Hey Nostradamus! By Douglas Coupland

In the third week after the massacre, Kent returned to Alberta and we moved back into the house. Now
I was a semi-hero, but at that point screw everybody. On the first Monday, around 9:15 in the morning,
just after the soaps had started on TV, Mom asked if I was going to go back to school. I said no, and
she said, "I figured so. I'm going to sell the house. It's in my name."
"Good idea."
There was a pause. "We should probably move away for a while. Maybe to my sister's place in New
Brunswick. And change your hair like they do on crime shows. Find a job. Try and put time between you
and the past few weeks."
I made some forays into the world, but wherever I went I caused a psychic ripple that made me
uncomfortable. At the Capilano Mall, one woman began crying and hugging me, and wouldn't let go, and
when I finally got her off me, she'd left a phone number in my hand. Downtown I was spotted by a group
of these dead Goth girls, who followed me everywhere, touching the sidewalk where my feet had just
been as if their palms could receive heat from the act. As for school-related activities like sports, they
were off the menu, too. Nobody ever phoned to apologize for abandoning me. The principal showed up
on Tuesday - the For Sale sign was already on the lawn by then - and there were still eggs and
spray-painted threats and curses all over the house's walls. Mom let him in, asked if he'd like some coffee
and settled him at the kitchen table with a cup, and then she and I went through the carport door and
drove down to Park Royal to shop for carry-on baggage. When we got back a few hours later he was
gone.
A week later I was out in the front yard with a wire brush, dishwashing soap and a hose, trying to scrape
away the egg stains; the proteins and oils had soaked into the wood, and scrubbing was turning out to be
pointless. A minivan full of charismatic Youth Alive! robots pulled into the driveway. There were four of
them, led by the intrusive jerk Matt. They were wearing these weird, desexed jeans that somehow only
Alive! ers seemed to own. They all had suntans, too, and I remembered an old brochure: "Tans come
from the sun, and the sun is fun, and Youth Alive!, while being a serious organization charged with the
care of youth, is also a fun, sunny, lively kind of group, too."
I had nothing to say to these guys, and ignored them as my father might ignore a pickup truck full of
satanists listening to rock music being played backward.
Matt said, "Taking it easy, huh? We thought we'd come visit. You're not back in school."
I carried on scrubbing the house with steel wool.
"It's been a rough few weeks for all of us."
I looked at them. "Please leave."
"But, Jason, we just got here."
"Leave."
"Oh, come on, you can't be ..."
I blasted them with the garden hose. They stood their ground: "You're upset. That's natural," Matt said.
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