FaceSpace Page 3

  “Scott!” I yell. I throw my pillow at his head. No response. He’s a heavy sleeper.

  Before I start to get ready for school, I sit down at the computer. I wonder if anyone’s noticed the new details I added to James’s profile last night.

  James has fifty new friend requests already. Yes, that’s right. Fifty people. They are all kids from my school. I guess they saw that Megan friended James. And because Megan’s popular—and James seems cool—they want to be his friend too.

  So James—I mean, me—accepts them all. But you know, it burns me. Some of these guys are people I tried to friend on my own profile. And they ignored me. Now some cool, handsome dude from the UK shows up, someone they don’t even know, and they’re all over him. It goes to show how shallow some people are.

  I click away—accept, accept, accept. James will have more friends than me soon. I’m a little bit scared. There’s no turning back now. James is out in the real world. And although he’s fake, he’s going to be interacting with real people, even if it is only on a computer.

  Could this all backfire? I wonder. It could. What if I get found out? The thought causes a knot of fear to build in the bottom of my belly.

  There’s another terrific snore, more like a snort. Scott finally sits up. He is dazed, like he’s come out of a hundred-year sleep.

  “Snore much?” I say.

  “What?” says Scott. He looks at me blankly.

  “You were snoring. In fact, you snored so much, you gave me a nightmare.”

  “You’re crazy,” says Scott. “I never snore.”

  That morning at school, something is different. Something has happened. I’m walking down the hall as usual, with my backpack filled with twenty pounds of books. But now, every once in awhile, someone asks me about James.

  It’s, like, “Hey, Danny? Who’s this new James guy?” Or, “Danny? Hey there, buddy. How do you know the English guy?”

  To tell the truth, I do enjoy the attention. Sometimes I walk down the hall at school and feel like I’m invisible, like I don’t even exist. It’s a big school. There are so many kids here, you can get swallowed in the crowd. Now I’m somebody. Maybe somebody important even.

  Today everything is a little shinier, a little brighter. The crummy gray lockers look, well, less crummy. The boring teachers seem less boring, even Mr. Cromwell, who wears a bow tie and drones on about the periodic table. The kids who sometimes get on my nerves are less irritating. That girl who sits in the front desk in socials and sticks up her hand every five minutes to answer a question doesn’t bother me at all today.

  Toward the end of the day, I’m getting excited. Maybe some of James’s new friends are talking to him online. I can’t wait to get home and see.

  I fire up FaceSpace and see that there has been a flurry of James action. All the kids are asking about England and where he goes to school and stuff. It takes me awhile to answer all of their questions. For one thing, I have to keep my facts straight. When you’re making stuff up, you’ve got to be careful you don’t tell one person one thing and another person something different.

  The most exciting message is from Megan. She asks James about his past and living in the UK. I take extra care with this one. I even include the odd English word. Like, instead of writing “French fries,” I write “chips,” because that’s what they say over there. I end the note with James saying he must go off and watch “football” on TV, or, “as you Canadians call it, soccer.”

  Naturally, James mentions his pal Danny McBride. James says Danny is one of his “dearest” friends. I figure an English guy would talk like that. Why not pump myself up in Megan’s eyes? Can’t hurt, right?

  After supper, I should be hitting the books. But I’m too wound up to do homework. Instead, I hop on the bus and go to the mall. I buy a hoodie, a cool-looking gray one that’s all blinged out with metal studs.

  It’s the sort of store I would not have gone into before. The salesclerks look like fashion models, so you think you have to be cool to set foot in there. But now I’m more confident somehow. I walk right in.

  Back home, I stand in front of the mirror, admiring myself in the new hoodie. Just as I’m doing this rapper pose—hands crossed in front on my waist, with the hood pulled low over my eyes—Brad walks in.

  “Hey, Danny,” he says. “Thought I’d drop by. What’s up?”

  “Oh wow. You scared me,” I say.

  I’m kind of embarrassed that Brad saw me posing like this. He’s grinning.

  “Nice hoodie,” is all he says. “Where’d you get it?”

  “At the mall. Just bought it, like, an hour ago.”

  “Nice,” he says.

  We talk for a while. Brad tells me again that I should ask his basketball coach about being manager of the team. I’m not so sure, but I tell him again that I’ll think about it.

  Then Brad asks about James. He friended James today. Brad is super curious. He asks how many years I’ve known James and how I first met him. And why I never mentioned James before.

  Brad isn’t trying to be weird or mean or anything. He’s not like that. He’s honestly interested. But all these questions are making me nervous.

  The real clincher, though, is when Brad asks, “Do you think I could meet James sometime? He sounds like a cool guy.”

  “Sure. No problem,” I say.

  “Does he ever get over to Victoria?” Brad asks.

  “Yep. Sure, he does.”

  “Maybe the next time, we can hang out. Like, the three of us.”

  “Totally, totally,” I say. “Maybe he’ll bring the Jag. It’s British racing green, you know.”

  After Brad leaves, I feel almost panicky. Maybe he’ll bring the Jag? It’s British racing green? I must be nuts. What have I gotten myself into?

  Chapter Six

  Have you ever done something you think is a good idea, and then the next day it seems like a really stupid idea?

  This morning when I put it on, the hoodie I bought, it looks, well, kind of ridiculous. All these metal studs, I mean, who do I think I am? Some kind of gangster?

  But when I try it on again after breakfast, it seems cool to me again. Should I wear it? Brad thought it was all right. But maybe he was just being nice. That’s Brad all over. He’s always super nice to everyone.

  There’s no time to fuss though. I throw on the hoodie and grab my backpack of books—which I didn’t even open last night—and head out the door.

  “What’s that you’re wearing?” says Mom.

  “Sorry, Mom. Late for school. See ya.”

  School is good again, like yesterday. More kids want to know about James. It’s like, because I know James, and because he’s cool, maybe I’m cool too. Everyone’s checking out my new hoodie too. One guy asks where I got it. I tell him, then say, “Yeah, James bought it for me.” Crazy. That one just came out of me. I don’t know why.

  Grant, that guy on Brad’s basketball team that I don’t like, walks up. He’s not really saying anything, but he looks me up and down with this funny expression on his face, sizing me up.

  Then Grant says, “Another guy bought you clothes? Man, that’s weird.”

  “What?” I say.

  “Guys don’t buy each other clothes. Are you two dating or something?”

  My face is getting red. I can feel it in my cheeks.

  “No, it’s cool,” I say. “James is from England, and it’s sort of, well, an English thing. Those guys do it all the time.”

  By now half a dozen people have gathered around. Grant has got this look on his face that’s like, “Yeah, right. Tell me another.” So I cut out real quick, like I’m late for class, even though the bell won’t ring for another ten minutes.

  After my first class, I see Megan in the hall. I spot her from about fifteen feet aw
ay. She’s wearing a dress. Or do you call it a skirt? I always forget which is which. Anyway, she looks great.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi,” says Megan. “Great top. I mean, great hoodie. Looks really cool.”

  “Oh yeah,” I say. “Thanks.”

  Of course, I’m tongue-tied. But in my mind, I’m starting to form a plan.

  I’m going to ask Megan if she wants to have lunch with me.

  It’s not that big a deal, I guess. We have had lunch before. You know, me, Brad and Megan. But this is different. I’m going to ask just her. So it’s like, well, a date. We’ll be in the lunchroom, so it’s not a big date. But it’s a date all the same.

  I say, “So, what are you up to today?”

  “The usual. Going to classes,” says Megan. “You know.”

  Okay, that was a stupid question to lead with. Of course Megan is going to classes. That’s what we’re here for. I think to myself, Danny McBride, just come out with it. Just say it.

  “Yeah, classes. Right. Hey, Meg—I mean, hey, Megan. Wait, do you like Meg or Megan better?”

  “Either is good,” she says. “Meg. Megan.”

  She smiles a funny little smile that goes up higher on one side than the other. My face better not be getting red again. I wish there was a cure for that.

  “Uh, okay,” I say. “So you want to have lunch today?”

  “Lunch? Sure. Lunchroom at noon? Or ten after, or something?”

  “Um. Yeah.”

  “See you then.”

  She smiles again, turns around and walks down the hall, her backpack bouncing up and down. Wow. I can’t believe it. I feel like I’ve won the lottery or something.

  At 12:05 I run into the boys’ bathroom to check myself out. I want to make sure my hair’s okay. Of course, it’s sticking up in a really crazy kind of way. I’ve noticed that whenever I look at myself in a public mirror, I look like a total dork. I grab a paper towel, wet it and push down those stupid, sticking-up hairs. There. Better.

  Then I dash over to the lunchroom. Megan is sitting by herself in a corner. I walk over and sit down.

  “Well, hello,” I say. That was supposed to come out all cool and James Bond-like. You know, in a low voice like a movie star’s. But instead it comes out in a croak. Danny the frog.

  “Hi, Danny,” says Megan. She doesn’t seem to notice the weird voice.

  We talk about school. Megan is still having trouble in math. Building up my courage, I ask if she’d like me to help her sometime. She says yes. Wow. That makes me feel great. This day is turning out pretty good, that’s for sure.

  I think about helping Megan with her math. For some reason, in my mind I am wearing a college professor’s tweed jacket. I’ve got a pipe, and I’m using it to point to a blackboard that’s covered with numbers.

  “So, how’s your friend James doing?” Megan says after awhile.

  “James. Right. Well, he’s doing all right. Just getting to know Canada. So different from England, you know.”

  Brad comes by. He pulls up a chair and plunks down his lunch bag. To be honest, I’m a little choked, because I’m finally here alone with Megan.

  “Megan. Danny. Danny. Megan,” says Brad, all serious-like. Then we all laugh.

  We keep talking about James. Brad says I’ve promised that we can hang out. Megan asks if she can come too. Of course, I say. Yes. I mean, what am I supposed to say? But all the while, I’m getting this uncomfortable feeling.

  The bell rings. It’s time for class, which in my case is social studies. We are studying ancient Egypt. I like listening to Mrs. Walker go on about mummies and King Tut and pyramids. One day I’d like to go to Egypt. Then again, I’d like to go anywhere. The farthest I’ve ever been out of Victoria is Seattle, which isn’t that far.

  All afternoon, I’m feeling good because I had that date with Megan. Cool, right? That’s a first for me. I’ve gone from being Danny “No Dates” McBride to Danny “Mr. Dating Guy” McBride. Ha.

  Walking home, I think over what we talked about at lunch. We talked about how we are all going to hang out with James. Then all the good feelings start to evaporate. What have I gotten myself into? How can Brad and Meg possibly meet James?

  Is there a way out of this? I start to think over the possibilities, walking slower and slower, sometimes kicking a stone into the ditch. I figure if I can hatch a good plan by the time I get home, everything will be okay.

  Could I convince someone to pretend to be James? It would have to be someone Meg and Brad don’t know. He would have to be English or be able to talk like an English guy. And, of course, he’d have to look like the handsome dude in the FaceSpace photo. God. That is impossible.

  Back home in my bedroom, I check myself out in the mirror. I remember that the kids at school said my new hoodie was cool. At least, a couple of them did. But I don’t feel good about that now. This James thing is out of hand, I think. The whole deal is going to fall apart. It’s going to blow up in my face like a great big…I don’t know what. A big balloon filled with green paint. Guess who’s going to get that green paint splashed all over his face? Me.

  What am I going to do?

  I do one more thing before turning in. I fire up the computer, log on as James and then have James ask Meg what she thinks of Danny McBride.

  Chapter Seven

  On Saturday morning, I groan and open my right eye to look at the clock beside my bed. It’s 9:02 AM. That’s weird. I usually sleep until ten on the weekends.

  What’s that splashy sound? I open both eyes. Someone is taking a great big whiz with the bathroom door wide open. Scott. That’s what woke me up. What a pig.

  Scott walks out. He raises his hand to his head and then groans softly. He’s wearing a Super Troopers T-shirt and tighty whiteys. He scratches his butt. Ugh. What a sight.

  “Hey, little bro,” he says, his voice all croaky. And he lights up a cigarette.

  “That’s gonna kill you,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Cigarettes. Idiot.”

  I grab my pillow and throw it at him. It turns out to be an amazingly good shot. The pillow neatly knocks Scott’s cigarette right out of his hand. It goes shooting across the room. Scott has to run over and grab the cigarette before it burns down the house or some crazy thing.

  “Danny. Are you nuts?”

  “No smoking. Mom says.”

  “Yeah. And do you do everything Mom says?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Sure, you do. A good little Lego-making boy like you.”

  Suddenly, Scott jumps onto my bed and gets me in a headlock. He’s laughing. And then he starts rubbing his other hand over my face and on my hair. I remember he just took a whiz and probably didn’t wash his hands. So I get mad and pound Scott really hard on his back with my fist.

  This takes him by surprise, I guess. He lets go and sits on the side of the bed, gasping.

  “Danny. Jesus. You knocked the air right out of me.”

  “You asked for it. It’s all that smoking. Your lungs are probably fried.”

  Scott starts telling me a long story about this stupid party he went to last night. The thing about my brother is, when he tells you a story, he has to tell you every detail. Like who said what to who, and what the other person said about that. It’s totally boring, although you’d never know it to look at Scott. He’s laughing at the funny parts and frowning at the dramatic parts.

  He’s talking about some guy called Chubs who ate four cheeseburgers in a row. He is telling me about Chubs trying to decide whether to order another burger or maybe a chocolate milkshake when I decide that I want to talk to Scott about James and FaceSpace. This gives me a funny feeling, like I’m about to make a presentation in front of the class.

  “Um, Scott.”
<
br />   “Yeah?”

  Scott looks up. I can’t believe I’m going to tell him my big secret.

  But I go ahead. Scott listens to the whole story. For once, he doesn’t interrupt or make a dumb comment. Afterward, he asks to see James’s profile on FaceSpace. So I show him.

  Scott scrolls through it for a while. He sits back in his chair. And he lets out a long, low whistle.

  “Oh man,” he says. “Oh man, oh man.”

  This doesn’t make me feel better.

  “Danny. Danny McBride. Earth to Dan-o. What have you done?”

  “I dunno,” I say. “It’s not that big a deal.”

  “Not that big a deal? You’ve invented a fake English guy. You’ve fooled all your friends into thinking he’s a real person. And half the school knows too.”

  When Scott puts it that way, I start to feel a little scared.

  “You know what this comes from? This comes from spending too much time at the computer. That and farting around with your Lego all the time. I think you must be going a little cuckoo,” Scott says.

  Ordinarily, I’d have slugged Scott in the head for saying that. But it’s like all the air is sucked right out of me.

  “What should I do?” I ask.

  Scott sits in the computer chair, rubbing his stubbly chin. He wonders out loud whether he could pretend to be James. You know, to fool people. But that wouldn’t work because, of course, Brad has known Scott as long as he’s known me. Plus Scott doesn’t look anything like the picture.

  Then Scott wonders if he could get one of his college friends to pretend to be James. Like Chubs, maybe. Sure. Chubs is way fatter than James looks in his picture. They don’t call him Chubs for nothing. But, says Scott, we could pretend that James put on a whole bunch of weight.

  My brother is hatching all these ideas one after another. None of this is making me feel better. Even if we could convince this Chubs guy to go along with the scheme, there’s no doubt that he would break out laughing or something in the middle of it. And then who would end up looking like a total idiot? That would be me.