Libba Bray

by Going Bovine (Grade 8 Up)

  I grin. “No kiss-and-tell action.”

  “Ah, a true gentleman,” he says, nodding sagely.

  “I’ll make it up to you,” I say, filling up one of the complimentary glasses with water from the tap. It’s got a harsh taste, but it quenches my thirst.

  “How?”

  “I’ll buy you a camera. You can take pictures of us in front of landmarks to send to all your friends.”

  This pleases Balder. “And where is our illustrious Gonzo? I trust you were able to rescue him?”

  Gonzo. Holy crap. I totally forgot about him. I left him to the mercy of Parker Day and his team of we’ll-do-anything-for-ratings assholes. There’s no telling what they did to him.

  “Stay here!” I shout, grabbing my jacket and racing out the door.

  I scour the beach and the Party House, searching for any sign of Gonzo. Most people are sleeping off whatever went down the night before. Things are just waking up. There’s a guy selling Tshirts from a booth on the beach. The shirts say BRING BACK THE DWARF! On the back is a picture of Gonzo’s terrified face.

  “What size, bro?” the guy asks me when I grab one.

  “When did you make these?”

  “Last night, right after they filmed I Double Dog Dare You. It was outrageous, man. A dwarf and an electric chair.”

  I’m running fast on the beach. An electric chair? Panic has completely overtaken my senses. I run till I can’t run another step. Then I go back to the room, trembling and spent.

  “What’s wrong? What’s the matter?” Balder asks the minute I walk in.

  I slump down in one of the chairs. “I fucked up, Balder. I forgot about Gonzo last night. I think something happened to him. Something bad.”

  Someone’s banging on the door. “Open up! Police!”

  Jenna promised me a head start.

  “I said, open up!”

  Balder nods gravely. I open the door.

  “Dude, you are so busted!” Gonzo races in, beaming. “You look like you just dropped a load, man.”

  I grab him in a full body hug. “Gonzo!”

  “Aaahh!” He winces. “Watch the shoulder.”

  “Oh my,” Balder says. “You’ve a warrior’s countenance now.”

  I put Gonzo down and take a good look.

  “Well. What do you think?” he asks, beaming. His clothes are torn and grungy and covered in some kind of dye. His hair is blue-black, and he’s sporting a new Mohawk.

  “Holy Shiite Muslim,” I say, circling him, checking out the back.

  “You like it? It’s cool, right?”

  “It’s insane!”

  “Yeah, I know. Check out the tattoo.”

  “You got a tattoo?”

  “Yeah. Shoulder. Check it out, dude.” He pulls down his shirt to show me his shoulder, and there it is in new ink, the Buddha Cow above the words How Now Mad Cow?

  “What the hell happened?”

  “Dude, it was so kick-ass. I was at the Party House with Parker and Marisol and these two other people who are supposed to go on before me. I am totally freaked-the-hell-out. They keep showing these promos from I Double Dog Dare You, and it is just the gnarliest shit you can imagine. People bungee jumping into horse manure. Guys getting their whole bodies waxed, screaming in pain. The first one to go up is this chick. They double dog dared her to eat a dung beetle …”

  “A dung beetle? Where did they get—”

  “Put a cap on it for a sec. So they dared her but she wouldn’t do it, man. No go. Same with the guy who was supposed to get his butt shaved and shocked with a cattle prod. He was a total cabrón, anyway. He let them shock him on the arm, but it’s not the same, you know? The crowd booed him. They thought he was completely lame. Next thing I know, Drew—remember Drew? Guy who took me to the first-aid tent at the auction?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Turns out he works on the show. Anyway, he sits down next to me and says, ‘Don’t worry. You’ll be great.’ Like he totally believed I could do it. I can see Parker waving me up and everybody yelling and shit, but it’s like I don’t even hear it. And right then, I thought, what the hell. What. The. Hell. I never do anything. Boom! These two huge dudes come strap me into an old electric chair, and right then, at that moment, I had no idea what was going to happen. I thought I was going to shit my pants.”

  My heart’s thumping hard just hearing this. Balder’s on the edge of his seat.

  “And?” Balder prompts.

  “I hear this rrrrrrnnnnn-nnnn-nnnnn, and I think, Oh shit, man. They are revving this baby up. I started thinking about all the things I’ve never done, like surf or get a tattoo or tell my mom off. Mostly I think that I’ve never gotten to be myself. Ever. I hear that rrrrrnnnn-nnn-NNNNnnn near my ear, and I vowed to myself, Dude, if you make it out of this alive, you are going to do it, whatever it is. The big guys wrap their paws around my throat. Parker pulls out a razor, lowers it to my head. And thirty seconds later, I’m a Mohawk man.”

  He pops the top on a warm can of soda. “People went insana! They’re shouting my name, ‘Gon-zo! Gon-zo! Gon-zo!’ And they’re passing me around over their heads. It was, like, the greatest day of my life. And then I just … disappeared.”

  Gonzo guzzles soda. He wipes his mouth on his arm.

  “Wow. That’s … wow. And the tattoo?” I ask.

  “First thing I did when I left the chair. Me and Drew.”

  It bothers me that Gonzo’s got a new friend, somebody who sounds a lot cooler than me.

  “So, I guess you’re all famous now, huh?” I say.

  “Yeah. Guess so.” He beams again, drinks his soda.

  “You saved me, my son,” Balder says, embracing Gonzo. “You fought with honor. You are truly Gonzo the Great.”

  Gonzo blushes. “Gonzo the Great. Sweet. I’m getting me a T-shirt with that on it soon as we hit a mall.”

  Balder gives Gonzo a fist bump. “Word.”

  There’s a knock on the door, and my pulse zooms into the red zone again. Maybe it is the cops this time. Gonzo must think it’s Santa, from the shit-eating grin he’s sporting. He runs to open it. Drew’s standing there in a white muscle tee, a mop of dirty blond hair framing his choirboy face. His arms are inked from his wrists to his biceps.

  “Hey,” Drew says. He shoves his hands in his pockets and gives us a wary nod.

  “It’s okay. They’re cool,” Gonzo says. Drew leans down and gives him a kiss right on the mouth. I’ve never seen Gonzo so happy. I swear it’s like he’s just gotten a brand-new inhaler with Captain Carnage sticker decals. And now I know: Drew isn’t a threat to our friendship. He’s something else entirely.

  “Hey, Drew. Cameron,” I say, shaking his hand so he knows I’m okay with the whole You’re My Best Friend’s Slightly Juvenile-Delinquentish Spring Break Boyfriend.

  “I was just telling them about last night,” Gonzo says.

  “Aw, man,” Drew says in a thick Southern drawl. “Y’all shoulda seen my boy, here. Nerves of steel. He eats fear for breakfast.”

  “Yeah, that’s our Gonzo,” I say, without missing a beat. “He’s a wild man.”

  “A warrior spirit,” Balder chimes in.

  “Hey, you must be Balder. Cool. I brought this for you. Freebie from the show,” he says, handing off a camera. Balder’s eyes gleam with mischief.

  We step out blinking into the new day. Something’s going on at the Party House, because there must be forty camera crews lined up, and hordes of people are streaming toward the stage.

  “What’s going on?” I ask a passing guy. He’s wearing a shirt that says, MY PARENTS WENT TO SHITHENGE AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS CRAPPY T-SHIRT.

  “You haven’t heard?” he says excitedly. “No. What’s up?”

  “The Copenhagen Interpretation!” he shouts, racing on. “They’re back!”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  In Which the World’s Most Famous Band Plays the Most Important Comeback Concert Ever

  With the news of the Co
penhagen Interpretation’s sudden reappearance, the Party House is complete pandemonium. Practically every camera in the state is trained on the stage where the band is scheduled to talk to the world for the first time in eleven years. Because of Gonzo’s new celebrity status, we’re able to push our way to the front.

  “That’s right, I’m bad,” Gonzo singsongs. Drew laughs and wraps him in his tattooed arms. He gives Gonz a big kiss and the Gonzman gets all blushy.

  Reporters flank out along the front of the stage down in the security area. They hold their mikes and stare into the cameras as if they’re filing the most important news stories of their lives.

  “… no clue yet as to where they’ve been, why they disappeared, and why they’ve come back at this moment, in this place …”

  “… unsubstantiated rumors of travel through a wormhole to other worlds …”

  “… backstage requests for fresh fish and a toy piano fueled speculation—Copenhagen Interpretation: disappearing divas? …”

  “… finally answer the question why do they have so many words for snow? …”

  “This is history-making shit, yo!” Gonzo says. “Totally awesome.”

  “Yeah,” I say, looking around for Dulcie, because if she were here, it would be awesome.

  It seems like forever that we wait for the Copenhagen Interpretation to take the stage. Finally, there’s a new feeling of excitement. People cheer as the curtain parts. There’s deafening applause. Wolf whistles. Flashes go off like fireworks. A surge in the crowd pushes us against the security barrier, but we don’t care. About ten feet in front of us, the Copenhagen Interpretation files out—five people in mukluks and long, hooded parkas that nearly hide their faces. They stop center stage and stand perfectly still.

  A balding guy in a Hawaiian shirt walks to a microphone center stage.

  “That’s totally their interpreter,” a girl with a lip ring informs us. “Even though they totally record their music in English, they totally speak in Inuktitut. Totally.”

  The interpreter clears his throat, ready to deliver the band’s message. The crowd quiets in anticipation. The Copenhagen Interpretation speaks softly to their interpreter, who then relays their words in English through the mike:

  Murmurmur. Stop.

  “Hello.”

  Murmurmurmurmurmur. Stop.

  “We have been gone a while, it seems.”

  Murmurmurmurmurmur. Stop.

  “Wow. You all got so big!”

  MurmurmurmurmurmurMurmurmurMurmurmurmur. Stop.

  “We have traveled through space and time. We have been many places. Visited many worlds. And there is good news: the acoustics everywhere are terrific.”

  Murmur. Murmur. Mur. Mur. Stop.

  “There is one last thing we would like to address.”

  Murmurmurmur. “You say we have …” Murmurmur-murrr. “… so many words …” Murmur. “… for snow.”

  Mur? Murmur? “Well? Wouldn’t you?”

  “Totally.” The girl behind us sighs.

  Without delay, the Copenhagen Interpretation launches into the opening notes of their first song. People go nuts. I’ve been to a few concerts here and there, but nothing like this. I feel like I’ve swallowed this music whole. It’s pretty fucking amazing the way it connects you to everybody else, makes you part of the same experience at the same time. Drew and Gonzo sway to each song, singing along word for word. Balder closes his eyes and stands perfectly still.

  “It’s as if I can hear the soft grass rustling in the wind on the hill toward Breidablik,” he murmurs.

  By the fifth song, the crowd’s dancing, body surfing, and singing along. Even though I don’t know the words, I join in, too, managing to hit one or two right. Some kid rushes the stage and dives into the crowd. Security guards scowl. And all I can think is Man, I want to do that. Yeah, why not?

  “Here goes nothing,” I say, and rush the stage. I’ve got maybe four seconds tops, no time to think, only time to do. Arms out, I fall backward into the concert crowd.

  “Holy shit!” I scream.

  And then the most amazing thing happens. There are fingers under my body, passing me along. It’s incredible, like floating on a sea of hands. Nobody drops me. It’s absolute trust. It takes about ten minutes to work me to the back of the crowd, where I’m lowered gently to the ground.

  I hug the nearest person, a patchouli-scented girl in braids, who hugs me right back. “That. Was. Awesome!” I shout.

  She smiles. Her eyes are bloodshot slits. “You look like a dancing bear,” she says.

  “That’s because I am a dancing bear,” I say back.

  “Wow. Cool.”

  A group of college kids yank me over to join their huddle. They lock arms around my shoulders, and we sway together, holding each other up and singing along.

  “Because there’s so many, words for snow … so many, words for snow …”

  When I look again, Dulcie’s sidled up next to me. Grinning, I throw my arms around her neck and we wobble over to a spot at the back. She leans against the weathered side of a beer shack and I lean into her.

  “Hey, cowboy,” she says. “How’s the sky treating you?”

  “Like I’m hauling a cargo ship full of trouble,” I answer in perfect Star Fighter response.

  “Sounds like fun.”

  My lips are on hers and there’s nothing but us and the music.

  Dulcie and I take in the concert from our private spot in the back. But I don’t want to lose the others, so we start threading our way through the capacity crowd to the front. By the time we rejoin Gonzo, Drew, and Balder, the first set’s nearly over. My friends don’t notice Dulcie, but I’ve stopped worrying about that. I see her and she sees me, and that’s what matters.

  The band finishes their song. The interpreter steps to the mike again. The band speaks. Murmur. Murmur. Murmur. Stop.

  “We would like to play more for you. But first, there are sandwiches backstage. Do you know how long it’s been since we had a sandwich? We will come back in thirty minutes.”

  Amid whooping and hollering and stomping, the band is ushered to the side of the stage. One of the band members turns, puts a hand up to block the glare of the lights. He sees Balder and waves. Balder waves right back.

  “Dude,” Gonzo says in awe.

  Balder’s expression is smug satisfaction. “I told you.”

  The interpreter comes over to us. Balder says something in Norse, and he and the interpreter chitchat. At one point, they’re both chuckling. Gonzo, Drew, and I exchange glances. I look over at Dulcie, who shrugs. The next thing I know, we’re being whisked backstage to eat sandwiches with this world’s—and possibly some other world’s—favorite band.

  The minute we step into the green room we’re bombarded. Reporters asking questions. Assistants offering Rad soda. Fans asking for autographs, which they clutch to their chests, then cry. The band takes it all in, answering in cryptic fashion: Yes. No. Maybe. Seals are shoplifters—you really have to watch them at parties.

  Parker Day comes running up and pumps the hands of each band member. “Great to meet you. Big fan. Don’t know if you caught my special on The Backside of Music? We could totally do a follow-up.”

  The band keeps walking.

  “Call me!” Parker shouts after them.

  Security takes us to a roped-off area. As promised, there are sandwiches and they are good. Balder makes introductions. Gonzo and Drew are so stoked they take the opportunity to sing one of the band’s songs to them at top decibel level. At one point, the Copenhagen Interpretation waves to somebody behind me, and I see it’s Dulcie. She wiggles her fingers back. To me, she shrugs. No one else even notices. And then the Copenhagen Interpretation tells us what they know about the night they disappeared.

  “It was the Big Concert for Peace and Against Non-Peace,” the interpreter relays. “It had been a good show. Very good. Dinlitla’s guitar work was exemplary.”

  He looks over at his bandmate, wh
o smiles and goes back to her sandwich.

  “And then, in the middle of ‘Words for Snow,’ the sky began to frown. The clouds knotted together the way my grandmother scowls at my grandfather when he passes wind and blames the dog.”

  Gonzo snickers.

  “What happened next?” I prompt, ignoring him.

  “The sky swirled over our heads. A hole opened. And then we were sucked up and tumbling through tunnels of light, falling into other dimensions.”

  “Did you ever come across a Dr. X? A scientist?”

  There’s more murmuring. The interpreter wants to be sure he’s gotten it right.

  “At one point,” he says. “We came upon a man in a white lab coat the color of snow you cannot shake from your shoe.”

  “Dr. X!” I blurt out. “Had to be. Were you guys ever in the same universe at the same time? Do you know where he ended up?”

  “We did not speak. Only passed each other. You know. The way people do in space.”

  My heart sinks at this. I’m out of my chair, pacing. “At Putopia, they told us Dr. X had a theory about music. That it was its own dimension. That the vibrations could punch holes through space and time. Dr. X was playing ‘Words for Snow’ when he stepped into the Infinity Collider. He used this”—I pull the Calabi Yau manifold from my backpack—“to amplify the sound.”

  Thule murmurs to the interpreter, who says, “Looks like macaroni art.”

  “What if he stepped into the Infinity Collider at the precise moment you were playing at the concert—the same song at the same time, a supersynchronized vibration opening up a passage?”

  I look to my friends. Balder strokes his beard. Gonzo’s squinting like he’s trying to pay attention in algebra class. Drew laces his fingers with Gonzo’s. Dulcie’s eyes shine.

  The keyboard player leans forward and whispers in the interpreter’s ear. “Interesting,” the interpreter says. “Do you want to try the peanut butter? It’s very good.”

  Just then, a bunch of YA! TV suits show up. It’s time for the second set, and we have to leave. I have so many more questions—about parallel dimensions, Dr. X, time travel, and the wormhole we’re supposed to close—but our audience with the Copenhagen Interpretation is officially over for now.