Last December Read online

  PUFFIN CANADA

  LAST DECEMBER

  MATT BEAM is a writer, photographer, and teacher living in Toronto. His young adult novels, published in Canada and the U.S., include Earth to Nathan Blue, Can You Spell Revolution?, and Getting to First Base with Danalda Chase.His first book of urban photography is titled City Alphabet. Matt teaches high school English and is a diehard Toronto Maple Leafs fan.

  Also by Matt Beam

  FICTION

  Earth to Nathan Blue

  Can You Spell Revolution?

  Getting to First Base with Danalda Chase

  PHOTOGRAPHY

  City Alphabet

  PUFFIN CANADA

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Published in Canada by Penguin Group (Canada), a division of Pearson Canada Inc., 2010

  Simultaneously published in the United States by Front Street, an imprint

  of Boyds Mills Press, Inc., 815 Church Street, Honesdale, Pennsylvania 18431

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 (WEB)

  Copyright © Matt Beam, 2009

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above,

  no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Manufactured in Canada

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

  Beam, Matt, 1970–

  Last December / Matt Beam.

  ISBN 978-0-14-305656-0

  I. Title.

  PS8603.E352L38 2010 jC813’.6 C2009-905642-9

  American Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication data available

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  Last December

  (December 11, 1982)

  Usually, Sam, when I think of doing myself in, my synapses can’t help zipping all over the place, like that pink super-ball I used to have when I was a little kid, except there’s tons of them. But the thing is, my brain isn’t working so well today, for way too many reasons to explain, so it’s like all I have is a few really important synapses floating in my brain, like aimless asteroids in space. And even though I have only a few synapses, they just won’t go away, and one of them is the everything-is-connected synapse, which reminds me that everything I do, even picking my nose, connects to the next thing I do, and then that thing is connected to the next next thing, and then that thing is connected to the next, next, next thing, and everything feels way too crazy, especially killing myself, and then I just feel paralyzed.

  So, Sam, I don’t even know what you’re going to be like (if you ever come out of Ma’s womb). Like if you are going to be secretly into science like me, or if you’re even going to go to St. Clair High School and have Mr. Davis (if he’s still around) to talk to you all excited with his big eyes and that white stuff on the corners of his mouth like he does when he talks about neutrons or Galileo or dinosaurs. Well, anyways, if you haven’t learned about them yet, synapses are the things that shoot forward to make chains inside your brain so that you can think and do things like yawn or say the wrong thing or do yourself in. When you do yourself in, your synapses stop, and so does everything else in your body.

  But somehow I just can’t imagine my synapses stopping, Sam, because even though they are moving slowly, they keep switching around on me, and suddenly, instead of thinking about suicide, I can’t stop worrying about the soreness on my cheek because that soreness turns into one of those deep underneath zits 99.9 percent of the time. And then I switch to thinking about what Jenny is doing right now, and I know she’s probably hating me to death and also probably studying for exams, because that’s basically what I’m supposed to be doing. And then my sex synapses take over (more on them later), and I imagine Jenny still sleeping in her bed (which I’ve never seen, Sam) and how I could probably see her emgees through her pajamas if her covers weren’t over her chest, because she probably wouldn’t be wearing her bra to bed (I don’t think).

  And then, Sam, I don’t know what to think, because all these crazy thoughts shouldn’t belong in the same brain, and I get paralyzed again, and all I want to do is stop writing and give up.

  I bet you’re scratching your head now, Sam. I just read what I wrote and it sounds crazy and all over the place and stupid, but kind of true at the same time. So I’m not going to cross out any of it, because Byron said that art, things like painting and writing and stuff, should have “balls-to-the-wall realness,” which he told me happens when you use your heart and instincts instead of thinking everything out and planning in your head. Besides, Sam, I want to write all this down as fast as I can, so that I don’t forget anything important.

  By the way, Byron is also the guy who told me that everything is connected and nothing is worth it, because he said that this guy called god with a small g is responsible for starting the universe eons ago and that god with a small g isn’t some guy with a beard sitting on a throne way up in the clouds controlling everything, no, because even though he started everything way way way back, he doesn’t have any idea how things are going to turn out in this stupid and crazy and chaotic universe. And as you can see, the universe isn’t the only place that’s stupid and crazy and chaotic.

  The Beginning

  Okay, Sam, so I’ve been staring at the ceiling and pacing my room and not studying for any of my exams and not eating any food because I still feel sick to my stomach, and it seems like writing this letter or note to you is the only thing that will stop my heart from beating like a slimy little creature trying to get out of a cage, and it’s the only thing that stops me from thinking about Jenny and Ma and Byron and doing myself in (or feeling like everyone probably wants me to), and so I guess I figure that if I’m really going to do myself in, I should sort of explain every-thing, because maybe you’ll want to know that it wasn’t your fault, and it was basically all mine.

  I’d better restart at the real beginning or something, somewhere where all this will make sense, like last spring, at the end of eighth grade, because that’s when I shot up 23/8 inches, and I basically felt like I’d been abducted by aliens, like in Invasion of the Body Snatchers, except I didn’t get covered in a sticky cocoon,just a lot of zits. Yeah, that’s also when things started happening to me out of the blue, like when my voice shot up so high that it went silent during my biography-presentation thing about Mike Palmateer, the totally amaz
ing Maple Leafs goaltender, and the whole class was in stitches and falling out of their seats while I felt like I was going to die.

  And because I shot up 23/8 inches that year, I grew out of my goaltending equipment, equipment Ma had saved for years to buy for me, and then she forced Mike, her stupid boyfriend at the time, to take me out to buy some new gear, but he actually didn’t. He said it was a waste of money and just found some used stuff in the classifieds and drove me out to some weird guy’s place in the boonies. Then he haggled with the guy for like a half hour, and when we drove back, all he could say was “Jesus H. Christmas, kids are expensive.” And when we got home, Ma tore a strip out of him, even though he handed her back $200, because she knew how much new pads would’ve meant to me, and she said she “couldn’t stand to see that look on my face.”

  So anyways, Sam, I got someone else’s really smelly goal-tending equipment, which was also a little too big for me, and I guess, I have to admit, I was pretty happy with them anyways, even though the season was over. (I play in an outside league, not in an arena, because it’s way cheaper, because you freeze your butt off and your toes, too, and when you take your skates off, your feet burn like crazy and when you are younger you bawl your eyes out.)

  Then Mike broke up with Ma about a month later in May, and Ma didn’t even cry. She said it didn’t matter because I was really her number one guy, and I guess I have to admit she’s always sort of called me that.

  But the thing is, Sam, when Mike left, Ma didn’t have enough money for our rent, and so we had to start planning to move in the summer. Everyone at school found out that I was leaving the area because I was too poor, because my old best friend, Josh, spread it around, and so I beat him up—I put him in a headlock until he couldn’t breathe, and then he gave in. But when I let him go, Josh called me a science dork in front of a big crowd, and everybody in school started calling me a science dork, which was only sort of true, so I basically didn’t have any friends for the rest of the year.

  Maybe the best place to start is this past fall, on the first day of my freshman year, when I walked from our new apartment, 1,394 steps to my new school, St. Clair High, when I took one big step through the massive wooden doors of the school and into this whole other scary world where I didn’t know a single soul. And to be honest, that whole first day was full-time freaky because after my homeroom English class with Mrs. Reese, I saw these crazy crazy guys just down the hall from my locker.

  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.

  The Real Beginning

  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 n
eck, 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.