Going Bovine (7 page)

“You look wrecked, my man. Why don’t you ditch? Take off, enjoy the ride.”

“Can’t. I’m nearly failing Spanglish. One more absence and I’m gone.”

“Dude. Sucks.”

The bell rings. It clangs in my head like a gong played through a megastack of amps.

“Come on,” Stoner Kevin says. “I’ll sit next to you in class. Help you out.”

“You’re in my Spanglish class?” I ask.

“Uh … yeah.” He grabs my backpack for me.

“The whole year?” I try to picture him in there and can’t.

“Dude. Yeah.” Kevin shakes his head, laughs. “Whole year. Don’t you remember?”

No. I don’t.

“Yeah. Just messing with you,” I say, and let Stoner Kevin lead the way to class, because I’m having trouble remembering that, too.

“You should have all read the assigned chapters in Don Quixote over the weekend. Remember this will be on the state SPEW test,” Mr. Glass says, erasing the blackboard and writing the word THEME in the center. He underlines it just in case we missed it. “Who would like to start today’s discussion?”

“Can’t be a discussion if we’re just supposed to spit back what the state’s looking for on the SPEW,” the Goth girl behind me snipes.

Mr. Glass scans the room, seeking out those who are friendly to his “let’s get jazzed about forced reading” rap. He knows to overlook me. The weird muscle twitches in my leg haven’t stopped. And from the corner of my eye, I think I see flames licking at the walls. When I turn my head, they’re sucked back in. It’s the lack of sleep, I tell myself. Unless I get good and wasted, I can’t manage more than an hour or two. I’m so exhausted I’m seeing shit.

“Anybody?” Mrs. Rector asks when no one answers Glass’s prompt. “Miss Rodriguez?”

Our future valedictorian doesn’t disappoint. “Sampson Carrasco comes up with a way to trick Don Quixote into accepting his life and his place in society and, eventually, his death.”

“Yes, very good, and how does he do that? Remember—you must cite examples from the text. That’s what you’ll do on the test. Don’t overthink it—too much thinking will kill you on the SPEW test.”

“Well, instead of telling him that he’s crazy or he can’t do this, he can’t do that, he encourages him to go on all these adventures. But Sampson disguises himself and goes along.”

“Yes. And why does he do that … Mr. King?”

“Me? Aw, I’m sorry, Mr. Glass. I didn’t read it.”

“Why not, Mr. King?”

“I object on religious grounds.”

Mr. Glass rolls his eyes as Chet’s football buddies snicker. My head feels like it could explode. Like I need to scream or hit somebody. And just like that, my left arm gets a rogue message and jerks out.

Mr. Glass squints in my direction. “Yes, Mr. …” He has to consult his class roster to remember who I am. “Smith? You must have had something you wanted to add?”

“No. I …” The buzzing in my ears is getting worse. “Stop it!”

The football guys start humming the annoying theme song from a classic sci-fi show. A fresh wave of laughter travels over the class and Mrs. Rector has to shush them; it’s all like a detonation to my ears. Press my palms to my head. Stop, stop, stop.

“Come on, Mr. Smith. Venture out of your shell.” Yeah, fuck you, too, Mr. Glass. Man, my head. “Why does Sampson Carrasco travel with Don Quixote in disguise? To trick him?” Stop. Please. “To lure him? To help him? Why …”

“Because …” The buzzing inside me is so intense I can’t take it anymore. “Because … fuck off!”

Mrs. Rector’s mouth hangs open. Mr. Glass, for once, is speechless. Somebody gasps, “Oh my God.”

Mr. Glass’s mouth snaps back into a tight line. “Mr. Smith, you will leave the classroom.”

“I’m sorry, I … aaaaahhhh!” My body’s on fire with pain. “Goddammit!”

Mrs. Rector points to the door with dramatic flair. “Leave. My. Classroom. Now.”

“It’s okay, Señora Rector,” Stoner Kevin says. “Cameron’s cool. He just ate some wicked mushrooms, that’s all.”

Yeah, thanks for that, Kev. I try to grab my backpack, but it’s like my muscles are from another planet, jerking and twitching in a bad robot dance that gets more snickering from the class.

Mrs. Rector’s voice takes on that I’m-above-it-all tone. “I’ve had quite enough. Could someone please escort Mr. Smith to Principal Hendricks’s office?”

“Sure thing, Mrs. Rector.” Chet King gets out of his seat and towers over me. “Come on, bro. You’re not being funny anymore.”

On an ordinary day I would hate Chet King both for his prison guard stance and for calling me “bro.” But this is not an ordinary day, and all I can feel is totally freaked out that my body isn’t getting any of my brain’s frantic commands to move. His hand lands on my arm, and it’s like a burn.

“Ahh, shit!” I scream. My spastic arm flies out and whacks Chet in the gut. He’s a big guy, but the punch catches him off guard. His knees hit the floor, followed quickly by the rest of him. The jocks are on me at once. Every touch feels like it’s connecting with raw nerve endings. I’m vaguely aware that I’m screaming things that are “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 to the fridge to look at food she won’t eat because she’s afraid it will make her fat, and fat is a big old black smudge on the storefront window of perfection.

“I hear if you even look at the ice cream for too long, it’ll turn you into a porker,” I say.

“I’m not talking to you.”

“I’m crushed.”

“You punched Chet!” Jenna’s so pissed she actually takes out a non-fat free pudding cup.

“Don’t take it out if you’re not going to eat the whole thing,” I say.

She slams the fridge door and pulls off the foil top with dramatic flair. “You know why you don’t like Chet?”

It’s a rhetorical question, but I can’t help answering anyway. “You mean besides the fact that he’s a self-involved blowhard?”

“You don’t like him because he cares about other people. I mean, his speeches at Kiwanis help save people’s lives! Have you ever done that, Cameron? Have you ever done anything for anybody else just because you actually cared about them? No. You probably don’t even know what that feels like.”

This is the part where I jump in and say, Why, that’s not true. I care about all sorts of people. And the environment. And endangered farm animals. Secretly, I’ve been working up a plan to give an endangered farm animal to every person I care about just so they will know the depth of my feelings. But the truth is, she’s got me on this point. Chet’s not the angel that she thinks he is, but I’m in no position to say shit about anybody.

Jenna takes my silence as a concession. “You will not wreck things with Chet and me. From now on, you are not to talk to me or acknowledge me in any way. Got it?”

“You. Me. No interaction. Me got.”

“Good.”

She takes one bite of the pudding, licks every speck from the spoon, puts the cup back in the fridge, and drops the spoon in the sink with a clank.

CHAPTER NINE

Wherein I Am Subjected to Visits with Two Therapists and an Epic Fail with an Ergo-Chair

THE VISIT WITH THE DRUG COUNSELOR

“Hi, Cameron, I’m Abby.”

Her office is a study in bland. Soothing green walls. Plastic chairs set in a circle. A messy desk that seems to say, “Hey, you can trust me—I’m busy and kooky just like you kids!” The obligatory, inspirational, cute-pet posters on the walls: STAY STRONG—STAY OFF DRUGS! BE HAPPY, NOT HIGH! There’s a half-finished fruit smoothie in the middle of the desk.

“So,” Abby says, with an I-already-know-the-answer-to-this-question smile. “Tell me, why are you here today, Cameron?”

“There was nothing but reruns on TV.”

Abby nods sympathetically, but her eyes say, Just You Try Me, Asshole. “Cameron, I’d like to help you with your treatment, but you’re going to have to start by being honest with me. Tell me about your drug intake in a typical week.”

I shrug. “The occasional joint.”

She makes a tsk sound in her throat like she doesn’t believe me, when, actually, I’m telling the truth. “No hallucinogens? Because I hear you really tripped out.”

“No. Nothing like that. I think I got some bad pot, though? ’Cause I’ve been seeing weird stuff lately.”

“Mmmm, flashbacks,” Abby says, nodding. “That can happen with hallucinogens.”

“But I didn’t—”

“Oh, man,” Abby interrupts, laughing. “I remember this one time, I was traveling around following the Copenhagen Interpretation with my ex-boyfriend …”

Thirty minutes later: “… dancing polar bears and tracers coming off my body like the freaking aurora borealis! Crazy! Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, I’ve been where you’ve been.”

No, Abby. It is now clear that you have been many, many places I have not.

“And that’s why I say, you have everything to live for, Cameron. Every reason to be happy. Why would you want to hurt that? You need to stop self-medicating and start talking about your feelings,” Abby insists. “Get them out. Express what’s inside.”

“Okay, well—”

She holds up a finger. “So that’s why I’m going to send you to my colleague, Dr. Klein. Would you like to do that, Cameron?”

“I guess—”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Cameron,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “We’re out of time for today. But I think you did very well.”

THE VISIT WITH THE PSYCHIATRIST

“Hi, Cameron. I’m Dr. Klein.”

His office is a study in bland. Soothing vanilla-colored walls. A few ergonomically correct chairs in muted shades of brown. A wooden desk that seems to be whispering, “Don’t mind me; I’m just observing,” tucked into a corner. And a long leather couch pushed against one wall. I decide right away that I will not go on that couch.

“You can sit anywhere you like,” Dr. Klein says, settling into a big Star Fighter villain-worthy chair. I sink into one of the ergo-chairs. It’s so low my knees come up to my chest.

“You can raise that,” Dr. Klein says, seeing me. “There’s a handle on the side there.”

I struggle with the hydraulics of it, bouncing up and down like a low-rider till I finally land in the same squatty position where I started.

“Good?” Dr. Klein asks.

“Yeah. Golden.”

“So,” Dr. Klein says, giving me a smile as vanilla as the walls. “Why are you here, Cameron?”