Cinnamon Toast and the End of the World (22 page)

My mother told me she’d had ‘a very nice time last night’. But that was all she’d say. She threw open the front door and let
in a bright blast of June sunshine, humming a chipper little tune that turned out to be Steve Winwood, ‘Higher Love’. The
kitchen cupboards squeaked and whined. The drawers slid back and forth, went thud-bang.

‘Mom.’ This zombie drawl coming out of me. I’d been sitting at the table for what felt like days. Staring into a glass of
soda water, still in Adam’s black T-shirt, reeking of beer. My hair was sticking straight up and my eyes were dark blasted
tunnels. I felt like a stain drying on the carpet, a skunk smeared across the highway.

All the stupid things I’d done last night. That one incredibly stupid thing.

Telling everybody.
Oh, God
.

I imagined the news travelling from person to person, moving through the town’s bloodstream to its heart. There were another
ten
days of classes left. Then exams, prom night, graduation. How could I face them all?

‘Mom,’ I said again. She stood waiting, a dishtowel in her hands. ‘I made a big giant idiot of myself last night.’

‘Oh, honey, I know the feeling.’ My mother dragged a squat kitchen chair over beside me, reached her arms around my shoulders.

‘Quit it.’ But I was lonely and sick and sinking into something that would have felt like despair if I’d had the energy for
it. So I let myself lean back against her, closed my eyes.

‘Sweetheart,’ she said, ‘what happened?’

‘Nothing.’

I felt itchy, uncomfortable. Pushed my chair away and staggered to my feet. My mother looked up at me, squinting and baffled.

‘But, Stephen, you just told me …’

‘Nothing, Mom. I said nothing happened.’

‘Honey, please.’

‘Look, if you keep asking I’m just gonna make something up. I don’t want to lie anymore. Don’t you get that?’

I forced myself out the front door. Sunlight was flooding over me. Too much. I stood, a musty pharaoh waiting to disintegrate.
But I survived and somehow ended up in the backyard, where I sat on the chopping block by the woodshed and gazed miserably
up at the house. She was at a window, staring back at me, pretending not to.

What the hell was I going to do about my mother?

I wondered how long it would be before somebody told her. Then again, she worked in another town, didn’t have many close friends
here. Who’d take the first step and let this bomb blow up in her face?

Me, I supposed. It would have to be me. But not yet.

I let my head slump forwards, found myself thinking about Lana.
Again. Maybe I’d die of this hangover and then she might forgive me, toss a plastic daisy on my grave. Or just use the stone
to park her gum while she stomped all over my miserable bones. It would be a relief.

On Monday, I sneaked past the classroom door where everybody was gathered for homeroom. Lana’s locker was next to mine. I
got out my books and waited for her.

I said hi. She said nothing. I told her I was a worthless jerk. She ignored me. I touched her shoulder. She shrugged me off
like a bug, walked away.

Time for English class. I was aware of every step I took, the faces I was passing. Most of the kids were staring at me. Others
were trying not to look in my direction at all.

Could be this was all just my imagination.

But then, the first time somebody kicked me, I didn’t know what was going on. I actually said sorry. Thought it was an accident,
like when you’re walking in front of people too slowly and they have to step on your heel. Knew I was wrong when I looked
up to see Randy McTavish mouthing some insult over his shoulder as he passed. I should have thought of a snappy comeback.
Instead I just felt choked and stiff.

That was the first time. There were a lot of other times.

It was the same five or six guys. Mark’s friends from his remedial classes, the ones who’d got me so terrified back at the
bonfire. I figured they’d probably always wanted to do this stuff – kick me and spit on me, slam me against the lockers. Now
they had an excuse. But I could handle it. They had faces and names, these guys. They were just people.

It freaked me out more when it was anonymous. I didn’t like it when
I’d come back to my locker and find insults painted in liquid paper or scrawled with marker. Or once I got up to go to the
bathroom in Math. I took my seat again and my notebook was open to a blank page. Or not completely blank. There was a message:
‘Kill yourself faggett.’

I flicked the page aside, stared at the blue lines on the graph paper until they merged into one big square.

Fucker couldn’t even be bothered to spell it right. Whoever it was.

Those were the times I’d stop thinking I could handle this just fine on my own.

I needed Lana, but she still hated my guts. I’d have to improvise.

On Thursday, I forced myself to push through the cafeteria doors at lunchtime. For the past few days, I’d been scarfing back
sandwiches in little out-of-the-way corners around the school, the same spots where I used to grab a smoke and some time alone
when I was skipping gym class. But today I’d decided I was going to claim a place at one of these tables and start talking
to people. I took a look around. A bunch of girls I knew were gathered in a corner. Patty Marsh. Cynthia the jock. The MacBride
sisters, Eleanor and Emily.

I banged up to their table, made Emily shove over so I could sit. The girls stopped talking and stared at me. I stared back.
We all remembered the party, of course, and the rec room. But I felt weird mentioning it.

‘People are being assholes,’ I said finally.

Patty Marsh put a hand on my arm. ‘Well, you got friends, right?’

I felt irritated with myself, being so grateful.

But the girls had their limits. Their conversation could be difficult to follow – you’d need a stack of footnotes to understand
the significance of Darla lying about going to Tammy’s bridal shower. And when they talked about men, I didn’t know where
to look. Or sometimes I tried to take part, which was even worse.

‘Okay,’ I said once, breaking into the middle of a debate. ‘Suppose somebody says they’re going to call you. Only they don’t.’
The girls went quiet. I stared down at the cafeteria table, trying to keep my tone casual. ‘How long should you wait before
you call … that person yourself?’

‘Forever.’ Eleanor smiled. ‘Hold on to your dignity, man.’

But Patty had put down her nail file and was gazing at me with liquid sympathy. ‘Aw! Was it that guy from the party?’

Then they all started.

‘He didn’t call you?’

‘Aw! That’s a sin.’

‘That was so sweet, wasn’t it, guys?’

‘I mean, I was a little grossed out at first.’

‘Me too.’

‘Just a little.’

‘But then …’

‘Aw!’

I felt like poking myself in the eye with a fork. Where was Lana when I needed her? I missed her so much it was like a phantom
limb. I missed Adam too. And I did call him. That night. I went through the city phone book and dialled each Greenberg till
I found his house. He ate an apple at me and made excuses to get off the phone fast. I sat on the kitchen floor for an hour
afterwards, head in my hands.

So I’d ruined my friendship with Lana, over somebody who was treating me like a telemarketer. And the girls at school were
no substitute.

Still, it did make me feel safer, being in a group. Maybe I was being paranoid. Maybe not.

Tuesday, the second last day ever at this school. I was in the guys’ bathroom looking at an ink mark I’d made on the side
of my face, when I got nervous. Felt like I was being filmed or watched. I was suddenly conscious of every sound. Water in
the sink. Tiny squeak of the taps. I saw a movement in the corner of my eye, reflected in the mirror. Something was behind
me. Somebody.

Then three guys started coming out of the stalls all at once.

I couldn’t yell. There was a hand over my mouth. Another guy held my arms. More of them appeared out of nowhere. I didn’t
know who they were, or even how many. They forced my head down. I could only see legs. Sneakers. I twisted my arms, tried
to kick them. No use. It felt like I was in a straitjacket. They were whispering at me, laughing.

‘You’re gonna die.’

‘You fuckin’ cocksucker.’

‘Gonna die, Jew-le-vitz.’

A stall door banged open. Somebody’s sneakered foot kicked up the seat of the toilet.

Fuck, no, fuck no
. I threw myself backwards, tried to squirm out of the grasp of whoever had my arms. Didn’t work. I was getting pounded and
kicked on all sides. It hurt. Jesus Christ, it hurt. One guy took hold of my hair, shoved my head in the bowl, and my skull
banged against the edge, hard. I choked, water rushing in all around me. They were laughing in that soft, colourless way,
talking to each other, low voices. Somebody pushed my head down and kept his hand there, hit the flush again. I was thrashing
around like crazy but nothing would help, and they were still all punching at me. Panic. I breathed in. Had to. Breathed in
water.

What a stupid way to die. Please, God, no
.

Then the hand on my head was gone. Sudden movement all around me. They were leaving, in a big hurry. I could lift myself out
of there.

Breathing. Oh, my God. I sat by the toilet in a heap. Gasping, spitting water back into the bowl. Spots in front of my eyes.
Everything hurt. It took me a second to realise I wasn’t alone. Someone had come in – had come back in, wheezing and mumbling
to himself about how he just wasn’t fast enough anymore.

‘You all right, son?’ A hand was pulling me to my feet. Mr Richardson from gym class. I’d been afraid of this guy for years.
He dragged a bundle of paper towels out of the dispenser and pressed them into my arms. I stood and held on to them. Moving
was painful. Moving my arms, moving anything.

Mr Richardson was scratching the back of his neck, frowning at the water on the floor. ‘Hm. Unusual for the Grade Twelves.
Even that bunch.’ Then he got a better look at me. ‘Oh, right. Stephen Shulevitz.’

What was that supposed to mean? Did he know? Mr Richardson thumped a hand on my shoulder. I wasn’t sure if he was attacking
me or trying to be fatherly. ‘Listen. Anybody gives you more trouble, you come to me, okay? Come straight to me. I’ll deal
with them.’ He moved towards the door. Sunlight was filtering past cobwebs and crud in a little window above our heads.

‘Mr Richardson.’ He turned around, faced me. There was too much to say. How did he find out about me? Did all the other teachers
know? Was anything going to happen to those guys? But I couldn’t talk, couldn’t make sense.

He was nodding away to himself, like there was a motor in his head keeping it in motion. Standing uncomfortably close now.
‘Don’t let this bother you, son,’ he said. ‘Don’t you even give it a second thought.’ He
gave me a slap on the back that nearly knocked me off my feet. ‘You’re a good kid, Stephen.’

The last bell rang. I got my stuff out of my locker, tried to sneak off before anybody else, out the side door and into town.
My hair was still wet. I was walking carefully, feeling bruised and mangled.

A beautiful afternoon in early summer. Green lawns with yellow dots of dandelions. Kids running through a sprinkler. A big
fat Golden Labrador ambled up to me wagging its tail.

Fuck off, dog. Fuck off, kids. Fuck off, all of you
.

I’d been lucky, Mr Richardson showing up when he did. And the bathroom was a pretty small space, so I was guessing those guys
didn’t have room to work me over like they’d wanted, especially when they had me in the stall. This could’ve been something
I didn’t walk away from.

Yeah, I was lucky. What a great fucking day.

I was almost at my house when I noticed Mark signalling from the other side of the street. I couldn’t figure him out. It was
impossible that no one had told him about the rec room. This was Riverside. But he hadn’t said a word about it, at least not
to me. I was guessing Mark knew about all the rumours and was choosing not to believe them. He was loyal that way.