Going Bovine (36 page)

“Hey, man,” he says. “Think we could make a stop? I gotta take a leak.”

The only place that looks like it might have a bathroom is a roadside gift shop. It’s one of those places full of useless junk—state spoons, frosted pecans with a half-life of about two hundred years, tea towels decorated with grandmas making cranky observations about life, novelty cookbooks, and trivets shaped like lighthouses because apparently the world is clamoring for cute things they can place piping hot casserole dishes on. It’s hard to believe people buy this shit, and even harder to believe they give it to other people as mementos, like, “Hey, we went on this awesome vacation but we brought you back some pickled peppers in a festive, dancing jalapeño jar. Thanks for feeding our cat!” The frat guys have agreed to buy snacks in gratitude for the ride. They troll the aisles scooping up weird chip selections. Gonzo’s got Balder on his shoulder. They’re checking out a pen of a woman in a bathing suit and when you turn it upside down, she loses her top.

The lady behind the cash register isn’t overflowing with gratitude that we’re there. She reminds us that if we break something, we buy it, and goes back to reading her tabloid while occasionally flicking a suspicious glance in our direction.

When I round a corner, Dulcie’s standing in the aisle pointing a potato gun at me.

“Come quietly. Don’t act like a spud and we’ll have no trouble.”

“Hey, Dulcie. Where’ve you been?”

She puts the gun back, picks up a prank lollipop with a “fossil” of a baby alligator inside. “Trying to get info.”

“Find out anything?”

She shakes her head. “You?”

I tell her about Putopia, the scientists and parallel universes, the Infinity Collider, seeing Dr. X, and what Ed said.

“So that’s great,” Dulcie says, but she doesn’t sound happy.

“Yeah. I don’t know. Disney? That seems like a stretch. And he was just a kid.”

“You could always check for signs.” Dulcie jerks her head toward the cash register up front.

I peer over the display of ceramic dog paper-towel holders at the big-haired lady sitting there. She licks her finger and turns the pages of her paper. Briefly, she looks up and squints disapprovingly at the Gold Coast U guys.

“Yeah, good luck with that,” I say to Dulcie.

“Come on,” she prompts.

We inch closer, past shelves displaying various curiosities—crocodile eggs, hot-sauce meat sticks, pecan logs, salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like the president and first lady—and round the corner into an entire aisle devoted to snow globes. Suddenly, Dulcie stops. I’ve never seen this expression on her face before. She seems sad. Her wings droop.

“Dulcie?”

She lifts one of the snow globes, puts her face up to it so I can see her eye through the warped glass, huge, blinking.

“Dulcie? You okay?”

“I hate these things. They’re depressing.” She turns it over. UNITED SNOW GLOBE WHOLESALERS is stamped on the bottom.

“What are you talking about?”

Her head snaps up. It’s like she’s back all of a sudden, but her eyes are still pained. “It’s just that … you can’t freeze life behind glass, you know? And … and take this one, for instance.”

She swipes it from the shelf, turns it over in her hands. Smiling lobsters break-dance in front of a ship’s wheel under a glitter-confetti rain. An empty bottle resting in the fake sand makes it seem like they got drunk and decided to cut loose.

“‘Party Time,’” Dulcie says. “What a stupid thing to write on a snow globe.”

“Maybe they like it there,” I say.

“Poor lobsters. You should not be trapped in a glitter-water hell.”

“Definitely. A fake-snow-pellet hell is better,” I joke.

Dulcie ignores me. I’m used to being ignored. So why does it bother me when she does it? Why do I feel the need to try with her?

She turns away. “You should see if you can snag that paper.”

“All right,” I say, not sure what I did to piss her off. I go up to the counter and pretend to be very interested in the gum and mints selection. I put some Fruity Time Chews on the counter.

“Just this?” the lady asks. Her name is HELLO, MY NAME IS EMPLOYEE #3. In the corner, four rows of boxes marked UNITED SNOW GLOBE WHOLESALERS are stacked eight high. Man, people like their snow globes here.

“Yes. Thanks. And, ah, do you … think I could have your paper, you know, if you’re finished with it?”

Her eyes narrow. “Why?”

“No reason.” I swallow hard. “Just thought I’d catch the day’s news.”

“Papers are over by the cooler. They’re three dollars and fifty cents. Here’s your gum.” She’s still glaring.

Too late I notice the picture of Gonz and me. Apparently, it’s a slow news day for the tabloids—no faces of Jesus in guacamole dip or anything—and Gonz and I have finally moved to page one right next to a picture of the president golfing on an aircraft carrier and under a lurid headline—TEENAGE TERROR PLOT HATCHED IN HIGH SCHOOL BATHROOM!

“You know, actually, it’s cool. Never mind. Have a good day,” I say, walking away fast.

“Hey!” she calls after me. “You stay right there. Don’t you go nowhere!” Her voice goes over an intercom. “Bobby Joe, call Cyrus to come on up with the wagon. We’re gettin’ ourselves that fifteen large.”

There’s a sudden crash from aisle five. It diverts Cash Register Lady’s attention. “Hey! Hey now! You stop that nonsense right this minute!”

A familiar voice rings out: “Free the snow globes!”

I rush back to Dulcie, who is standing in a puddle of sparkly water and escaped lobster toys.

“What are you doing?” I plead.

“Freeing the snow globes. Wanna help?” There’s a wicked gleam in her eye that scares the crap out of me.

“No, I don’t!”

“Suit yourself.” With the flick of a wing, Dulcie wipes out a whole row and then another, until the dirty linoleum is awash in small plastic mermaids, floating towns, seashells, and tiny white pellets that stick to the floor like fake snow.

“I’m calling the police!” the lady screams. “I have a gun!”

She isn’t kidding. A shot sails past in the other aisle, breaking open a jar of yellow-green margarita mix that splatters onto my shirt. Holy shit! I duck down next to Dulcie, who’s grinning like it’s the first day of summer.

“Get out of here,” she says. “I’ll keep her busy.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry about me. Just grab the paper on the way out.” Dulcie picks up a snow globe and hurls it toward the soda case. Another shot shatters the glass there. Cash Register Lady starts racing in that direction, and I am off and running toward the door. Gonzo’s right behind me, screaming bloody murder, Balder tucked under an arm. And the three frat guys are hot on his tail. On the way out, I grab the paper in my fist.

“Get in the car!” I scream. Everyone falls in, and I start the Rocinante up and peel out with a big screech of tread.

“I don’t have my door closed!” Gonzo yells.

In the rearview mirror, I can see the lady aiming the shotgun at us.

“Then you better hold on to something, man, because I am not stopping.”

“Sorry, Balder!” Gonzo yells, dropping him to the floor for safekeeping.

She fires a third shot that manages to miss the Caddy but does hit another car in the lot. Its alarm goes off with a loud, skin-crawling scream. I duck my head and floor it.

We have to clover-leaf to get back on the highway. My foot hits the gas hard, and we zoom onto the on-ramp, edging out an SUV that lays on its horn in protest. I take the first turn so fast the Caddy’s airborne for a second. It comes down with a rattling whomp and then we’re back on the interstate and blended into the buzzing lines of anonymous cars and trucks. We drive in total silence for a good five minutes, my knuckles white on the wheel, all of us breathing hard and sweating. Balder’s on the floor in the fetal position. Gonzo’s got his inhaler out. He clutches it to his chest. The guys in the backseat sit straight up, eyes wide, mouths open, not moving. We pass an overhead sign that tells us Daytona Beach is another three hundred miles.

We made it. Every part of me feels alive. I can’t help it. I pound the steering wheel in victory. It was crazy. Insane. And completely awesome. Finally, Middle Guy speaks up.

“Dude, I want to party with you!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

In Which Dulcie Makes an Accidental Confession

By nine o’clock, we’re still a hundred miles from Daytona. The Caddy’s high beams are for crap and I’m dog tired, so we pull off the road and find a place to make camp. The guys have spent the last two hundred miles replaying our narrow escape. Every time, they add something new to the story, making it bigger, making it theirs. My mom used to say that’s how myth is born. But it’s kind of hard to resist their good-natured charms. Plus, they’ve provided us with a tasty meal of lime-flavored corn chips, fast-food burritos, juice, and beer bought on Left Guy’s excellent fake ID. Even Balder can’t resist the party atmosphere. He’s come out of hiding, regaling everybody with tales of his life as a Viking.

“Whoa, your yard gnome … talks?” Middle Guy asks, openmouthed.

“Prototype,” Gonzo and I say at the same time. Fortunately, the guys are just drunk enough to believe our story that he’s a cutting-edge computerized toy. But I hope Balder knows what he’s doing.

The guys are steadily working their way through a case. Gonzo’s had just two beers, but he’s flying. I take a pass. Somebody has to be on the lookout for cops and fire giants and wizards, oh my. Plus, I’ve got a tabloid to scour, starting with the story on Gonz and me.

teenage terror plot hatched

in high school bathroom!

There’s a photo of Kevin, Kyle, and Rachel showing off the fourth-floor urinals. Nice.

SHOCKNAWE NEWS—CALHOUN, TEXAS

The two teens responsible for a wave of destruction and violence across the country were notorious juvenile drug fiends who hatched their terrorist plot from a fourth-floor bathroom, Shocknawe News has learned. Were Cameron John Smith and Paul Ignacio “Gonzo” Gonzales ordinary teens who stumbled onto a dark path? Or were they human time bombs waiting to go off in the way that time bombs so often do—like time bombs, only human.

“I always knew that pendejo was el problemo,” said Calhoun High’s Spanish teacher, Mrs. Rector, in an exclusive interview over a pitcher of margaritas.

Smith’s parents maintain that their son is very ill and needs medical treatment for his Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, otherwise known as bovine spongiform encephalopathy or mad cow (see box). Paul Ignacio Gonzales’s mother blamed video games and a spot on his lung for her son’s sudden turn to violence. (Do video games cause terrorism or mad cow disease? How safe are you? See other box.)

United Snow Globe Wholesalers has raised their $10,000 bounty to $15,000 for the capture of the Teen Terror Team. Any tips should be directed to the hotline at 1-800-555-1212.

Down in the left corner is a photo of my family in happier times. It’s one of the pictures from our trip to Disney, I realize. We’re on line for the Small World ride. The euphoria I felt earlier falls away, and I wish I could crawl into that photo. I ball up the paper and toss it into the campfire, then rest my head on my knees and fall asleep.

A doctor is standing at the end of my hospital bed. He thrums his thumb across the sole of my foot, but I don’t feel it. Mom and Dad are sitting in chairs beside the bed. Mom’s eyes are red and puffy and her hair’s a little greasy. Dad needs a shave. He’s watching the doctor poke at me. I can’t move my body at all.

The doctor says something about “tough decisions.” He says something about hospice to Glory, who leaves and comes back with a business card. She gives it to Dad, who stares at the raised black lettering on the crisp white background. Glory and the doctor mumble a few words about “giving you time to think things over” as they leave the room. The respirator keeps humming. Mom and Dad sit there in their chairs, alone together.

Dad moves the card in his fingers like he wants to give it away but can’t. Dad always makes all the decisions, but he can’t make this one. Finally, Mom’s hand comes to rest on top of Dad’s. She takes the card. In the set of her shoulders there’s a grim determination I’ve never seen before.

“It’s okay,” she says. “I’ll do it.”

When I wake up, Dulcie’s perched next to me eating from a bag of jelly beans. I’m really glad to see her, and I can feel the ghosts of my dreams evaporating.

“Hey, you,” I say, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

“Hey, you, back.”

“Did I miss anything?” I ask, surveying the scene. Middle Guy’s down to his boxers. He’s telling Gonzo a story, or slurring it, mostly. Gonzo’s drooling and his eyes are half-closed. Left Guy’s lying on his back on the ground. He rubs his stomach and moans.

“Middle Guy dared Left Guy to down an entire package of hot dogs, which he did,” Dulcie says.

“That was some stunt you pulled today,” I say, stretching. “You almost got us killed.”

“But I didn’t.”

“But you could have.”

“But. I. Didn’t.”

Right Guy drops a log into the fire drunkenly. It hisses and sparks.

“Whatever,” I say. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For saving me back there at the Food Court of Despair.”

“You’re welcome.”

“This has been one hell of a trip, man.”

“Yuppers.” She tilts her face toward the night sky and smiles in that way that makes her so very Dulcie.

“Beautiful,” I mumble.

“What?”

“Oh. Um. The stars. Beautiful.”

“Yeah,” she says. “For ghosts.” She sucks a jelly bean in her back teeth. “It takes millions of years for that light to reach us. By the time we see it, that star’s probably dead and gone.”

“Wow. Way to kill the mood.”

One of her eyebrows lifts. “Did we have a mood?”

“Um, no. Not, I mean, not a mood mood.”

“Hmph.” Dulcie loops an arm around my shoulders. It’s warm and nice. “How ’bout this, then? Somewhere out in the galaxy, right this minute, there’s a big ball of gas and gravity heating up, pressing together, forming something new and bold and awesome, until finally, it can’t take it anymore, and it spits out all this energy, just sending that light out into the universe. Schoooom!” She swooshes her other arm through the air and goes kapow with her fingers. “Even stars gotta leave home, see things, go places. Better?”