Free Last December by Matt Beam Page A

song I didn’t know—I think it was called “Mirror in the Bathroom,” because he kept on going “Mirror in the bathroom. You’re mymirror in the bathroom. You’re my mirror in the bathroom. Mirror-mirror-mirror-mirror,” and then Trevor finally said, “Shut up, Al. I hate that song. … The Beat suck the big one,” and I didn’t know who or what they were talking about because I listen to the radio only sometimes but mostly just to the Leafs game when I go to bed if Ma wants to watch Dallas or The Love Boat or something before the game ends, and sometimes I listento Ma’s music on her turntable, which is stuff like Jefferson Airplane, Pink Floyd, and The Beatles, but she doesn’t like it when I use her turntable, because it’s one of her most prized possessions, so I basically listen only when she puts it on.
    (Actually, I just lied. Once, when I was eleven and Ma was out and we lived in another apartment, I put on one of her albums and kind of scratched it. Ma never found out, otherwise she would have killed me.)
    Anyways, Alistair started talking about this party that he said was happening on Friday. “This guy I know,” he said, “has this friend, Ian Sacramento, whose parents have gone to Bermuda for two months, so he’s going to have a serious, serious bender tomorrow night. I’ve already got a forty-pounder and twelve beers, and it’s going to be completely righteous Rastafari,” and I didn’t know what a forty-pounder was or what righteous Rastafari meant, and I had drunk beer only once in eighth grade, when Josh brought two bottles to a dance and then eight of us split them, so we each had a fourth of a beer (it’s like a math problem from sixth grade, Sam, except usually it’s pizza instead of beer), and then Josh was acting all strange like he was drunk, but he’d had only a quarter of a beer, so I think he was just doing it to be cool or something.
    Anyways, when we got to Brandy’s, Alistair ordered a toasted bagel with cream cheese and Trevor got a small sub, and we were laughing because the woman who was serving us was wearing a hairnet, and Alistair kept on saying “hairnet” under his breath so that it didn’t exactly sound like “hairnet” but more like “ear-nit,” and I don’t know why but it was pretty funny. And we sat down at this table in the corner, and Trevor said, “You should come to the party, Mike,” and Alistair said, still kind of hunched over, “Yeah, Mike. It’s gonna be righteous Rastifari, and I’m going to get so piled. We’ll meet at the Doors before for a pre-quaff,” and I said, opening up my lunch bag, “What doors?” and Alistair said, “You’ve never been to the Doors, man? It’s down in the park, near the old subway entrance thingy. You’ll have to do the Jar if you want to come,” and he nudged Trevor and smiled, and Trevor sort of smirked back, and so I asked, “What’s the Jar?” and then they both giggled, and Alistair leaned over and looked in my lunch bag. “What’d you get? Squashed peanut butter, man, … gross,” and then the owner of the café came over and stared at Alistair’s foot because it was on a chair, and Alistair just looked back at him with serious attitude, but he finally dropped his foot and said, “Let’s split this joint,” and on the way back, Trevor pulled out his cigarettes and Alistair said, “Can I bum one, man?” and Trevor said, “You’re always, always, always bumming,” and I just shrugged at Trevor, because I was sort of glad he didn’t want people bumming and that I didn’t have to smoke and feel like I had a razor blade slicing my throat again.
    When I got to math class, first period after lunch, I was feeling good, like some seriously seriously righteous Rastifari causes andeffects were happening to me, but about halfway through class there was a knock at the door, and Mr. Off went to it and whispered to this older student for a bit, and then he turned and said, “Steven,” and I