Libba Bray - Going Bovine

For my parents with love.

This ones also for Wendy.

And, as always, for Barry and Josh.

acknowledgments

I would like to thank everyone Ive ever kissed or punched* and anyone who has ever kissed or punched me.

Id like to thank the guy who once validated my parking ticket when I had no money, and the homeless lady who said my hair looked like a dandelion with pieces blown away. Id like to thank the people who save the whales and the whales themselves, especially the whales stuck in middle management, because that is tough. I would like to thank the people in this world who are weirder than I amall three of you, plus Crispin Glover. Id like to thank people who read and think and people who have made me think and read and those who think while reading and read while thinking, but you shouldnt read while driving because thats a safety issue. If I possibly met you in some parallel universe, I would like to say welcome and thank you, too, and, you know, sorry about not callingthat time-travel things tricky with my rollover minutesand also, is there a way to get that sticky stuff from the Higgs field off the bottom of your shoe? Im asking.

I issue these copious thanks because Im always afraid Ill forget somebody. By the time the pages are in copyediting, and my brain feels like its gone a few rounds with Ali in his prime, I have a hard time remembering to pick up milk, let alone remembering the many wonderful people who helped midwife the book. This is a commentary not on their much-appreciated contributions but on my beleaguered mind, whichif I may offer this in my defensedid live through the 1980s, which was a hell of a decade.

So, you know, thanks. To everybody. Everywhere. Well, maybe not the guy who vomited on my new shoes after the True Believers concert that time in Austin. I dont want to thank him. But most peoplethanks.

Still. In acknowledgments pages, they like you to get specific with your shout-outs. Otherwise, people stop inviting you to dinner. And I like dinner. So, with that in mind, I would like to thank the following very specific people:

My publishers, Beverly I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar Horowitz and Chip Animal House Was Based on Me Gibson. Much respect.

My beloved editor, Wendy Loggia, whose faith never wavers and who pulls me off the crazy train even when my bags are already on board and the conductor (who looks an awful lot like Jack Nicholson in The Shining) is offering his hand. Thanks, Wendy.

My agent, Barry Goldblatt, who believed from the beginning, and who has the misfortune of being married to me, so its hard to escape the neurosis.

Pam Bobowicz and Krista Vitola for their support and input. Also, the chocolate.

The ber-talented Trish Parcell for another boffo cover.

The ever-lovely Lisa McCourt and her dad for the Disney World insider info. Thank heavens it really is a small world after all.

Clive Owen for continuing to have an imaginary affair with me.

Rachel Chelbaby Cohn, Susanna Superfoxy Schrobsdorff, and Jo Just Because I Havent Come Up with Your Annoying Nickname Yet Doesnt Mean I Wont Knowles for reading an early draft of this novel and offering great critiques and encouragement and just generally making me feel minty fresh. Great do you all rocketh.

Justine Larbalestier (who doesnt get a nickname because I fear her) for pushing me to push myself, and for telling me to give the gnome more screen time.

Maureen Leary. Maureen Effing Leary! (Really. Thats her middle name. Its on all her monograms.) Maureen Leary, Writer Extraordinaire, who gave me incredible advice and helped me slaughter my little darlings. Those Midwestern vegans. Surprisingly savage with a pen.

Adam McInroy for talking me through all the physics. Also, for teaching me how to do a layup when you were nine and helping me pass College Math for Idiots when you were only eleven. But I kicked your ass at Axis & Allies a couple of times, bucko, and dont think I dont hold on to that to salve my petty ego.

Laurie Allee for being there and for the physics links. In any parallel world, I still want you as my wing (wo)man.

Brian Greene, Nima Arkani-Hamed, Hugh Everett III, Lisa Randall, Steven Weinberg, Ed Witten, Michio Kaku, Neil Turok, and Julian Barbour for their amazing work on unlocking the mysteries of our universe and providing me with inspiration. (Albeit only through bookstores and the Internet because I dont actually know any of you, but you seem lovely.) Any liberties taken, science gotten wrong, or weird stuff completely made up and perhaps trade-marked are solely the fault of the author, who can barely program her DVR.

My insane friend Brenda Cowan for the genius that is Shithenge. Im not worthy.

John Nevius for the paper-clip analogy and the discussion about Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease.

Vivien Schultz and Debo Hendrix, old friends and natives of New Orleans, for helping me remember that you get saltines and hot sauce on the table, not spicy peanut mix. I dont know what I was thinking.

The Tea Lounge on 7th Avenue, 20012008. R.I.P.

The baristas at Wichcraft, Southside, and Red Horse Caf, also.

Pete Townshend. I dont actually know Pete Townshend either, but Ive just always wanted to be able to thank him in my acknowledgments pages.

The makers of Rock Band, because its cheaper and more fun than antianxiety meds.

The Camp Barry crew for their encouragement.

For listening to me piss and moan beyond all reasonable limits, purple hearts to Maureen Johnson, Robin Wasserman, E. Lockhart, Holly Black, Cecil Castellucci, Cassandra Clare, Justine (again), Scott Westerfeld, and that guy who sits at the table next to us wearing a weary expression worthy of Camus.

My son, the awesome Joshua, who was patient enough to survive yet another deadline with Mom. For the record, honey, I think your idea about Zombie Bunnies rocks out loud.

Last, but most definitely not least, this novel wouldnt exist without the velvet whips and make it work attitude of Cynthia and Greg Leitich-Smith. Going Bovine was written for their wonderful WriteFest workshop in Austin, Texas, in 2005. Thanks, Cyn and Greg. In the pasture of life, you are both prettier than speckled cowsthe bombshells of bovines, I am told. (Its good to know that in case youre ever playing Whats My Category? Death Round quiz and that question comes up.) A big thanks to all the WriteFesters who participated but especially Brian Yansky and Anne Bustard, who were saddled with the entire manuscript and didnt complain once but offered insightful, invaluable critique. You rule.

* For the record, the only person I have ever punched was my older brother, Stuart. And he had it coming. No one should get to wear the Batman cape all the time. The word is share. Im just saying.

Take my advice and live for a long long time, because the maddest thing a man can do in this life is to let himself die.

CERVANTES, Don Quixote

Hope is the thing with feathers.

EMILY DICKINSON

Its a small world after all.

WALT DISNEY

CHAPTER ONE

In Which I Introduce Myself

The best day of my life happened when I was five and almost died at Disney World.

Im sixteen now, so you can imagine thats left me with quite a few days of major suckage.

Like Career Day? Really? Do we need to devote an entire six hours out of the high school year to having life counselors tell you all the jobs you could potentially blow at? Is there a reason for dodgeball? Pep rallies? Rad soda commercials featuring Parker Days smug, fake-tanned face? I ask you.

But back to the best day of my life, Disney, and my near-death experience.

I know what youre thinking: WTF? Who dies at Disney World? Its full of spinning teacups and magical princesses and big-assed chipmunks walking around waving like its absolutely normal for jumbo-sized stuffed animals to come to life and pose for photo ops. Like, seriously.