Going Bovine

Going Bovine Page 5

“Yo, what’s that?” Gonzo nods toward the floor at a slab of balsa wood covered in what look like weird sand-art formations. It’s ugly as hell, whatever it is.

“This? This is the social sciences project that’s gonna keep me from doing summer school.” Kyle holds it up for examination.

Gonzo cocks his head to one side. “What the f**k is that?”

Kyle snorts. “Hello? It’s Stonehenge?”

“Looks more like Shithenge to me,” Gonzo says, turning away.

Rachel and Kevin bust out laughing.

“Oh my God! That’s it! Dude, that is totally Shithenge!” Rachel says.

“Shut up, you guys,” Kyle mumbles.

“Hey,” Gonzo says, slapping his hand against the door just as I’m trying to slip out. “You should game with us today. ’S gonna be insane.”

“Gonzo rules at Captain Carnage!” Kevin shouts between snorts of giggling.

“It’s ’cause I always grab the ticket that protects health. You grab that ticket and you’re golden for a few levels.”

“Sorry, man. Can’t go,” I lie. “I’ve got this … thing I gotta do. After school. You know.”

He knows I’m full of shit but he nods. I nod. And there we are.

“Shithenge,” Kevin snickers. “Dude, you are so screwed!”

“I said shut up, man!”

Gonzo takes his hand away. “Sure. No problem. Catch you next time.”

He goes to give me a fist bump, a token of bathroom stoner etiquette. I give a sort of wave that looks more like I’m holding up a stop sign. Our hands slide off one another in an awkward fist bump/wave collision. And then I’m out the door.

CHAPTER THREE

Which Treats of the Particulars of High School Hallway Etiquette and the Fact that Staci Johnson Is Evil; Also, Unfairly Hot

The pot’s kinda lame, but I’ve got enough of a buzz going to coast through the amount of time required to drop my books in my locker and wait for the end-of-school bell. It’s my misfortune to have a locker on the first-floor main hallway on Park Avenue, so called because it’s where all the popular types congregate to formulate their plans for world domination: planning secret parties, leaking the info that there is a party that most of the student body isn’t cool enough to attend, deciding who’s in or out or in need of torturing that week. It’s a busy schedule, and it requires a lot of hallway. I do my best to accommodate them by being unnoticeable, which, basically, involves my just having mass and occupying space.

My smart and universally adored sister, Jenna, is among the attractive evil cabal. She’s standing beside the water fountain with her dance squad, her dark blond hair pulled up into the requisite ponytail and cascading ribbons. They’ve got their colors on today, the snappy blue-gold combo of our fearless team, the Calhoun Conquistadors of Hidalgo, Texas.

Hola, Calhoun Conquistadors! I admire the use of alliteration, but somehow I doubt the school board really got what the Conquistadors were all about when they chose them for a mascot. Maybe the whole raping, pillaging, looting, suppressing cultures thing just blipped off their social consciousness radar. Whatever. It makes for a nifty T-shirt logo. Who doesn’t love men in metal hats?

Jenna’s seen me but she’s pretending she hasn’t. When you’re pre-majoring in perfection, having a brother who’s a social paramecium is a real drawback. While our tense family situation has forced me further into my shell, it’s made Jenna into a shining example of teen perfection. Perfect hair, perfect grades, perfect social standing. Through her endless pursuit of the perfect, she’s trying to erase us all—the dad who lives through his work, the mom who lives through her children, the scattered way our family communicates through notes left on the fridge and cell phones and no real face time. In a way, I admire her ability to swim against the tide. Me, I’m a drifter—right downstream and over the falls along with the rest of the driftwood.

I should just let it go, this social snub. I should just hang on to what’s left of my high and motor on to Eubie’s, but I can’t help myself. I may suck at football, basketball, tennis, and just about every other sport out there, but I can absolutely letter in cruelty.

“Hey, Jenna. Were those your birth control pills I found in the bathroom this morning?” I say, full of pep.

The other dance teamers gasp. One lets out a giggly “Oh my God.”

Jenna’s a cool customer, though. She’s used to my brotherly hijinks. “No, I think those were the ones Mom meant to take before you were born. Don’t you have a meeting of the Social Outcast Society to attend? If you hurry, you can get a good seat.”