Read Online Going Bovine by Libba Bray - Free Book Online Page A

“inappropriate to a peaceful classroom environment.”
    I guess that’s why Chet finally hauls off and socks me.
    The Calhoun High School behavior code sheet we all have to sign at the beginning of the year is pretty firm about the dos and don’ts of personal conduct. Punching beloved football players in the stomach is definitely a don’t. I’m suspended for five days for unruly behavior and, thanks to Kevin, suspicion of drug use.
    Mom has to come pick me up in the Turdmobile. She’s so mortified and, knowing Mom, worried, that we drive in total silence—total silence being the parental barometer of just how screwed you are. But the real fun is yet to come. There’s the phone call to Dad, which results in his early arrival home (sorry, Raina), which leads to a closed-door discussion, which takes us to the four of us sitting in the family room: Mom, Dad, me, and the disappointment. It’s like I’m a camera cutting from close-ups of Mom—worried, vaguely detached, certain this is all a reflection on her uncertain mothering—and Dad—tight, controlled, pissed off, determined to fix things.
    Mom: We just want to know if you have a problem, Cameron.
    Dad: It’s obvious he has a problem, Mary. That’s not the issue.
    Mom: Well …
    Dad: What are you on, Cameron? Did you think it would be funny to get expelled like that?
    Mom: Is it marijuana, honey? Did you get some bad pot?
    Dad: When colleges look at your transcript now, do you think they’re going to be putting out the welcome mat? Jesus, we’ll be lucky to get you into community college.
    Mom: Honey, you’re not sniffing glue or anything like that, are you? Please. Because that stuff can rot your brain.
    Dad: And punching a kid in the stomach? That’s great. Just great.
    Mom: Oh God. It’s not meth, is it? I saw a special on that. People had to have their noses reconstructed.
    The camera cuts to a close-up of teen boy as he debates whether to tell his parents the truth, as he weighs whether they will believe him or not.
    Me: Mom. Dad. I’m not on drugs. I just—
    Cut to wide shot.
    Mom: Is this why you got fired from Buddha Burger? Because you were doing drugs? Honey, you have to be careful when you’re working with hot oil.
    Dad: Mary. Please.
    Mom: I just wanted to know.
    Dad: It’s beside the point.
    Mom plays with her artsy earrings. Her hair needs a dye job. The roots are frizzy and gray.
    Me: I don’t know what happened. I felt sick, okay?
    Dad: So you started cursing and punched a classmate. Cameron, that doesn’t make sense.
    Medium shot of teen boy as he struggles with what to say. It has been too long since he has tried to communicate with his parents, and it’s like they are on the other side of the ocean, speaking a different language. Cut to Mom.
    Mom: Maybe he needs to talk to a therapist, Frank?
    Dad: This is manipulation, Mary. We’ve got to be the parents, here. Tell us the truth, Cameron. Who’s selling you the drugs?
    Mom: Oh, Cameron. You’re not selling drugs, are you?
    Me: Mom. Dad. I’m not on drugs. Well, not this time.
    Mom: Not this time? Oh, Cameron.
    Me: Can you guys just chill for a sec—
    Dad: (laughs) Chill? Chill?
    Mom: Honey, we’re just …
    Dad: That is rich. …
    Mom: … worried about you.
    Dad: Fine. You are officially grounded. The door’s coming off your room. You’ve lost your privacy rights for now. Do you understand?
    Cut to close-up of teen boy as he stares at a spot on the wall.
    Me: Yeah.
    Mom: Do you have anything you want to say, honey?
    Extreme close-up of spot looming like a hole.
    Me: No.
    The camera angle goes wider and wider till it’s so out of focus we’re nothing but a blob of color on the screen.
    Once I’ve had my ass handed to me Dad style, and it is determined that I will go see a drug counselor and a shrink, I sit at the kitchen table, reading, since that’s pretty much all that’s left to me, being that I am grounded for the foreseeable future. Jenna prances past me on her way