Cinnamon Toast and the End of the World by Janet E. Cameron Page B
Authors: Janet E. Cameron
Tags: FIC043000
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reading. But that’s all it was. Imagination. Me talking to me.
Blood started to dribble out of the cut I’d made. It didn’t feel like anything. Distant and numb, packed in Styrofoam.
My mother, stuck in this town with me like I was her jailor. I’d screwed up her whole life, being born. I shouldn’t be here.
There was something in the core of me that was wrong. And it was possible that all this stuff about men had nothing to do
with it. My soul kicking sand in my face, trying to cover up what was really going on. Whatever it was. I tried to imagine
myself having a normal, happy life. Chatting with people easily, not worried if I was saying the right thing or standing right
or if they liked me. The only person I could feel that comfortable with was Mark.
Mark. Oh, God
.
There was a box of matches next to a squat round candle on a plate. We liked candles. Mom and me. Made everything smaller,
less lonely. I shook a match out of the box and struck it. A good smell. Satisfying.
I hardly realised what I was doing next.
I was surprised to hear my own voice. I was yelling. Then I cried for a while. The pain was bigger than I was, and I guess
that was a relief. I took big, deep, shuddering breaths, blew my nose, shook my head. It was like something had left me. The
whole side of my hand was throbbing beside the red burst blister on my little finger. I’d have to put a Band-Aid on it before
Mom saw.
But first I had bigger things to decide.
I moved to the counter, looked at my reflection in our toaster. Like I said before, I went through my usual school thoughts
and watched what happened to my face. Snotty. Mark was right.
Then I thought about Mr Randall.
Jesus Christ. It was right there, for anyone to see.
That’s when I had my brilliant idea. Keep your head down. Act shy. Defensive strategy. Like steel doors slamming shut one
after the other.
I hated chess. I hated sports. I hated games. But it looked like I was stuck in one – and one I wouldn’t win. But if I could
get to the finish line alive, that might be enough. I’d have to do this alone, of course.
That part wasn’t going to be a problem. I knew how to be alone.
Chapter 7
Every year was the same.
November would come and the first dusting of snow on the mountain. December was all buzzy nerves from tests and exams, followed
by the loneliness of watching TV Christmas with my mom. By February, I was already sick of the snow, the way it piled in pyramids,
chewed up and spat out by the plough, melting in sullen puddles off our boots. April would arrive with its thaws and the warm
peat smell of the woods, and then June opened into that long light that made you feel like you were going to live forever.
July and August were our birthday months. I’d spend them lying around reading or hanging out with Mark or Lana. Green-gold
fields stretched off and away; the sun filled the river with light. Everything looked better when there was no school.
September. A breath of cold and a few trees strangled into flame colours to remind me that the easy times were over. Each
year I’d be ready to begin again with a new stack of blank notebooks, trying to get away from the person I’d been the year
before. Then October:bright leaves, dark nights, coats and sweaters tumbling from the top shelf of the closet. Grey November blowing in. First
snowfall on the mountain.
I was thirteen, and then I was fourteen and then seventeen. Years like nothing.
After Lana moved to town, it was as if she’d always been there. I spent a lot of time at the Kovalenkos’ that winter as 1984
began, watching videos on the big soft people-eating couch in the TV room where I’d usually end up falling asleep on Lana’s
shoulder, especially if the movie was no good. Once I heard her father chuckle from his recliner and mutter something in Ukrainian.
Lana threw a pillow at him and alarmed the dog.
‘He said I’m gonna marry the boy next door,’
Blood started to dribble out of the cut I’d made. It didn’t feel like anything. Distant and numb, packed in Styrofoam.
My mother, stuck in this town with me like I was her jailor. I’d screwed up her whole life, being born. I shouldn’t be here.
There was something in the core of me that was wrong. And it was possible that all this stuff about men had nothing to do
with it. My soul kicking sand in my face, trying to cover up what was really going on. Whatever it was. I tried to imagine
myself having a normal, happy life. Chatting with people easily, not worried if I was saying the right thing or standing right
or if they liked me. The only person I could feel that comfortable with was Mark.
Mark. Oh, God
.
There was a box of matches next to a squat round candle on a plate. We liked candles. Mom and me. Made everything smaller,
less lonely. I shook a match out of the box and struck it. A good smell. Satisfying.
I hardly realised what I was doing next.
I was surprised to hear my own voice. I was yelling. Then I cried for a while. The pain was bigger than I was, and I guess
that was a relief. I took big, deep, shuddering breaths, blew my nose, shook my head. It was like something had left me. The
whole side of my hand was throbbing beside the red burst blister on my little finger. I’d have to put a Band-Aid on it before
Mom saw.
But first I had bigger things to decide.
I moved to the counter, looked at my reflection in our toaster. Like I said before, I went through my usual school thoughts
and watched what happened to my face. Snotty. Mark was right.
Then I thought about Mr Randall.
Jesus Christ. It was right there, for anyone to see.
That’s when I had my brilliant idea. Keep your head down. Act shy. Defensive strategy. Like steel doors slamming shut one
after the other.
I hated chess. I hated sports. I hated games. But it looked like I was stuck in one – and one I wouldn’t win. But if I could
get to the finish line alive, that might be enough. I’d have to do this alone, of course.
That part wasn’t going to be a problem. I knew how to be alone.
Chapter 7
Every year was the same.
November would come and the first dusting of snow on the mountain. December was all buzzy nerves from tests and exams, followed
by the loneliness of watching TV Christmas with my mom. By February, I was already sick of the snow, the way it piled in pyramids,
chewed up and spat out by the plough, melting in sullen puddles off our boots. April would arrive with its thaws and the warm
peat smell of the woods, and then June opened into that long light that made you feel like you were going to live forever.
July and August were our birthday months. I’d spend them lying around reading or hanging out with Mark or Lana. Green-gold
fields stretched off and away; the sun filled the river with light. Everything looked better when there was no school.
September. A breath of cold and a few trees strangled into flame colours to remind me that the easy times were over. Each
year I’d be ready to begin again with a new stack of blank notebooks, trying to get away from the person I’d been the year
before. Then October:bright leaves, dark nights, coats and sweaters tumbling from the top shelf of the closet. Grey November blowing in. First
snowfall on the mountain.
I was thirteen, and then I was fourteen and then seventeen. Years like nothing.
After Lana moved to town, it was as if she’d always been there. I spent a lot of time at the Kovalenkos’ that winter as 1984
began, watching videos on the big soft people-eating couch in the TV room where I’d usually end up falling asleep on Lana’s
shoulder, especially if the movie was no good. Once I heard her father chuckle from his recliner and mutter something in Ukrainian.
Lana threw a pillow at him and alarmed the dog.
‘He said I’m gonna marry the boy next door,’
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