The Troop by Nick Cutter Page B

drawing iron filings. Everyone wanted to be around Sher.
    Then he died, a stupid unlucky accident, and everyone was so sad. The world had lost a great light—everyone said so. I wondered what they’d have said if it was me who died? I didn’t really want to guess.
    After the funeral I dug out my box of photos. My mom bought me a Polaroid for my birthday and it got a lot of use. Mainly they were of Sher—I was snapping the photos, plus I don’t like how I look on camera.
    I was going to put up a memorial wall. On Facebook, right? Something to remember Sher by. My idea, sincerely. But somewhere along the line it changed.
    I scanned the photos, put them in a file on my computer. But instead of a memorial wall I  .  .  . well, I created a person. I guess that’s what I did, yeah.
    Alex Markson. The boy’s name. I don’t know where I got it from, but it seemed a strong name—it fit well with the photos. Alex Markson had Sherwood’s face and body. Alex Markson had my words, my interests. Alex was me and Sherwood, combined.
    I put up the profile. I knew it was wrong. My heart hammered like a drum when Sher’s face went POP! up on the screen. It was . . . sacrilegious? I almost deleted it. Almost.
    I started posting stuff. Nothing much at first. Just things that interested me—the stuff kids around here pick on me for. My words pasted to Sher’s body.
    The super-weird thing is  .  .  . Alex started to get friend requests. I mean, a LOT. People neither of us had met. Not weirdos either. Normal, cool people. Boys (and girls!) my age.
    At first I was scared to accept them—I saw Sher up in Heaven, shaking his head—but after a while I did. People posted on my wall and I’d post on theirs, as Alex. Sher’s face bloomed like a flower on strangers’ Facebook pages.
    But the thing is, Alex’s interests were mine. And people thought he was smart and funny and, well, COOL. Isn’t that weird? When I say those exact same things it’s nerdy, because people think I’m a nerd. Like, a self-fulfilling prophecy.
    So then—and this is really embarrassing—I sent some requests. To Max Kirkwood and Ephraim Elliot and Kent Jenks. I even sent one to Trudy Dennison, who sits in front of me in homeroom and is the most beautiful, funniest, and just all-around best girl in the whole entire world. Not that I’ve ever really talked to her, except for that time she borrowed a pencil in social studies . . . which she never gave back, come to think of it. Maybe she thinks “borrow” means “keep,” same as Kent does  .  .  . probably she just forgot.
    Anyway, guess what? They accepted, even though they never met Alex. How could they, right? They just thought he was handsome, and loose, and cool.
    I thought: This is how it COULD be. If I wasn’t ME. If I existed in a different body, an acceptable body, a body everyone loved. If I didn’t live in North Point, where I’m like this train on rails: I know where I’m going, hate it, but can’t change course. This was who I could’ve been if the ball had bounced just a bit differently, you know?
    My own Facebook page, Newton Thornton, has ten friends. My mom, a few uncles and aunts, my grandmother— “I bought you a new pair of jeans from the Husky department at Simpson’s Sears in Charlottetown, Newtie!”—and a few pen pals . . . my pal from Dubuque de-friended me.
    Now here’s the big confession, Dr. Harley, the solid gold bonanza, the secret that says just about everything, I guess:
    Alex Markson isn’t friends with Newton Thornton. Not on Facebook. Not anywhere on earth or in this life.

Sincerely,

Newton Thornton

11
    iT Was dark by the time they returned to the cabin. A fire flickered in a ring of rocks. Scoutmaster Tim was sitting on the far side. The tendons on his neck stood out in sharp relief: they looked like tiny trees all tenting inward.
    “Don’t go inside,” he told them.
“my warm coat’s in there,” Kent said.
“The fire’s warm.