FaceSpace Read online

  FaceSpace

  Adrian Chamberlain

  orca currents

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2013 Adrian Chamberlain

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Chamberlain, Adrian, 1958-

  FaceSpace [electronic resource] / Adrian Chamberlain.

  (Orca currents)

  Electronic monograph.

  Issued also in print format.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0152-3 (PDF).--ISBN 978-1-4598-0153-0 (EPUB)

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca currents (Online)

  PS8605.H339F33 2013 jC813’.6 C2012-907298-2

  First published in the United States, 2013

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012952471

  Summary: Fourteen-year-old Danny invents a fictitious friend

  in an effort to fit in at school.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  10% of author royalties will go toward supporting the work of Kids Help Phone.

  Cover photography by iStockphoto.com

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 5626, Stn. B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  16 15 14 13 • 4 3 2 1

  For Penny and Katie.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Author Biography

  Chapter One

  Do you ever feel like everyone is having the best time of their lives but you? I’ve been getting that lately. And I mean a lot.

  It’s mostly FaceSpace. Like everyone else, I’ve been on FaceSpace for a while. Seems like everyone’s having fun.

  Not me.

  Take today. Sunday morning. My brother Scott is home from college for the weekend. What he’s doing this very second is sleeping. Even though it’s, like, almost noon.

  There are two beds in our room, and Scott is stretched out on his. He’s really tall—like, six foot three. And I hate to admit it, but he’s a super handsome guy. He’s the sort of guy who attracts girls like Häagen-Dazs attracts flies, with absolutely no effort on his part.

  That kills me. Absolutely no effort.

  You know why Scott’s still sleeping? Because he was out partying last night. Partying like a rock star. He came home at 2:34 AM I know, because he woke me up when he stumbled in.

  I fire up the computer while Scott snores away. I check out my FaceSpace page. I have fifty-three friends. Not too shabby, I guess, although most people have way more. Like my friend Brad. He’s a point guard on the Oak Bay Invaders, the best ball handler on the team. The best basketball handler, is what I mean.

  Brad has 763 friends. Seven. Hundred. And sixty-three. And he doesn’t even care about FaceSpace. He hardly ever goes on it. I know, because we’re best friends. We’ve known each other since we were eight.

  Today there are all these status updates on FaceSpace about what everybody did last night. It was Saturday night, so everyone was partying, having a good time. My feed is full of things like “Hey, dude, we took it to the limit last night,” and “Hey, Donny, did you guys ever find B-Tone?” and “There must have been 100 people at that raver last night.” A hundred people, eh? Why didn’t anyone invite me? That’s what I’d like to know.

  You know what I did last night? I played Parcheesi with my mom. My mom is crazy about Parcheesi. If word got out that I played Parcheesi with my mother on a Saturday night, my name would be mud at school. Or make that dork. Not that I have that cool a reputation anyway.

  Scott rolls over in his bed and moans. He’s still wearing his clothes from last night, for God’s sake. He sits up and rubs his eyes.

  “Headache?” I say, all helpful-like.

  He rubs his eyes again and shakes his head.

  “Holy man,” he says.

  “Good party? Enjoyable?”

  “Ummm,” Scott says. “Yeah. Great party. Great, great party. So what did you get up to last night, Danny?”

  “Not much,” I say. “Hung out with Mom.”

  “Mmmm,” says Scott. “I feel wretched.”

  He shoves his hand into his pants and scratches himself, then wanders into the bathroom. There’s this splashy sound of Scott taking a great big whiz. He doesn’t even close the door. Classy. Then I hear the scratch of a match and smell cigarette smoke. Even though cigarettes are outlawed in our house.

  This is my life. Playing Parcheesi with Mom and listening to my brother take a leak.

  I turn back to the computer. I’m really into architecture, designing buildings and stuff. That’s what I’d like to do for real one day.

  Right now I’m designing a super deluxe house. It’s the kind of house a hip-hop star would have. For one thing, there’s, like, this huge recording studio in it. It’s the size of a barn. The studio has a bar, a pool-table room and its own gym.

  It has nine bedrooms and an infinity pool, one of those pools with the edge that looks like it goes on forever, right into the horizon. There’s an entertainment theater with a flat-screen TV the size of a movie-theater screen. Pretty cool, eh?

  I’ve got this 3-D design program for designing your own house or building or whatever. You can even walk in, using your computer, and take a tour. I can work on this stuff for hours. Time flies by. I’ll start working on something at eleven in the morning, and then before I know it, it’s, like, five o’clock or something. And I’m starving because I didn’t have lunch.

  “What’s that, little bro?”

  Scotty is standing behind me, puffing on his cigarette. I didn’t even know he was there. He scratches the bristle on his handsome, movie-actor’s chin. Scotty has a real good beard. He could grow a full beard in four days. Not me. I have about five hairs on my chin.

  “Nothing,” I say. My architect stuff is kind of private.

  “What’s that?” says Scott. He points to the rock-star recording studio.

  “Recording studio,” I say.

  “Cool,” says Scotty, yawning. He goes into the bathroom and flicks his cigarette into the toilet, which makes a hiss. “Well, I’m gonna take a shower. I’m meeting Jill.”

  Jill is Scotty’s girlfriend. Or rather, his old girlfriend. He’s got another girlfriend at college. Only Jill doesn’t know that yet.

  Where’s my girlfriend? That’s what I’d like to know. I’m fourteen years old and have never even had a girlfriend. That’s, like, a crime or something.

  I go to my FaceSpace page to see if there are any messages for me. Nope. There is an update from Brad though. Last night he wrote, “Heading out with J-J and the boys.” And underne
ath, there are about twenty-five responses. “Atta boy, Brad.” “Don’t party too hard, big guy.”

  I message Brad. “Hey, man, wanna hang out this aft?” Maybe we can go to the mall or whatever. Anything would be good.

  Then my cell goes off.

  “Hey, buddy.” It’s Brad.

  “Hey. I just messaged you.”

  “Yeah, I know. I can’t hang today, man.”

  “How come?” I say.

  “Basketball practice. An extra one. We’ve got finals coming up, remember? Coach says we need to practice from, like, one to four.”

  “Maybe after then,” I say.

  “Sorry, Dan-o. I’ve got homework after. Math is killing me.”

  “Okay. See ya,” I say.

  The front door slams. That’ll be Scotty, heading out. Jeez, what am I gonna do today? Just to pass the time, I check out Brad’s FaceSpace page. It’s mostly pictures of him playing basketball. There’s one of him sinking a slam dunk. Nice shot. I think I was at that game. Oak Bay versus Nanaimo. Fifty-two to thirty-six. I have a good memory for useless stuff.

  There are lots of pictures, for sure. Here’s one of Brad at a party or something. Everyone is sitting on a couch. He’s with some girl. What’s her name? I forget.

  I suddenly feel lousy. I throw myself onto my bed like a sack of potatoes, lie on my back and stare at the ceiling. There’s this poster on the ceiling that’s been up there since I was eight. It’s actually a map that shows all the constellations—all the galaxies and all that. For some reason, this map bugs me. I reach up, rip it down and crumple it into a ball. Stupid map. Yikes. My hands are all dusty now.

  Then I remember I’m supposed to go clothes shopping this afternoon with Mom. Crap. How boring. Step right up, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the exciting, super thrilling, action-packed life of Danny McBride.

  Chapter Two

  I hear a car starting up outside. I roll off the bed and look out the bedroom window in time to see Scott take off to visit Jill. Scott’s got a great car. It’s an old Alfa Romeo convertible. Black. Practically no one else has one. He got it cheap and fixed it up. The muffler makes a low rumble each time he switches gears. It’s pretty cool.

  I have homework to do, but I’m not in the mood. I do okay in school. I get mostly Bs and some As. I pick up a wooden ruler with my teeth and poke the pile of textbooks on my desk with it. Then I start singing “Iron Man” by Black Sabbath.

  Has he lost his mind?

  Can he see or is he blind?

  Can he see or is he blind! That kills me. I like old rock. The Rolling Stones, the Beatles. And Black Sabbath. Most kids my age aren’t into this stuff.

  I keep jabbing my books with the ruler and singing those two lines over and over in this crazy Ozzy-with-a-ruler-between-his-teeth voice.

  Then Mom calls me to go to the mall to buy new clothes. I hate this. I’m not much of a style guy. When it comes to fashion, it’s hard to figure out what’s going on. What’s cool? What’s sorta cool? What’s definitely not cool and to be avoided no matter what?

  One store at the mall has some great clothes. I guess they are hip-hop fashions. But I could never pull this off. If I wore this stuff to school, guys would be saying, “McBride, you poser.” Or, “Look at McBride. What a knob.” That sort of thing.

  Instead, I let Mom pick the blandest type of clothes. I guess I seem bored, because after an hour, she hands me thirty bucks and tells me to go buy myself something.

  She probably wants me to get lost so she can shop for herself. No problem, Mom, thirty bucks is thirty bucks. I go into the CD store, which is really mostly a DVD store. I start riffling through a rack of bargain discs. I find Doolittle, by the Pixies. The Pixies are an old-school band from the 1980s. They influenced Nirvana. The singer, a big chubby guy called Black Francis, sings in this strange voice, like he’s a drowning cat or something. They’re a really good band.

  I’ve already downloaded most of the Pixies’ music, but I decide to buy the album for the artwork and all. When I turn around, Doolittle in hand, guess who’s there in the store? Megan.

  Megan is in some of my classes. I kind of like her. I’ve talked to her exactly three times. Here’s a transcript of our conversations:

  Me (in English): Hey there. Um, do you have a pen I can borrow?

  Megan: I think so. Here ya go.

  Me (in Socials): Did he say Ecuador is bordered by Peru?

  Megan: Um, I’m not sure.

  Me (in Math): Man, this is hard, eh?

  Megan: You’re not kidding.

  It’s hard to tell if a girl likes you from this. Sometimes I think about these three conversations. If I’m in a good mood, I think, Yeah, Megan totally likes me. If I’m in a bad mood, I think, Danny, you are a loser and Megan thinks you suck badly.

  So there I am, face-to-face with Megan for real. She’s smiling. She’s got blond hair, green eyes and funny teeth—kind of like buckteeth, but super cute.

  “Hi,” she says. “Hey, I know you. From English.”

  “Oh yeah,” I say. Smooth, right?

  “So…What you got there?” she asks.

  “What?” I’m so freaked about seeing Megan, I totally forget what’s in my hands.

  “What did you buy?” she says.

  “Um. Doolittle. It’s by that band the Pixies. You know it?”

  “No.”

  “Well, they’re a really good band. You know Nirvana? Like, Nirvana with Kurt Cobain? Well, they were influenced by the Pixies. All that loud, soft, loud stuff? That was the Pixies’ idea. Their singer, Black Francis—he’s the best singer in rock. He screams like no one else. And their bassist, Kim Deal—when she wasn’t in the Pixies, she was in the Breeders, who are a totally great band too. You know that song ‘Cannonball’? Well, that was the Breeders. Anyway, Doolittle is a great album. Maybe the best album ever. It’s totally, totally, totally cool.”

  Megan smiles again and says, “Okay. Well, see ya in class then.”

  I stand there with my album in my sweaty hand and watch her walk away. And I think, Oh man, did you babble like an idiot for a full minute? Jeez.

  Mom and I meet up, and we drive home. I’ve got my new clothes and my new album, but I’m not feeling that great, to tell the truth. Seeing Megan like that bummed me out. I keep thinking of stuff I should have said.

  Me: Hey there, Megan.

  Megan: Hey there. What’s in the bag?

  Me: Doolittle. The Pixies. They’re the greatest band on earth. Wanna go listen to it?

  Megan: Sure. Thanks, Danny.

  Or:

  Me: Hey there, Megan.

  Megan: Hi.

  Me: I know you from English. You may be the best-looking girl in that class. And believe me, there’s a lot of good-looking girls in that class.

  Megan: Hey, thanks.

  Me: Wanna go out sometime?

  Megan: Yes.

  Or:

  Me: Hey, babe.

  Megan: Hey.

  Me: I’ll let you hang with me, if you like.

  Megan: Is that the Doolittle album? You must be cool. Okay, sure.

  Me: Cool is my middle name. Let’s roll.

  Yeah, I know. That last one is pretty stupid.

  Sometimes imagining stuff like this makes me feel better. Not today. Today I keep reliving what really happened with Megan, and then I feel bad. I wish I was better at talking to girls. It would be good if they had a class for that that was taught by some righteous guy, a James Bond kind of guy. He would teach you how to act, what to say. Then you’d know what to do. Of course, a class like that would have to be top secret. What if people found out you were enrolled? That would be social suicide.

  When we get back to the house, Mom asks if I want to model my new clothes. I tell her I’m n
ot in the mood. Instead, I go to my room and start working on Lego City.

  For about six months, I’ve been building an entire city from Lego. I put it on a huge plywood board that I keep hidden under my bed. Yes, I know this may seem a little dorky. But it’s also interesting. I’m building a city of the future. It’s on two levels. All the cars and buses are on the lower level. The top level is just for pedestrians, so that people can walk around like normal human beings without getting run over. And there will be parks in the middle of the city, markets, playgrounds—whatever.

  When I’m working on Lego City, I forget about the time, like I’m living in that make-believe world. The part I’m working on now is a huge aquarium in the middle of the park.

  I’m wondering whether Lego makes parts for dolphins when the door opens.

  “Mom says it’s dinnertime. Hey, what’s that?” Scott stands there, hands in his jean pockets, grinning. I shove Lego City back under my bed real fast—too fast, because part of a skyscraper breaks off and rolls across the floor. Scott picks it up.

  “What’s this?” he says. “Hey, is this Lego?”

  “No,” I say.

  “It is Lego.”

  “No it’s not.”

  “Isn’t that for kids?” asks Scott.

  “Shut up, Scott. Just hand it over.”

  He chuckles and gives me the skyscraper. Then Scott kneels to look at Lego City, pulling it out from under the bed.

  “Danny,” he says, “this is sort of amazing. But it’s also pretty weird.”

  “It’s not weird,” I say.

  “It wouldn’t be if you were nine years old. Lego is for kids. Anyway, you better come to dinner. Mom made ribs.”