Libba Bray

by Going Bovine (Grade 8 Up)

  “Dude, aren’t we following them?” Gonzo asks.

  “Gotta check the diner first,” I say, making my way toward the door. My legs have really stiffened up.

  A shining, bright-smiled hostess greets us at the door, a couple of menus the size of atlases in her hands. “Joining us for breakfast today? Will that be smoking or nonsmoking?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “We’re sort of in a hurry. We were just wondering about that box of snow globes that was delivered? Could we check them, please?”

  Her thumb hovers over the silent alarm button near the cash register. Buddha Burger had one of those. “We don’t let people just check out our snow globes till they been inventoried.”

  “Inventoried?” Gonzo mouths.

  My eyes flash a Don’t Go There signal. I’ve got to see if Dulcie’s in that box. “I’m sorry. I’m with quality control. We think you may have gotten one of our tainted shipments.”

  “Tainted?” the hostess repeats, her smile gone. “What’s that mean?”

  “There might be something wrong with them. Really wrong. Like laced-with-poison wrong.”

  Her hand flies to her mouth. “Omigosh. We better call the police, then.”

  “No!” I say too quickly.

  The hostess’s eyes narrow. She looks from me to Gonzo and back again. “Is this some kind of prank? Are y’all with a fraternity?”

  I shake my head. “You got us. It is a prank”—I steal a look at her name tag—“Freedom LaToya. Actually, we’re casting for a new reality TV show.”

  Freedom LaToya’s eyes get very big. “For real?”

  “You bet. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but …” I make a show of craning my neck left and right. “It’s set in a restaurant and it’s all about finding the perfect restaurant hostess. In fact, it’s called The Hostess. United Snow Globe Wholesalers is the sponsor. You know, you’d make a great candidate. I’m gonna let them know.”

  “Wow. Thanks. TV. Oh wow.”

  “Yeah. But we do need to get some footage of me looking through that box. For the show.”

  “Oh sure! Go right ahead!”

  Freedom LaToya takes us to the stockroom. “I’ll just leave you to it, then.”

  “You do that. Thanks.”

  We cut through the tape, open the box, and pull the bubble wrap from all ten snow globes. Not one of them is Dulcie.

  “Let’s go,” I say, running for the car.

  “Dude, that was awesome,” Gonzo says, fastening his seat belt. “How did you think of something as stupid as a reality show about restaurant hostessing?”

  I gun the engine. “You don’t want to know.”

  *

  It takes us about ten minutes of driving like a bat out of hell before we have the truck in our sights again. We follow it to each drop-off—gas stations, restaurants, gift shops, churches—until it’s late afternoon and the Caddy Rocinante starts kicking up that hot oil smell again. Shit. Hold together, pal. I might as well be talking to myself. The twitches are back, and I really don’t know how much longer I can safely drive with my arms ready to break-dance. Green and white signs pass overhead, telling us where we are, where we’re headed.

  ORLANDO. INTERSTATE 4. NORTH EXIT 62. OSCEOLA PKWY.

  The green dreads of the palm trees dance in the breeze. Gleaming hotels play peekaboo with the crisscross of highways. Streetlights crane their necks over the roads like metal flamingos.

  536 EAST. TO INTERNATIONAL DR S. LAKE BUENA VISTA. CENTRAL FLORIDA PKWY. The signs change from green-and-white to blue-and-red. MAGIC KINGDOM. WORLD DRIVE. Up ahead is a huge archway with the world’s most beloved mouse attached.

  “No way,” Gonzo says as the truck makes the turnoff.

  Every cell in my body is on high alert.

  “Welcome to Disney World,” I say.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Of What Happens When We Hit Fantasyland

  Finding a parking spot for the Caddy in the cavernous Disney World lot proves challenging. Every white-striped piece of asphalt for a mile is taken. The tops of the cars are like colored circuits on some huge motherboard. I end up parking the Caddy on a strip of grass that I’m sure will get it towed. It doesn’t matter now.

  We take the parking-lot tram to the Monorail, which zips us to the front gates of America’s favorite amusement park. It takes most of the rest of our money to get our tickets. And then we’re inside, standing on Main Street. All around us, life-sized furry cartoon characters wave and dance and pose for pictures.

  I stagger into Gonzo, who pushes me back up with a grunt. My forehead’s beading with cold sweat. His eyes widen. “Dude,” he says softly, nodding at my wristband.

  The E-ticket’s lost all but a thin line of color below Tomorrowland. I’m almost out of health. My lungs feel like they’ve been tied up with shoelaces.

  “Be okay,” I pant. “Gotta find Dulcie.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Main Street.”

  Up ahead, Cinderella’s Castle shines like a mirage in the late-afternoon haze. An old-fashioned car putt-putts past. Visitors crowd the sidewalks and street. It all seems unreal—except for the security guards patrolling with their walkie-talkies. Gonzo nods toward the guards.

  “I see them,” I say. “We need disguises.”

  In one of the four zillion gift shops, we buy a giant knight’s helmet, a wizard’s cape and an Ultimate Peace Weapon for me and a droopy-eared dog hat and matching costume for Gonzo.

  “I feel like a complete asshat,” Gonzo mutters through the mask.

  “Better than being a snow globe,” I remind him. “Here.”

  I press the remainder of our stash—four hundred dollars—into his paw.

  “What’s this for?”

  “Bus ticket to New York. Say hi to Drew for me. Go see the Empire State Building. I always wanted to do that.”

  “You say that like you’re not coming back, dude.”

  “I don’t know what’s gonna happen. Look, just take the money, okay?”

  “Okay,” he says softly. He pats himself with his paws. “Does this thing have a fucking pocket?” Gonzo unzips the costume on the side and tucks the wad of cash into his jeans.

  The two of us hoof it down Main Street, keeping a lookout for anybody pushing a dolly of snow globes. In each gift shop, we stop to check their inventory, with no luck. It’s a nice day, and the park is crammed with people. Families on vacation. Honeymoon couples wearing mouse-ear top hats and veils. Grandmas and grandpas indulging their grandkids with souvenirs.

  Dulcie, where are you?

  By the time we reach Fantasyland, I’m so tired I’m hallucinating. I think I see Glory walking past me with her IV pole. She smiles, but when I look again, it’s just some lady pushing a stroller. Gonzo’s eyes are huge. His face radiates awe. He’s digging Disney—the character parades, the rides, the crazy light-up toys.

  Gonzo’s cell rings. Hurriedly, he unzips his costume and roots around in his pocket, which looks really pervy.

  “Hello?” he says, a big smile breaking. “Hey,” he says, all flirty. “Nuttin’ much, what’re you doin’?” He mouths the word “Drew” to me.

  “Can you call him back?” I snipe.

  “Oh. Sure,” he says. “Hey, baby, can I call you back? We’re kinda at Disney World.”

  I sigh.

  “An arcade? We are so there.” Gonzo pulls away from the phone for a second. “Drew says Space Mountain is, like, ri-donculous. What’s that?” Gonzo says into the phone again. “Uh-huh. Yeah, I miss you, too. …”

  I start to tell Gonzo to hang up, that we need to find Dulcie, but I realize that I’m the one who needs to find Dulcie. He’s found what he came for. So I let him talk for a minute longer while I keep a lookout for guys in mirrored sunglasses pushing dollies of boxed snow globes to secret destinations. I wander over to the Small World ride and wait in a small patch of shade. Faint music floats out. People load into the boats and drift off into the dark, happy u
nderworld of Disney.

  “Line starts over there,” somebody says.

  “That’s okay. I’m just waiting.”

  “Suit yourself,” she says. And when I look, it’s the old lady from the hospital. She gets on line.

  “Hey.” I stumble after her, but when I get there, it’s a different woman altogether. “Sorry,” I say. “Thought you were someone else.”

  She smiles. “That happens to me all the time.”

  People come and go. Moms walking fast pull little kids toward bathroom entrances, sounding pissed. Why didn’t you go before we got in line? The kids are crying or whining. Sometimes the dads wait outside. The moms try to hand bags and stuffed animals and shit to the dads, but the dads don’t do it right; they don’t get it and the moms get all pissy. They say things like, Well, I thought we decided not to do Splash Mountain this time, while the dads stick their hands in their pockets.

  All I can think is This is the place where I spent the happiest day of my life? Why? The lines are all crazy long, and I think, There is no way I would wait around in the sun for some lousy ride that’s over too quick.

  But then the kids come pouring out of the exit, and what I see makes me want to cry. Their faces are pure wonder. They’re all lit up and talking a mile a minute. The parents trail behind them, smiling, too. A contagious joy.

  Something plops onto my shoulder. A feather. “Dulcie?” I call, but on closer examination, it’s a pigeon feather, perfectly ordinary. A United Snow Globe Wholesalers employee pushes past me with a box on a dolly. The side of the box is stamped TOMORROWLAND.

  A tingle works its way up my neck. Dulcie’s here. I know it. And so is Dr. X. Like Dulcie said, the only thing that makes sense in this world is the random. I have to tell Gonzo.

  I turn and run smack into a guy in mirrored sunglasses and a baseball cap.

  He grins. “Excuse me, could I talk to you a minute about safety?”

  I try to run, but he kicks my legs out from under me and I hit the ground with an audible smack. “We’ve got him,” the guy says to no one I can see. Security starts coming from the character pin booths and gift shops.

  While startled tourists watch and snap pictures for the albums back home, USGW Employee #221 hauls me to the side of the Small World ride.

  “Where’s your accomplice? Where’s Paul?” he asks, and it takes me a minute to realize he means Gonzo. From the corner of my eye, I see Gonzo over by the bathroom in his dog disguise. He’s sipping a soda and laughing, the phone still pressed to his ear.

  “It’s not his fault,” I say. “I forced him to come with me. At gunpoint.”

  Employee #221 seems to take this in, and I just roll for all I’m worth. “Do you know how many times that crazy kid tried to escape? He even tried to pass a note to the waitress at the Konstant Kettle.”

  Gonzo’s turning around, walking toward us. Please. Please do not come any closer, Gonzo, I silently plead. As if he hears me, Gonzo looks up from his call and freezes. I crane my neck barely perceptibly toward the impressively mustachioed USGW agent in front of me. Gonzo plays quick charades with me: Eye. Kung fu kick. Agent. Butt. I kung fu agent in butt? He repeats his charades slowly.

  I kick his butt?

  I shake my head very slowly. “Live to fight another day,” I shout, startling everyone around me. “For you are the Dwarf of Destiny!”

  “What’s that for?” Employee #741 is on the scene now. He presses the barrel of his gun into my side.

  “He’s crazy,” Employee #221 says. “Call security again.”

  “Roger that.” Employee #741 speaks into his walkie-talkie.

  Gonzo has heard. He looks a little sad as he nods. There’s not much I can do without alerting the guys to his presence. And so I put up my palm. It’s not really a wave, not a goodbye or a hello, just a hand, a Hey, I see you. He gives me a palm right back. I see you, too. And then he does what he should; he folds into the swarm of people trying to have a good time and make a few memories, just another face in the crowd.

  “We’re taking him in for processing,” Employee #741 says, and I know what that means.

  My throat is tight and my eyes sting. I’m close to crying. I’ve gotten all the way here just to fail at the last minute.

  “Can I ask you something? What do you guys think you’re going to accomplish with all this? I mean, honestly, how can you prepare for the unpredictable?”

  “Just shut up.”

  They sit me down, and suddenly, I’m pissed. Fuck this. I will not shut up. “It’s a small world after all …,” I sing. “It’s a small world after all. …”

  “What are you doing? Stop singing,” the agent commands, and it just makes me angrier.

  “… a small, small world!” I sing even louder.

  “Oh, I love it when they give you entertainment in line,” a lady in a big sun hat says.

  The guy hits me hard with the gun. I double over.

  “Hey,” a guy in line says. “What are you doing? He’s a kid.”

  “Sir, we’re with United Snow Globe Wholesalers, working to protect you.”

  “Stay out of it, pal. Let the pros handle it,” another guy in line advises the first.

  “Exactly,” Employee #457 says. “This is a matter of security.”

  “No. It’s a matter of abuse,” the dad says.

  I keep singing. “… world of laughter, a world of tears …”

  The kids don’t know what’s going on. But they know the song. And they start to sing along.

  “That’s it, kids!” I shout. “We’re putting this on TV, so everybody needs to grab a partner and sing really, really loud!”

  At the mention of TV, the line goes nuts. The USGW vigilantes aren’t expecting this. And that’s all I need. Okay, coyote mofo man. Get your anvil ready. Come and get my roadrunner ass.

  I bolt for Tomorrowland and hope my legs hold out.

  “Hey! Stop!” the agents yell behind me. “Don’t make us shoot!”

  He can’t shoot me. I’m a kid. And this is Disney World. There’s no shooting at Disney World. Beside me, there’s a blinding flash, and a family of four buying cotton candy becomes an instant plastic tableaux behind glass.

  Fast as I can, I duck around the Mad Tea Party ride; darting in and out of the crowds, I make it past the Speedway, and finally I can see colorful planets of Tomorrowland. Shit. I’m gasping for breath. Vision’s blurry. Behind me, I can hear screaming and shouts. The snow globe men are close.

  The lines for everything are twenty minutes deep at least. Except for the Tomorrowland Transit Authority.

  “Excuse me!” I shout, staggering up the ramp, pushing past the few people in line. Before anyone can object, I hop onto the moving conveyor belt, past the attendant, who can only get out a lame “Hey, watch it” as I fall into the seat of the tram. I stay low, out of sight as the little tram glides into a tunnel toward the Carousel of Progress.

  My heart’s beating as fast as the drum break in “Cypress Grove Blues.” I’m alert, eyes peeled, ears open, totally awake and alive. I’m waiting for a signal, a sign that I’m in the right place. A narrator’s voice drones into the darkness. He sounds like he should be selling cars in an old newsreel. The train slows in front of a window showing a diorama of Tomorrowland. The narrator tells us this is a vision of the future: a place where people can live, work, and play in harmony. Some posters show machines that do things for you. Robots. The standard-issue sci-fi stuff. I guess at one point this was cutting-edge. It was a dream.

  The tram jolts around a corner, and suddenly, the tunnel goes totally dark. I can’t see my hand in front of my face. It makes my pulse jump in my throat. Is this it? Are they coming for me?

  “Dulcie?” I say into the darkness. It’s silent. And then the meteor shower starts. Like the dark is crying tears of colored light.

  The tram slows to a crawl, and I’m pretty sure they’re stopping it to look for me. They can’t be too far behind now. Trails of light blink over our fa
ces, and for a second, I swear I see the neon outline of a door off to my right. Another streak breaks the dark and I see it again. It’s most definitely a door, and right in the center is a feather. The ride starts jerking forward again. It’s now or never.

  “Hey, I don’t think you’re supposed to be doing that,” the man behind me says as I clamber over the side and step out onto a small platform. I turn around as carefully as I can on the narrow ledge, trying not to lose my footing. The narrator’s voice thunders in the dark like some forgotten god. I push through the door, and the sudden whiteness nearly blinds me.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Wherein I Visit Tomorrowland

  It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust. Far above me I can see the grinding motion of huge gears in operation, keeping the ride going. Behind me is the door. Ahead of me is a long tunnel.

  I start walking. “Dulcie?” I call out. “Dulcie!”

  The tunnel winds around and stops at a door with a big X on it. I push it open. Inside is a stark white laboratory with a ginormous movie screen. A messy desk and chair sit in the middle. I’ve seen a glimpse of this room before, on my computer. Followthefeather.com. There’s a man in a lab coat sitting in a folding chair at the desk. He’s reading a tabloid and eating a bowl of jelly beans. On the screen behind him is the exact same image.

  “Dr. X?” I whisper.

  He looks down at me from the screen, and in person, squints. “Yes? Can I help you?” He’s smaller than he seemed in the videos and pictures, but otherwise he looks exactly the same, like he hasn’t aged a day. A small, tinny radio plays the Copenhagen Interpretation.

  “I—I’ve been looking for you.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes. Yes!” I say, laughing with some weird mix of relief and happiness. “I’ve been reading the papers and checking the personals, looking for clues and signs, making sense of the random—all to get to you.”

  Dr. X’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Why?”