Going Bovine

Going Bovine 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