Authors: Matt Beam
One guy had a shaved head and a little scar on his cheek, and he wore black army boots with red laces and a puffy black jacket. The other guy had his brown hair cut straight across his forehead, which looked kind of creepy. He had a long green army coat with a big red, white, and blue target on the back. The first guy was a skinhead, Sam, and the other guy was a mod. Anyways, when I went to my locker at lunch that first day, the skinhead was kicking the target on the mod’s back, but really hard, and the mod was punching him back, even going for his head. They were laughing the whole time they were fighting, but I knew by the sort of electric taste of adrenalin in my throat that it wasn’t just fun and games.
And then the skinhead suddenly looked over at me, and I realized I was just standing there staring at him like an idiot, and he said, “What the eff do you think you’re looking at, dweeb?” and I just looked away and then fumbled for my books in my locker and got out of there quick. So, anyways, every morning after that for a while I started on edge, like when you feel like someone is going to hit you in the back of the head, like Mike did a couple of times when Ma wasn’t looking (otherwise she would’ve tore a strip off him or whatever).
So, anyways, I didn’t know anyone when I first got to St. Clair, but after a few weeks, I guess I kind of made a couple of friends in homeroom. This guy, Alan, sat a couple of rows in front of me, and when I wore my Palmateer shirt one day, he told me he was crazy about the Maple Leafs. Alan is sort of funny, but sort of a dork, too. Whenever there was a game the night before, Alan and I would talk all about the Leafs—how Rocky Saganiuk scored a great goal or how Rick St. Croix wasn’t as good and exciting in net as Palmateer—leaning against our desks until Mrs. Reese came in and told us all to get back to our seats and open up our copies of
The Merchant of Venice
, which is a really boring play by Shakespeare that I can’t even come close to understanding. Alan knew another guy in our class, Brendan, from his old public school, and he is super-skinny and had to wear headgear from the orthodontist for the first couple of months of school and still hasn’t really been able to live it down.
I started hanging out with Alan and Brendan at the caf at lunch, because I didn’t have anyone else to hang out with, and I guess they were my only friends at St. Clair, even though they sort
of didn’t have a life. And I never brought up science with them, because I didn’t want anyone to call me a science dork again, and that was okay because all Alan and Brendan wanted to talk about was the Leafs and Darryl Sittler and Marcel Dionne and the new superstar Wayne Gretzky, which is okay with me most times. But if I ever said something about girls, they would just look at me like I was a total Martian. Josh was always talking to me about girls and The Clash and the Boomtown Rats and his new desert boots, because he has a total of three older brothers, so he was way more advanced about those sorts of things.
But sometimes, Sam, now that I think about it, even though I kind of know everything is connected together and causing other things to happen and other things to happen and other things to happen, it feels like nothing is happening at all. Like my first three months at St. Clair High, for example. Like when Ma came home from school in September and told me she was pregnant with you, like it was nothing big, and I looked at her tummy and it
wasn’t
anything big, because I could barely see anything there, and so I shrugged and opened the fridge for something to eat. Or when I went to the caf at lunch at the beginning of October with Alan and Brendan and we were all getting excited about the upcoming NHL season, but then suddenly we had nothing else to say to each other and the three of us started yawning and Brendan had chewed-up sandwich in his braces. Or like when I was sitting in history class in October and big fat raindrops were coming straight down in sheets, and leaves were falling off the trees across the field like messages to nobody, and like when I
looked at the clock on the wall and it said 9:27, and I stared at it hard because I thought there must be something wrong, because the minute hand hadn’t moved in forever, and I guess maybe I just felt lonely. Or when old Mrs. Carpenter (I call her Mrs. Crapenter, most times), who lives next door to our apartment, caught me in front of our place one afternoon in November and started telling me about how she thought Mr. Parks, from the fourth floor, was drinking again because he sprayed his mouth with mint on the landing before he went to face Mrs. Parks every night, and I just wanted to escape from Mrs. Crapenter, because I don’t care about Mr. Parks and I was bored out of my brains.
But sometimes big things actually do happen, Sam, and they seem to change everything and cause lots of other things to happen, and then that’s when I really wish that Byron was wrong and that there was no such thing as chaos and god had a big
G
and that he
was
some bearded guy sitting on a throne in theclouds, planning everything out for me, but somehow deep down I know that he isn’t, because there’s actually no scientific proof, if you know what I mean.
Yeah, I hope you actually do know what I mean, Sam, and that you are reading this sometime in the far, far future, and maybe you’re in the exact same position that I’m in. Anyways, if you’re lucky, you will have faith in God with a big
G
, like Ma sort of does, and you won’t question everything like I do, and you will believe that God will help even if he doesn’t always.
Anyways, Sam, I now remember exactly when things went from seeming like they weren’t happening to when they
really
were, and so I guess that’s where I’ll actually begin my story. It was the last day of November, twelve days ago, and I was walking to school with my goalie equipment on my shoulder and my pads around my neck, because the first tryouts for the hockey team were after school, and even though I knew I probably wouldn’t make it, I was sick of talking about hockey with dorky Alan and Brendan (they both don’t even play equipment-hockey anymore) and I was totally bored with my stupid life.
Anyways, it was really cold out, probably like –1, and my hands were freezing because I forgot my gloves at home. And Ma hadn’t remembered to make my lunch because she said she had “baby brain,” which isn’t even really a scientific term, so I said, “There’s no such thing as ‘baby brain,’” and she stared at me for like an hour, and I said, “What???” and then she said, “Hon, I’m sorry, I’m late. Can you make your own sandwich today?” and I shrugged because she always always makes my lunch, so I just said, “Fine,” and she said, “Steven,” and I didn’t say anything, and then she came over and hugged me and messed my hair and said, “My … number … one … guy,” and
I just pushed her away and said, “I’m late and I’ve got to make a stupid sandwich,” and when I was making it I was so pissed because I was pretty sure “baby brain” was just a stupid excuse for nothing.
And when I got to the sidewalk I was rushing like crazy, and I almost slipped a couple of times, where people hadn’t shoveled or hadn’t put salt down. And I actually remember looking down at where people
had
put the salt, how it eats through the ice and makes these holes and how I thought it looked like the pictures I saw of the planet Pluto, and I was thinking about how far away Pluto was (it’s very, very, very far away, Sam) and how totally strange it was that time was sort of passing on Pluto just like it was passing here and I wondered what it would be like to be there, and I thought it would be nice and peaceful.
Then all of a sudden, because I was sort of looking down as I ran, I saw something I didn’t want to see, so I slowed down. There was one pair of army boots with red laces and one pair of black shoes with tapered black pants, and I knew right away without looking up that it was the skinhead and the mod, the ones who have their lockers near me. And when I finally lifted my head, I tried not to look them in the eyes, and to pretend that they weren’t really standing in my way—they just happened to be going in the other direction. But I kind of knew better, because whenever I’d see the skinhead and the mod in the hallway, I’d always stare at them because I couldn’t help myself, and I think they noticed that I was sort of fascinated and scared and way way smaller than them. So I just continued walking past them on the right, with my pads around my neck and my
equipment over my left shoulder, but I didn’t even step off the curb to get around them.
That’s right, Sam, I just held my ground on the sidewalk, and even though I knew deep down that my bag was going to create a space problem, I kept walking straight on through, which is crazy because my heart was pounding and I was seriously terrified and you’d think that I’d at least make sure I’d get out of their way.
So then I guess my bag hit the skinhead, because I heard him say, “What the—?” and before I could even turn around, something hit the side of my head and then all this weight landed on me and I fell on my palms and on my pads a bit and my forehead hit the ice with salt eating through it and when I went to get up, I could feel some warm liquid rolling down between my eyes (it was blood, Sam), and then the skinhead grabbed me by my coat and started shaking me, but I was like a rag doll. And then he started shouting at me, kind of spitting on my face and then he finally stopped.
And I can’t believe it even now, but for some reason the skin-head looked scared, and so I said something that you wouldn’t think I would, considering my situation.
I said, “Eff you.”
And then I suddenly got scared again, Sam, because I saw the skinhead’s fist go back to punch me and I tried to block it with my arm, but somehow the punch got through and hit me on my eyebrow. And it hurt, Sam. A lot.
I heard another voice shouting from somewhere else, and the skinhead let go of me. After a second or two, I sat up with my hand
on my eye because it was sort of throbbing, and with my other eye I tried to figure out what was happening, but I was kind of out of it, if you know what I mean. And around ten feet away from me, I saw this guy with long hair standing in front of the skinhead, pointing and swearing at him, and the guy was talking so so so fast, telling the skinhead to pick on someone his own effin’ size.
And then the guy with the long hair started talking about other stuff I didn’t understand and then he actually poked the skinhead’s forehead a couple of times, which I thought for sure would start another fight, but I guess the skinhead really
was
scared, because he didn’t do anything, except step back a bit, with a big red dot on his forehead. And then all of a sudden, another shout came from way down the street and we saw a teacher from St. Clair, and everyone ran.
Everyone except for me. I was still sort of dazed, just sitting there looking at the teacher, but I finally snapped out of it when I saw him coming my way, and I didn’t want any trouble and I didn’t want to somehow not be able to try out for the team, so I quickly grabbed my stuff and tried to get away, but the teacher said, “Stop, son. Hey, are you okay?” and I kept walking and mumbled, “Yeah, I’m fine,” and then his voice went serious. “Stop right there, son … now!” So I did, and he jogged over to me and said, “You’ve got blood on your face. Are you a St. Clair student?” and I nodded, wiping my forehead, and then he said, “We’re going to need to take you to the infirmary, and I’m going to have to find out what happened here.”
He was tall and bald and had a pointy nose and thickish glasses. “Who were those guys?” he said, handing me a tissue so
that I could wipe the rest of the blood off my face and hands. I grabbed it, and said I didn’t know who they were, which was true. “Why did they hit you?” he asked, and I shrugged and said I didn’t know why, which was also sort of true, and then he said, “I didn’t get a good look at them. Are they students from St. Clair?” and I said, “No,” because I just wanted the whole thing to end.
“Okay … let’s get you to school so we can clean you up. What’s your name?” and I said, “Steven,” and then he said, “I’m Mr. Duncan. Are you trying out for the team after school?” and I said, “Yeah. I think so,” because he said it like he was surprised, and then we walked together but we didn’t say anything to each other the whole rest of the way.
And then Mr. Duncan took me to the infirmary, and he said I should sit in the waiting room while he took my equipment down to storage in the basement, and I waited for ten minutes for the nurse to arrive, and when she did, she smiled, put her purse down, and rolled up the sleeves of her white blouse and said, “What happened here?” and I shrugged because I didn’t really want to explain. She continued to smile and said, “Let’s see if we can fix you up,” and then she put rubbing alcohol on my palm and then my forehead, leaning toward me so that I could smell her perfume and I could see the flowery part of her white bra through the buttoned part of her blouse, which meant that her emgees were right underneath, which got me pretty horny.
(Sorry, Sam, it’s true, and Byron said it’s way way way better to be truthful. By the way,
emgee
stands for “m.g.” which stands for “mammary gland,” which is a scientific way of saying
breast
, which is an adult way of saying
boob
.)
So I put my hand across my lap to hide my horniness, and then the rubbing alcohol stung like crazy, so I pinched my leg and then it didn’t hurt as much, but I wasn’t horny anymore, that’s for sure. And then the nurse gave me an ice pack to put over my eye for ten minutes, and I just sat there staring at the wall while she did paperwork at her desk, and I kind of felt like an idiot.
When the nurse finally let me go, I walked slowly up to the third floor, with my forehead still numb from the ice and my hand stinging a bit. The halls were empty and my steps echoed on the floor and my brain felt hollow inside, even though I knew that was scientifically impossible. There was no sign of the skin-head and the mod, and as I walked up, I could hear Mrs. Reese already teaching a lesson, and I kind of wanted to just keep walking and go home and hide, but I knew I sort of couldn’t.
So I went to the classroom door and knocked and just walked in, and Mrs. Reese stopped her lesson and asked if everything was all right, and I just nodded, and she said okay, and the whole class was staring at me like I had a disease or something. I tried not to look at anyone, even Alan or Brendan, because I felt strange. My head was still throbbing and I was kind of dizzy, so I just put my elbow down on my desk and looked out the window.