Going Bovine by Libba Bray Page A

dinner.”
    “I thought Jenna has that thing?” I sputter. “If Jenna’s not going I should be exempt.”
    “This is family,” Dad says. “No one’s exempt.”
    Luigi’s is billed as the place “for families and fun!” I have a hard time putting those two things together in the same sentence. Luigi is a nice enough guy—short, balding, originally from New Jersey. His wife, Peri, is a blond Amazon with a thick Texas accent. Unlike my parents, Luigi and Peri are a unit, crazy about each other, and I wonder what that’s like, why some people stay in love and others don’t.
    “Hey, y’all! Welcome to Luigi’s,” Peri says, greeting us at the door with laminated menus.
    “Well, hey there, Peri. When did you start working the door?” Dad teases, pouring on the charm.
    Peri laughs. “I know! Can you believe Lou’s finally lettin’ me play hostess? I’ve only been askin’ fer about a year! Made me take a test and ever’thin’. Can you imagine?”
    “Only so I could figure out a way to spend more time with you,” Luigi says, and kisses her cheek.
    Peri beams. “Always the romantic.”
    “Enjoy your dinner!” Luigi tells us.
    Peri leads us past the trompe l’oeil wall made to look like a garden in Italy, and the red and white checkered tablecloths decked out with carnations and bottomless baskets of bread-sticks. I think an alarm goes off if anyone is without a starch product at any time. Peri takes us to a table right by the faux gas fireplace, which flares with this sort of weird blue-orange flame that doesn’t even pretend to look real.
    “Here you go. Your server will be right with you. Thank you, and enjoy your meal,” she says, like she’s a graduate from a hostessing school.
    “Isn’t this nice?” Dad says, opening his menu, blocking us out. Mom does the same. Jenna looks miserable, but she’s too much of a good girl to risk disappointing Dad. That’s why she gave in. She doesn’t have the close personal relationship with his back that I do. I wish I’d taken the time to get high first so I could at least find this all somewhat amusing.
    “Who’s got something good to tell us?” Dad says, once the orders have been placed and the overflowing bread basket has been raided. We all need something in our mouths to keep what we want to say from jumping out.
    “I’ve got something,” Jenna says, smiling, right on cue. “You know how spring break is coming up? And you know how I’ve always wanted to learn how to ski? Well, Chet’s church group has a ski trip planned, and they have an extra place for me.”
    “Church group?” Dad says.
    “I don’t know, honey,” Mom jumps in. “Skiing is very expensive.”
    “It wouldn’t be that much. They got a great deal, and I could use some of my savings. …”
    Oooh, bad move, Jen. Mentioning the use of college funds for anything other than that purpose is an automatic disqualifier, but thank you for playing.
    Dad gives one of those oh-you-silly-girl smiles meant to show his good nature. But since he doesn’t have a good nature, it mostly comes across as assholian. “Those savings are for college.”
    “Dad,” Jenna says, exhaling loudly, eyes toward the ceiling.
    “No. Now, honey, you know the rule about that.”
    “I never get to do anything.”
    “You could use my savings,” I say, biting into buttered onion bread. “I don’t think there’s a college that would take me.”
    Dad stifles a sigh, tries to put a smile on it. “Well, we’re gonna work on those SATs starting this summer. That way, you’ll be prepared come next year.”
    “Here’s hoping,” I say, fingers crossed.
    “Top-say eing-bay an erk-jay,” Jenna singsongs in the Pig Latin we used to use as our special twin language. Back when we were pals.
    My father takes a belt of his Scotch. “Hope has nothing to do with it, Cameron. It’s hard work. If wishes grew on trees we’d all be rich.”
    “That doesn’t make sense, Dad.”
    “Neither does a kid with