Read Online Cinnamon Toast and the End of the World by Janet E. Cameron - Free Book Online
Authors: Janet E. Cameron
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mother in the eye.
But this time would be different. I wasn’t going to turn into Stanley. Not now, not ever. I told Mark my idea. The new name.
‘Solovyov.’ Mark rolled the word around like he had eggs in his mouth. He was wedged between the roots of a sugar maple with
the river behind him. The trees were stripped branches with a few flares of yellow leaves. They’d be gone soon. Mark started
to laugh, his whole body crumpling downwards.
‘What?’ My voice was thick and gluey. ‘Does it sound stupid? Too many
O
s?’ I was a couple feet away from him, leaning back on the heels of my hands. The ground under me was hard and my fingers
were numb.
‘No, it’s okay,’ Mark said. ‘Change it, man. Go ahead.’
I felt lighter. Mark was grinning at me, blond and blue-eyed, one of the natives. His face was red from the weed. It was like
he was full of live coals. I wondered what it would be like to have infrared vision, if the heat from his body would make
a new colour against the cold air.
‘Hey. Be Solovyov now. Then later you make it shorter.’ There was obviously a joke in there somewhere, but I just stared at
him blankly. ‘Stephen Solo,’ he said.
‘Holy shit! Stephen Solo! Stephen Fucking Solo! I have to do it!’ My hands were gripping his upper arms and I was shaking
him.
This was weird, for us. We were never what you’d call physical together. Other guys were. You’d see them rolling around like
puppies, joking and acting like they were beating the hell out of each other, insults as nicknames. I couldn’t do that stuff.
When he was feeling hyper, Mark would do pretend-fighting at me anyway: punches that whooshed past my ear, Bruce Lee kicks
that stopped a millimetre from my gut. Or he might get all huggy, usually when he was wasted. I’d stand still and wait for
it to be over, hold myself apart.
But right then, my face was stretched in a big messy grin and I could feel his bones through the blocky fabric of his army
surplus jacket as I shook him. Mark just went with it, his head rolling. I started to find this really funny. Then he brought
one hand up against my chest and pushed me backwards.
‘C’mon, get off me, you homo.’
I sat staring at the pale yellow grass threading through my fingers, blinking and trying to think of what I could do to apologise.
‘Jeez, Stephen. I didn’t mean it,’ Mark said. ‘Gotta take everything so serious.’ He dragged himself towards me. ‘Fucking
Solovyov.’ Mark nudged my shoulder with his head. I fell over. No bones. He smiled down at me with that red face – like a
cartoon sun, like God. I started to laugh and didn’t stop for a while.
‘I have to change it,’ I said. ‘I have to.’
My mother’s reaction to the idea had confused the hell out of me. I thought she’d be happy I’d chosen her side. She wasn’t.
‘You’re too young to be making that kind of decision. You know it and I know it.’
This was a problem. To change my name legally, I needed her permission. Otherwise I’d have to wait five years until I was
nineteen, and by then ‘Shulevitz’ would be stuck to me like concrete.
I went nuts. Wouldn’t leave her alone. I typed multi-page letters about why I was right and she was wrong and mailed them
to her at work. I’d stand on the stairs in front of her with my arm across the banister arguing my case until she got so exasperated
that she seemed about to push me over the railing. I knew I was being an asshole, even back then. But, I’d reasoned, all she
had to do was sign a stupid paper. Two seconds of her life. Why couldn’t she do this for me?
One night I went too far.
It was eleven o’clock. I had her cornered in the kitchen. She sank into a spindly wooden chair and stared out into nothing.
‘Oh, God, Stephen, would you go to your room? Would you just go to your room and leave me alone?’
‘You can’t make me.’
My mother hid her face in her folded arms, head on the
But this time would be different. I wasn’t going to turn into Stanley. Not now, not ever. I told Mark my idea. The new name.
‘Solovyov.’ Mark rolled the word around like he had eggs in his mouth. He was wedged between the roots of a sugar maple with
the river behind him. The trees were stripped branches with a few flares of yellow leaves. They’d be gone soon. Mark started
to laugh, his whole body crumpling downwards.
‘What?’ My voice was thick and gluey. ‘Does it sound stupid? Too many
O
s?’ I was a couple feet away from him, leaning back on the heels of my hands. The ground under me was hard and my fingers
were numb.
‘No, it’s okay,’ Mark said. ‘Change it, man. Go ahead.’
I felt lighter. Mark was grinning at me, blond and blue-eyed, one of the natives. His face was red from the weed. It was like
he was full of live coals. I wondered what it would be like to have infrared vision, if the heat from his body would make
a new colour against the cold air.
‘Hey. Be Solovyov now. Then later you make it shorter.’ There was obviously a joke in there somewhere, but I just stared at
him blankly. ‘Stephen Solo,’ he said.
‘Holy shit! Stephen Solo! Stephen Fucking Solo! I have to do it!’ My hands were gripping his upper arms and I was shaking
him.
This was weird, for us. We were never what you’d call physical together. Other guys were. You’d see them rolling around like
puppies, joking and acting like they were beating the hell out of each other, insults as nicknames. I couldn’t do that stuff.
When he was feeling hyper, Mark would do pretend-fighting at me anyway: punches that whooshed past my ear, Bruce Lee kicks
that stopped a millimetre from my gut. Or he might get all huggy, usually when he was wasted. I’d stand still and wait for
it to be over, hold myself apart.
But right then, my face was stretched in a big messy grin and I could feel his bones through the blocky fabric of his army
surplus jacket as I shook him. Mark just went with it, his head rolling. I started to find this really funny. Then he brought
one hand up against my chest and pushed me backwards.
‘C’mon, get off me, you homo.’
I sat staring at the pale yellow grass threading through my fingers, blinking and trying to think of what I could do to apologise.
‘Jeez, Stephen. I didn’t mean it,’ Mark said. ‘Gotta take everything so serious.’ He dragged himself towards me. ‘Fucking
Solovyov.’ Mark nudged my shoulder with his head. I fell over. No bones. He smiled down at me with that red face – like a
cartoon sun, like God. I started to laugh and didn’t stop for a while.
‘I have to change it,’ I said. ‘I have to.’
My mother’s reaction to the idea had confused the hell out of me. I thought she’d be happy I’d chosen her side. She wasn’t.
‘You’re too young to be making that kind of decision. You know it and I know it.’
This was a problem. To change my name legally, I needed her permission. Otherwise I’d have to wait five years until I was
nineteen, and by then ‘Shulevitz’ would be stuck to me like concrete.
I went nuts. Wouldn’t leave her alone. I typed multi-page letters about why I was right and she was wrong and mailed them
to her at work. I’d stand on the stairs in front of her with my arm across the banister arguing my case until she got so exasperated
that she seemed about to push me over the railing. I knew I was being an asshole, even back then. But, I’d reasoned, all she
had to do was sign a stupid paper. Two seconds of her life. Why couldn’t she do this for me?
One night I went too far.
It was eleven o’clock. I had her cornered in the kitchen. She sank into a spindly wooden chair and stared out into nothing.
‘Oh, God, Stephen, would you go to your room? Would you just go to your room and leave me alone?’
‘You can’t make me.’
My mother hid her face in her folded arms, head on the
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