FaceSpace Page 2

  I throw the piece of the Lego skyscraper at Scott’s big fat head. But he’s already gone. Instead, it hits the door and breaks into pieces.

  Man, am I mad. Not just about Scott, but everything. Talking to Megan. Not being able to hang out with Brad today. I slam Lego City under my bed, not even caring about the chunks that break off and roll on the floor. I stick the Doolittle album in the stereo and crank up the volume. The first cut is “Debaser.” Black Francis is singing all crazy, screaming about cutting up eyeballs and “girlie so groovy” and being a debaser. I’m not sure what it all means, but it suits the way I feel right now. It’s like I want to break out of my situation. The whole thing—school, living at home, not having a girlfriend. I’d like to be, I don’t know. Someone else. Not me.

  Scott is calling me again for dinner, but it’s hard to hear above the smash-crash-bang of the drums, guitars and crazy Black Francis.

  This is when it all starts. This very second, with “Debaser” blaring on the stereo, Lego strewn all over the floor and the smell of Mom’s ribs wafting down the hall.

  If I could take it all back, would I? You bet. But sometimes we do stuff we regret, almost without thinking. It’s like something takes over. You know what I mean?

  Chapter Three

  On Sunday night I’m still mad at Brad for not hanging out. I go onto Brad’s FaceSpace site and start checking out his photos. There’s one of Brad posing with Grant, this really tall guy on the basketball team. They’re both smiling, each holding a basketball. Grant is a total knob with bright red hair. I dislike him, to tell the truth. Once I saw Grant in the hallway doing this super spastic imitation of the way I walk. The more I think about it, Grant is a total jerk.

  Then I get a great idea. I have a computer program for altering photos. I download Brad’s photo and start messing around with it. Instead of smiling, he’s biting his lower lip, like he’s worried or something. The effect is totally comical. I change his eyes, so that instead of being normal-sized, they’re really, really small. I expand Grant’s head until it’s about the size of a pumpkin.

  This cracks me up. It looks so funny, I almost fall off my chair. I also have a little program that allows me to post on FaceSpace anonymously. I post the picture on Brad’s page.

  And then I really get into it. I mess around with four or five of Brad’s photos. There’s one of him standing, arms linked with his mom and dad, in front of some restaurant. I alter that one so Brad’s eyes are rolling like he’s bored or something. Classic.

  When I’m done, the clock says it’s one thirty in the morning. I fall into bed, still wearing my clothes. Scott’s already asleep. I didn’t even notice him come into the room.

  The next morning when the alarm buzzes, I feel terrible. Today is my worst day of the week, schoolwise. I have math, science and socials. I hate science. Who wants to play with dead frogs?

  At lunchtime, I walk to the table in the corner where Brad and I always sit. Brad is already there.

  “Hey, pal,” I say, plunking myself down. In my lunch bag I find a jam sandwich. I think it’s strawberry jam. What the heck? Does Mom think I’m eight years old?

  “Hey yourself,” says Brad.

  “What’s up? You don’t look like your usual bright-eyed self,” I say.

  “Ah, nothing. Do you know someone was playing around with my photos? On FaceSpace.”

  I put down my jam sandwich. Holy crap. I’d forgotten about that. I get a weird feeling along my spine, like the hairs are standing up.

  “Really?” I say. “You don’t say.”

  “Yeah,” says Brad. “Here, check it out on my phone. Just a sec. Okay. See? Look at that.”

  He shows the one of him and giant-headed Grant. It’s the one where Brad’s got tiny little eyes and is biting his lip. It looks so crazy funny that I can’t help laughing a little.

  “Hey, man, don’t laugh. This is serious,” Brad says.

  “Well, at least Grant looks normal,” I say.

  “Danny. I’m serious. I’d like to kill whoever did this.”

  “Hmm,” I say. “Well, maybe I can help you track him down. Or, um, her. Could be a girl.”

  “Yeah?”

  “There might be a way to find out. I’m good with this kind of thing.”

  Brad smiles, his face lighting up. He’s really a good guy. Now I feel bad. Who does this to a friend?

  “Don’t worry, bud,” I say. “We can catch this dude. And if we do, we should totally get revenge.”

  I start to get a different kind of feeling. I imagine a creepy hacker guy doing a number on my good friend Brad—some old dude with a wrinkled face. In my mind, he’s totally bald, except for a few hairs on top of his head. What a jerk. Are we going to stand for this? No way. This guy is going down. I tell Brad that if we catch whoever changed his photos, we should confront him.

  After a minute or two of me yakking away, Brad gives me a funny look.

  “Danny. Calm down. It’s not that big a deal,” he says.

  Brad asks if I want to watch him at basketball practice after school. I say okay. Not that I’m crazy about basketball, but it’s something to do. My homework is really piling up, but I can put it off for an hour. To tell the truth, I’m happy that Brad asked me to come along.

  The whole team is shooting baskets. The Oak Bay Invaders. They wear red uniforms with a picture of a horse on the front. The I in Invaders looks like a horn coming out of the horse’s head. They look more like the Oak Bay Unicorns.

  I’m sitting high in the bleachers, minding my own business, when Megan walks into the gym. Right away, I feel my face getting hot. I remember our last conversation at the record store. Man, that was embarrassing, me blabbing away like that. I wonder if I should pretend I don’t notice her.

  Before I can think of what to do, Megan climbs the bleachers and plops down beside me.

  “Hey there!” she says with a smile.

  “Uh, hi,” I say.

  “I didn’t know you were a basketball fan. I thought you were more of a music guy.”

  I tell her I’m only watching because Brad’s my buddy. It turns out Megan is a friend of Brad’s too. The conversation is awkward at first, mostly because I feel shy. But Megan is so friendly, I start to feel comfortable right away, and soon we’re chatting away like old pals. Imagine. Danny McBride shooting the breeze with a great-looking girl like Megan.

  And is she running away? Is she rushing out of the gym, screaming? No, she is not. This is good—fantastic even.

  After half an hour, I tell Megan I’d better head home because of all my homework. She decides to cut out too, so we walk together through the school hallways toward my locker.

  We’re almost there when a gang of kids walking the other way says hi to Megan. Then one of them, this big guy, gives me a shove. For no reason. I stumble and bang into a locker, but luckily I don’t fall down or anything. I don’t even know this guy. He’s one of those wide-necked jerks who looks like a football player.

  “What…?” I say.

  They all laugh and keep walking down the hall, although a couple of the girls look away.

  “Danny, are you okay?” asks Megan. She’s actually concerned. Megan tells me the wide-necked guy used to like her. She never dated him or anything. Maybe he’s jealous? Who knows? Now I feel awkward, like at the record shop. It’s as if I’m ashamed or something, even though it wasn’t my fault. My face is all hot again.

  We say goodbye, and I trudge home. I go into my bedroom to tackle my homework. There’s a ton of math. It takes two hours to get it done. I can’t believe how much homework they give us. It makes me mad.

  Then I remember the photos of Brad’s that are still on my computer. I think maybe I should return them to normal and repost them as a kind of apology. But I don’t fix them. No, instead, I make the
m worse. I give big-headed Grant two huge snaggleteeth. I enlarge Brad’s tiny eyes and make them all bloodshot. He now looks like a crazy space alien.

  As I post the new photo on his page, I wonder why I am doing this. Brad hasn’t done anything to me. It’s going to bug him, big-time.

  I check out my FaceSpace profile. There’s a friend request from Megan. Fantastic. Cool. I accept that one fast. Maybe Megan doesn’t think I’m a doob after all, despite what happened in the hall today.

  If only I could be, I don’t know, someone else. Someone who’s always cool, who always knows what to do and say, someone popular.

  I go onto a photo site and find a picture of a cool-looking guy. He looks like Tom Cruise as a teenager. I take the photo and create a fake FaceSpace profile. I call him James Bradbury. Then I get James to “friend” me on FaceSpace. There. One cool new friend.

  The clock says 10:28 PM I’m exhausted. I feel like I’ve run a marathon. Not that I’ve ever run one. Not even close. I listen to some Pixies on my iPod, lying on my bed. I feel strange and unsettled.

  After a while the feeling goes away, and I fall asleep.

  Chapter Four

  At lunchtime Brad complains about someone making the photos on his FaceSpace page look worse.

  “Who would do that?” he says, taking a big bite out of his meatball sandwich. It’s a good-looking sandwich. Me, I’ve got jam again.

  “Hmm,” I said, reaching for an apple. “That’s strange. And how were the pictures different? Like, how were they altered?”

  “I don’t know. My eyes were made way bigger in this one photo. It makes me look crazy. Maybe I should just delete them all,” says Brad.

  “No! I mean, no, Brad. That’s a bad idea. Leave it for now. It’ll help me track down the perpetrator.”

  “The perps,” Brad says.

  “Huh?”

  “The perps. That’s what they call them on TV. The bad guys.”

  “Right,” I say. “The perps.”

  Just then Megan comes by. She says hi and asks if she can sit with us. We say sure. On her tray, she’s got one carton of milk, an apple and a banana. That’s all. Girls. Go figure.

  We talk about Brad’s basketball team. He says they’re looking for a manager. Brad says I should apply for the position.

  I shrug. “Nah. If anything, I’d rather be a player,” I say. “But that would never happen. I’m no good at basketball.”

  “Well, think about the manager thing,” says Brad.

  “Why?”

  “For starters, you get to travel with the team. We’re likely going to Vancouver for the finals in a few months. It’ll be a total blast.”

  “Danny, you should do it,” says Megan.

  “I dunno. I’ll think about it.”

  We talk about classes. Megan says she’s having trouble in math. She’s good at English and art, but not math and science. This makes me happy. The math thing, that is. Because I’m pretty good at math. Maybe I can offer to help Megan with her homework. It’s on the tip of my tongue to offer, but I can’t quite say it. What if she says no?

  I wish I could just come out with it, real casual. Something like:

  Me: “Hey, Megan. You need help with your math. I can help.”

  Megan: “Golly, what a nice offer, Danny.”

  Me: “It’s totally my pleasure.”

  Or:

  Me: “Hey, Megs. Need help with the ol’fractions, integers and so forth? Danny boy to the rescue. Just say the word.”

  Megan: “Oh, Danny! You are so smart and generous. Perhaps later we can go to a movie.”

  Me: “Play your cards right, Megster, and that may very well just happen.”

  Ha. Dream on. I say nothing, of course. I am tongue-tied, as usual. In fact, my tongue feels weird and dry now. Like a dried-out sausage. I grab my water bottle and take a gulp.

  And then Megan says, “Hey, Danny, who’s this James guy on FaceSpace?”

  I almost spit out my water. Man, that took me by surprise. James. What had I put on that fake profile anyway? Was it open to the public? Uh-oh.

  “James,” I say, real casual. “Oh yes. James Bradbury. Yeah. He’s just moved to Canada. He’s an old friend.”

  “What? I’ve never heard of him,” says Brad.

  “Well, you don’t know everyone I know,” I say. “James is from, uh, England. He’s a family friend.”

  Just then a pop can sails over my head. Right out of the blue. It misses my right ear by, like, five inches. There’s a muffled laugh from the other side of the cafeteria. What a zoo.

  “Wow, England. Cool,” says Megan. She politely doesn’t mention my nearly getting nailed by a pop can.

  So we start talking about James. Of course, I’ve got to make stuff up as I go along. James is from London. He and his family live in Vancouver, not here in Victoria. He plays bass in a punk-rock band. He drives an old Jaguar. It’s the family car they shipped from England. I’m going on and on, hoping I don’t make any mistakes. Megan and Brad keep asking questions. Every time they shoot one out, I’m dodging it like a bullet. Luckily, I’m fast on my feet.

  “I notice he doesn’t have any friends on FaceSpace,” says Megan. “Except for you.”

  “Yeah. Well, that’s because he’s brand-new to Canada.”

  “Didn’t he use FaceSpace in England?” Brad asks.

  “Nope. Didn’t have time. Too busy, um, playing bass in his punk band,” I say.

  Finally, Megan and Brad get off the subject of James. Thank God. I’m not sure how much longer I could have kept this up. My tongue is all dry again, so I take another big slug of water. Then I say bye and head off to my next class.

  After school, there’s a black sports car in our driveway. Big brother is back for another visit. When I get in the bedroom, Scott is sprawled on his bed, reading a textbook called Introduction to Abnormal Psychology.

  “Hello, little bro,” he says, grinning.

  “Ah. Hi,” I say.

  What I really want to do right now is work on James Bradbury’s FaceSpace profile. I need to make sure it fits all the made-up stuff I told Brad and Megan at lunch. I can’t do it while Scott is in the room. Scott is the sort of guy who will ask what I’m doing. And then he’ll spill the beans to everyone.

  “Here for another visit?” I say, glancing over at my computer.

  “Too noisy at our house. They’re planning a kegger. I need to hit the books big-time. Get some major reading done.”

  “Really?” Scott shares a house with this bunch of frat guys. They are real boneheads. All they do is party.

  “Yup. Really.”

  I wish Scott would buzz off. I keep looking at my computer and then back to Scott. I feel all hyper. Why doesn’t Scott get lost so I can fix James’s profile? I fold my arms and then unfold them. I fold them again. I look around the room, trying to look anywhere but at my computer.

  “Hey, Danny, you seem uptight. You okay?” asks Scott. “Let me see if I can figure out your problem. It’ll probably say what’s wrong with you in my psych text.”

  He pretends to search his book, flicking one page after another.

  “Okay. Let’s see here. Anxiety. Possible hysteria.”

  “Scott, get lost. I need to use my computer.”

  “Ah. Irritability. Possible mental confusion.”

  I grab the pillow off my bed and peg it at Scott’s head. He laughs and goes upstairs.

  I sit at the computer and open James Bradbury’s profile. Let’s see. I write that he’s from London. Under Hobbies, I write that he plays bass and likes punk music. I find a picture of an old Jaguar sedan. It is British racing green. I post it in his photos. That’s the family car—great.

  At suppertime, Scott goes on about college. Mostly he talks about h
is roommates. They all have goofy nicknames. There is Pongo. The Sheik. I forget the others’ names.

  After supper, I zip downstairs again and add finishing touches to James’s profile. I Photoshop a picture of him and me together. It’s really a picture Mom took of me and Scott last summer, when we went to Butchart Gardens. I pull out Scott’s face and replace it with James’s. The lighting looks funny, so I adjust the shading. Then I resize it, and after that the photo looks pretty convincing. There’s me and James, arms around each other, smiling away, with a whole bunch of flowers in the background.

  Then, because I’m so pleased with myself, I take a chance. I put in a friend request from James to Megan. One click of the mouse, and it’s done. She accepts about fifteen seconds later! How cool is that?

  It’s like James Bradbury is a real person or something. And I, Danny McBride, am his creator. Bwahaha. Maybe Scott’s right. Maybe I do have some mental confusion. I decide to call it a night.

  Chapter Five

  I’m having a very weird dream. I’m in the jungle in Vietnam—or at least, it seems like Vietnam. I’ve never even been there before. There are lots of bushes, and I’ve been captured by soldiers.

  The soldiers are dressed in green combat uniforms, like in the movies. They have tied me to a tree, using thick rope. It’s all rough and itchy. They are asking me questions about something bad that I’ve done. There is something about a false identity. They treat me like I’m a spy. I don’t know what they’re talking about. Because these soldiers are not getting the answers they want from me, they decide to cut off one of my legs. The biggest soldier, a mean-looking guy with a greasy black beard and squinty eyes, pulls out this massive chainsaw. He fires it up and gets closer, and closer, and—

  “Ahhhhh!” I yell, bolting up like a jack-in-the-box. I’m completely disoriented.

  That was super, super scary. I look over at Scott, who is snoring away in the next bed. That’s it. That’s the chainsaw noise. Scott needs to get one of these things you put on your nose at night to stop the snoring. This is getting out of hand.