Going Bovine

I smoke just enough to make me slow down inside, like I’m part water bed. Then I hide the roach and spray a toxic amount of air freshener just in case anyone gets the crazy idea to come home early for some “quality time.” Finally, I flip on the ConstaToons channel so I can watch a marathon of my favorite animated classic, the one where a poor, bedraggled coyote chases a roadrunner around a tumbleweedy landscape. Every single time, this poor guy gets his ass handed to him by TNT gone wrong or falling anvils or other backfiring ruses. But he never stops chasing that damn roadrunner.

I’ve seen this one a million times. The coyote rigs a skewed-perspective backdrop of a long hallway with many doors painted on it. It’s just a painting, but somehow, the roadrunner zooms right into the picture as if it’s real, opens one of the doors, and escapes. The coyote’s got a big “Wha … ?” on his face. He runs into the painting, and they chase each other in and out of doors, just missing each other. Finally, the coyote opens a door and a train runs him right over, poor bastard. Even though I’ve seen it a zillion times before, I laugh my ass off, because I’m stoned, and it’s my right to laugh at things that, in the cold hard light of day, would not be all that funny.

A blur of white zips past the open doorway into the kitchen. It takes my weed-fogged brain two seconds to register what this means: Somebody’s in the house.

“Mom?” I call. “Dad?”

Nothing.

“Jenna, is that you? You better cut it out. I’m warning you.”

Shit. I hope I sprayed enough Citrus Rain to take away the pot odor. From the kitchen comes a faint rustling sound.

“You should know we’ve got an alarm system!” Our alarm system is basically me screaming my head off if I see this guy, but he doesn’t have to know that. Quietly, I slip into the kitchen. Nobody’s there. I do a quick scan for a weapon. Plastic napkin holders. Place mats. Steak knives so dull they can’t cut through butter. I grab the frying pan soaking in the sink and slink into the living room just as something darts up the stairs.

Oh shit, man. My blood pounds the sides of my skull, and I feel woozy. Should I call the cops? My parents? What if I’m just stoned and paranoid?

Be cool, Cameron. Just check it out first.

I creep up the stairs with a fry pan as my only defense, and despite the fact that my heart is beating like a hummingbird’s, it strikes me as funny. Greetings, ax murderer! I was just wondering how you like your eggs?

I reach the landing. Mom and Dad’s room is empty. So’s Jenna’s übergirl lair. No doubt any serial killer would take one look at the lavender walls covered with sensitive girl songwriter posters and dive out the window anyway. Bathroom’s clear. That leaves my room.

The door’s half closed, so I kick it open with my foot. My room is exactly the way I left it: Rumpled clothes on floor. Stereo equipment and miscellaneous computer wires lying about. Unmade bed. Stacks of LPs, CDs, comic books. Closet doors are open. Okay, weird. I don’t know what kind of pot this is—Imagine There’s Some Badass Dude Coming to Kill You pot—but never again, man.

Something catches my eye. The window’s open. That’s new. And there on the windowsill is a feather. I pick it up. It’s huge. Bigger and thicker than any bird’s feather I’ve ever seen. Soft and white with pink at the edges. Huh. I turn it over in my hand and I swear, I must be going mental, because there on the snowy surface of that gigantic feather is one word, a greeting.

Hello.

CHAPTER SIX

Wherein My Part-time Gainful Employment Proves to Be a Hell Beyond All Imagining and I Make a Most Curious—Okay, Really Weird—Sighting

“Cameron?” Someone’s banging on my door. Banging equals Mom equals easily ignorable. I roll onto my stomach and bury my head under my pillow. The banging continues, muffled somewhat by the layer of synthetic down filler over my head.

“Cameron?”

No. No banging. No Cameron. Cameron sleep now.

The pillow is ripped savagely from my head.

“Cameron? It’s ten o’clock.”

I open one eye and see that yes, yes, it is ten o’clock. Ten zero zero. Zero, my favorite number. As in zero expectations, zero disappointments.

“Ten o’clock. Good time for growing boys to get their sleep,” I mumble. “Night, Mom.” I try to grab behind me for the pillow but Mom’s still got a firm hold on it.

“You promised your dad you’d mow the lawn today.”

“I did?”

“Yes, you did. Last Saturday, when you forgot to mow it after you’d promised to the week before.”