’re setting a land speed record. Her body feels soft but awkward against mine, like we don’t quite fit. Then I’m inside, and I’m not thinking anymore. I couldn’t if I wanted to. I try to say something to Staci but her eyes are closed and wherever she is, I don’t think she’s really with me. Maybe she’s thinking about Tommy. It’s like we’re alone together, and it doesn’t seem like that’s how it should be. And then something explodes inside me.

  “Oh shit,” I say, teeth clenched.

  The dust clears. I come back to my body. The digital clock flips over a few white numbers: 11:11. The whole thing has lasted three minutes. But I’m not going to die a virgin.

  I roll onto my back, gasping for air, trying to come back to my body. Staci slides out of bed and stumbles around for her clothes.

  I prop myself up on my elbows. “Hey, where ya going?”

  “I hafta meet the girls in the bar,” she explains, pulling on her shorts.

  “Do you have to go now?” I touch the bony xylophone of her spine and she moves away.

  “I need to shower first.”

  I pull the sheets up to my neck and watch her dress. “Maybe I’ll see you later,” she says. An afterthought. Like when you sign somebody’s yearbook See you this summer.

  “Yeah, maybe,” I say.

  She opens the door. Light bleeds in from the hall. Then she’s gone and the room is dark and empty.

  It’s after midnight, but I can’t sleep. I’ve got night sweats. The sheets are drenched and a little pool of perspiration gathers in the hollow of my throat.

  Dulcie’s leaning over me. Her face is a small, glowing nightlight in the dark. “Hey, cowboy. You don’t look so good.”

  “Can’t breathe.”

  “Yes you can. You’re just having a bad dream. Relax.”

  I try to take a deep breath, but it’s like there’s a Goddamn elephant on my chest, and my muscles are doing their twitch-and-spaz disco routine. For a minute, I hear Glory saying, “Relax, baby. Just need your blood pressure.”

  “I can’t sleep,” I say.

  I hear sounds. Beep. Whirr. Muffled voices. I don’t see Gonzo. The bed next to me is empty. Glory’s holding my wrist, checking my pulse, a frown one more line on her face. When she’s through, she wipes my brow with a washcloth.

  “Sweet boy. Get some rest.” She clicks the bolus, giving me a new bump of morphine.

  “Glory, I can’t go to sleep. I’m afraid I’ll die.”

  She gives it another click, and my body feels light as goose down.

  “Cameron, wake up. It’s Dulcie.”

  “Huh?”

  I’m back in the hotel room, away from dreams. Dulcie’s stroking my face. “What did you mean, you were afraid you’d die if you went to sleep?”

  “I saw Glory. In the hospital.”

  “Cam, you’re with me, okay?”

  I look around and see that she’s right. The light from the parking lot cuts through the thin curtains in harsh streaks.

  “I can’t go to sleep, Dulcie. Now that …” I can’t finish it. Can’t tell her that since I’m no longer a virgin, I’m sure I’ll die.

  “How was it?” she asks in a voice soft as a prayer.

  “Good.”

  “Liar.” Dulcie gives me a small smile, but she looks sad.

  Somebody’s puking out in the parking lot. His friends are lau
ghing in a grossed-out way.

  “I thought I would feel different.”

  “Do you?” Dulcie asks.

  Yes. No. I don’t know. I feel emptied. Lost. A little sad. Like I was expecting a package that never arrived. Maybe if I had more time, I could’ve shrugged it off and said, hey, pal, better lay next time. But this was pretty much my one shot, and I blew it. It’s not just the sex, though. It’s the whole damn unfairness of it all. Like I’m just starting to understand how amazing this whole crazy ride is going to be and now it’s coming to the end.

  “Cameron?” Dulcie’s staring at me in the strangest way. She reaches out and strokes my face. She has the lightest touch I’ve ever felt as she wipes away my tears.

  “Go away.”

  “No,” she says.

  “Please. Okay?”

  “Cameron, look at me. …”

  The room’s getting brighter. Dulcie’s wings unfurl, exposing her bare body by degrees. Shoulders. Stomach. Arms. Thighs. Her skin glistens.

  “Dulcie?” I say, not taking my eyes off her. She is such a bright thing.

  “Shhh …”

  “If we do this, will I die?”

  She puts her fingers to my lips, and this is the part of her that I see most.

  “Everyone’s dying, Cameron. A little, every day. Make it count.”

  Without another word, she pulls me to her. Those huge, soft wings fold around me like I’m being held for the first time. Like I’m drifting toward that black hole in the sky and I’m not afraid. I want to be pulled in. I want to hear it sing. I want to hear that B-flat in an octave no human being can really hear. I want to keep feeling. I want her.

  Something brushes against my bare skin. Fingers? Lips? Wings? I can’t say, but the sensation is incredible. It’s like I’m accelerating through those eleven dimensions at once, and my body is both wave and particle. We’re colliding, making our own universe, something new and unnamed and full of every possibility. It’s so intense, this happiness—there is no escape velocity from this kind of feeling. And for once, I’m not looking for a way out.

  I trace kisses from the hard calluses of her palms to the soft pads of her fingertips. She reaches up and cups my face in those small hands. They’re warm as the first sun in spring.