Going Bovine

Page 81

“Yeah. Real sad. Hey, you wanna get high?”
Justin pulls the SUV over into the post office parking lot under a sign advertising that THE NEW CANCER STAMPS ARE HERE! and we smoke a joint. After the third or fourth toke, my head’s bobbing on my neck like one of those bobblehead toys you see on dashboards. Welcome back to Numbsville, population: one.
“Can’t wait to get out of this town,” Tara mutters, eyes closed, head lolling against her seat back.
Justin scratches at his scruffy attempt at a beard. His hair sticks out from under his trucker hat in long, scraggly wisps. “’S not so bad.”
Tara looks at him like he’s just said all babies should be euthanized. “Yes it is. It sucks.”
“I’m here,” he says quietly.
Tara snuffs out the joint. “I’m baked.”
“You cool back there?” Justin asks me.
“Ummn” is all I can manage in my semiconscious state.
“Time for a little fun,” Justin says.
He fires up the SUV and we drive through a neighborhood of insta-mansions—huge, sprawling houses, some with their own turrets. The walkways are lit up with in-ground electric torches. Alarm signs dot the edges of the lawns.
“Tara, take the wheel.”
Tara puts her left hand on it and we inch toward the curb. Justin pulls a baseball bat out from under his seat and leans his body out the side window. He swings the bat hard, knocking a mailbox off its stand.
“Whoa,” I say. Or at least, I think that’s what I say. I’m stoned. For all I know I could have said, “Board the cows! We’ve come to enslave your marigolds.” This makes me laugh, chuckling all to myself in the back.
Justin bangs away at the mailboxes. He misses one or two, which he blames on Tara’s driving.
“Fine. Drive yourself,” she says, pouting. But she doesn’t give up the wheel, and on the next one, he hits pay dirt. The mailbox is knocked completely clear of its post. It skips across the street with a grating clank, making little sparks on the asphalt. Lights flip on in the house. A dog barks with intent. Tara giggles high and loud. A stoner laugh. Justin tucks the baseball bat back under the seat and drives off fast. We run aimlessly up and down streets with names like High Court, Royal Acres, Imperial Lane, King’s Row, every street striving to be more important sounding than the last. Even the roads have aspirations here.
Justin rolls onto Westminster Lane. He cuts the SUV’s lights and slinks into the driveway of a dark house.
“Isn’t this the McNultys’?” Tara asks.
“Yeah,” Justin answers. “They’re away.”
“How d’you know?” she teases.
“My mom’s retard boyfriend cleans their pool. He said they’re in Spain or Portugal or some city like that.”
“Charlie McNulty is president of the student council at our school. He’s supersmart,” Tara explains, like a tour guide. It strikes me as funny and I laugh to myself.
“This way,” Justin says, taking us to the back. Around the side of the house is a wooden fence. Justin opens the gate into the backyard. The place is freaking huge. It’s got a nice stone patio with a huge gas grill, teak patio furniture, and a glass table with an umbrella shooting out of the middle. And there’s the pool Justin mentioned. It’s a clear blue that lets you see the pattern of red and yellow Mexican tiles around the sides. I can smell the chlorine coming off it.
Justin shucks his pants and shirt, getting down to his skivs. I’m afraid he’s going to take those off, too, but he doesn’t. He slips into the water in his underwear and pushes away from the side on his back. Tara’s having trouble with her clothes, but soon she’s down to her bra and underwear. I can see the outline of her dark hair against the thin pink fabric of her panties. It gives me a hard-on. No way I’m stripping down now.
“What’s the matter, Cameron? You shy?” She takes my hands in hers and starts pulling.
“No,” I protest, hoping she doesn’t steal a look below. “It’s my disease. I can’t swim. It’s not good for me.”
“Bummer,” she says before taking a flying leap into the pool. Water sluices up the sides for a good five seconds after. “I like making an entrance,” she says. “Otherwise no one notices you.”
In the end, I take my shoes off and stick my feet in, letting the lukewarm water lick at my ankles. It feels good, and not just because I’m stoned. I make a mental note to add this to Dulcie’s list of things worth living for. For some reason, I keep seeing her rolling her eyes at me, that big, goofy grin stretching her face like Silly Putty. On my private list, I add her smile. She doesn’t have to know.