Antsy Does Time (18 page)

 
 
Dad did not punish me when he got home. He didn't punish me the next day. He just avoided me. It didn't feel like an intentional cold shoulder—it felt more like he was so disgusted, he just didn't want to have anything to do with me. It wasn't until Monday that I found out why.

On Monday the news had a headline that read:

And there it was, not on page four of the school paper, but smack on the cover of the
New York Post
—a full-page picture of the idiot from table nine, drenched in water, and me holding the empty pitcher. It was the picture taken by one of the other diners that night.

Getting your picture on the cover of the
New York Post
is never a good thing. It means that you're either a murderer, a murderee, or a humiliated public official. This time it was option three. The idiot from table nine was none other than Senator Warwick Boswell, and I was the one who had humiliated him.

That morning my father was already scouring the classifieds for job opportunities, as if he was expecting the restaurant to shut down in a matter of days.

“Dad, I'm sorry . . .” It was the first time I tried to breach the silence between us, but he put up his hand.

“Let's not do this, okay, Antsy?” He didn't even look up at me.

That's how it was for most of Christmas vacation. And it hurt. See, in our family we fought, we yelled, we gouged at one another's feelings, and then we made up. Our fights were fiery—never cold, and it got me to thinking about what my mom had once said about hell—how it's all cold and lonely. Now I knew she was right, because I'd rather have fire shooting out of my dad's mouth like a dragon than suffer this nuclear winter.

My dad and I used to be able to talk. Even when something was bad, even when we were ready to strangle each other, we could talk. But not now.

Entire species died in that kind of cold.

14
Nobody Likes Me, Everybody Hates Me, Think I'll Eat Some Worms

Christmas came and went uneventfully, which, considering the previous set of events, was a good thing. For reasons that may or may not have been retribution for missing Thanksgiving, most of our relatives had other plans. We could have gone to Philadelphia to be with Mom's side of the family, but with Aunt Mona coming on Christmas Eve, we had to pass. Then Aunt Mona calls at the last minute to tell us she can't come till after New Year's. Typical.

“It wouldn't be a visit from Mona,” Mom said, “if she didn't ruin the plans we made around her.”

“She did us a favor,” Dad responded, because he was simply too burned out to travel all the way to Philly anyway. Besides, he never spoke out against his sister, no matter what the situation. It was a sore spot with Mom.

“You watch,” said Mom, “when she does come, she'll show up without any warning, and expect us to drop everything.”

Christmas morning lacked the magic it usually had. At first I thought it was just me getting older, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that wasn't the case. The tree was trimmed better than ever—but that was just because Christina and I worked hard to make it so. There were fewer presents under the tree, since there wasn't a horde of relatives—but that would have been okay. What really made it hard was that Dad was clearly not present in the moment, as they say. His thoughts were on the restaurant, his future, and I guess our futures, too. He was all preoccupied, and that made Mom preoccupied with him. I could tell that Mom resented the air of anxiety in our lives lately, but still did everything she could to get Dad to relax. I wanted to tell him to just get over it, but how could I? After all, I was the cause of his latest stress bomb.

The day after Christmas I went to give Kjersten her Christmas gift. Was it crazy for me to think we could have a somewhat normal relationship, in spite of all the abnormal stuff around us? Going there didn't feel right. I wasn't ready to face Gunnar—I didn't know how to talk to him, because I knew every word out of my mouth would be another way of asking why. Why did he
need
to be sick? Why did he let it go so far? Why did he have to draw me into it? The Great Gunnar Rally was planned for the day after we got back to school. The speech I was supposed to deliver hung over my head—and I resented Gunnar for putting me in that position.

When I arrived on their street that day, there was no denying the neighborhood's collateral damage. I moved past looming lawns of death, trying to gauge how bad it was. The dust bowl had already spread halfway down the block. All the evergreens were yellow, and everything that should have been yellow was that strange bruise shade of brown. Men were standing out front looking at the devastation, and their wives looked on, watching to see if their men would break.

The only thing green was, ironically, right on the Ümlaut door. A big green Christmas wreath . . . but when I got closer, I could see it was plastic.

Gunnar answered the door.

“I'm here to see your sister,” I told him.

He looked at the wrapped package in my hands. “She's upstairs.” Then he walked away. I should have let him go, but whether I like it or not, my mouth has a mind of its own.

“You're still not cyanotic,” I said to him. “But if it's that important to you, you can buy some blue lipstick and pretend that you are.”

He turned to me then. I could tell he was hurt, even though it didn't show in his face. Part of me felt glad about it, and another part of me felt ashamed for saying something so nasty. I found myself mad at both parts.

Gunnar gave me a cold gaze and said, “That would have been much more effective if you bought some for me as a Christmas gift,” then he left.

“Wish I had thought of it,” I shouted after him. Actually, I
had
thought of it, but I wouldn't sink so low as to get him a cruel gift. Besides, I didn't want to be seen buying blue lipstick. Even if no one saw me, there
are
surveillance cameras.

I found Kjersten up in her room watching
Moëba,
a zany cartoon about ethnically diverse single-celled organisms in Earth's primordial ooze. It seemed odd that she'd be watching this. In fact, she was so absorbed, it took her a moment to notice I was there.

“Antsy!”

“Hi.” It came out sounding like a one-word apology.

She stood up and gave me a hug. “You're not having much luck with photographers lately, are you?” I could see the special Antsy edition of the
New York Post
on her desk.

“No,” I admitted, “and now there's an animated version on the YouTube.”

“Could be worse,” she said, although downloadable e-humiliation is about as low as it gets.

The moment became awkward, and she glanced back at the TV, where Moëba was punching out a dim-witted paramecium.

“I used to love this show,” she said.

“So did I,” I told her. “When I was, like, eight.”

She sighed. “Things were simpler then.” Then she turned off the TV. “So, is that for me?”

“Oh . . . yeah,” I said, handing her the gift. “Merry Christmas.” Again, I sounded like I was apologizing for something. It was annoying.

“Yours is still under the tree,” she said. I hadn't even noticed a tree downstairs.

She opened up her package, to reveal a NeuroToxin jacket.

“It's from their
Bubonic Nights
tour. Look—Jaxon Beale's autograph is embroidered on the sleeve.”

“I noticed,” Kjersten said. “I love Jaxon Beale!”

In case you've been living on a desert island, Jaxon Beale, former guitarist for Death Crab, is the guitarist
and
lead singer of NeuroToxin.

She thanked me, and put the jacket on. It looked good on her, but then, what didn't? It made me feel good that I could, at least for a few minutes, break her out of a world of repossessed cars, furious neighbors, and a brother on deathwatch.

“You want to do something today?' she asked.

To be honest, I hadn't given the day much thought beyond handing her the jacket. “Sure,” I said. “How about a movie?”

“Something funny,” she said. “Let's make it something funny.”

“Why don't you pick—there's a whole bunch of new movies at the Mondoplex.” Then I added, “You can even drive. I'm over that whole macho thing about riding shotgun with my girlfriend.”

This was, I realized, the first time I used the word “girlfriend” with her. I watched to see if her reaction would be positive, negative, or neutral. It was negative, but not because of the word “girlfriend.” Her problem was with the word “drive.”

“We can't drive. My dad borrowed my car this morning.”

I wondered if he had borrowed it to go gambling, but decided not to ask. “Your mom could drive us . . .”

“My mom's spending the holiday with family in Sweden, and she parked her car at the airport.”

Why, I wondered, would she choose to pay for airport parking instead of just leaving her car for her husband to use? Again, I decided it was best not to ask. The whole family was a can of worms waiting to happen, and I, for one, was not going to supply the can opener.

“Sweden, huh?” I said. “Sounds like fun—why didn't you go with her?”

“It's Sweden, and it's winter—isn't that reason enough?”

“I bet there'd be snow.”

“Snow, and ice, and eighteen hours of darkness. I hate it.”

“Well, I'm sure it's a whole lot better than Christmas in Brooklyn.” She shrugged gloomily, so I tried a different tack. “Well, I'm glad you didn't go, because now we can see each other all vacation.”

That made her smile, and it wasn't just a polite smile, it was a real one. I silently reveled in the fact that she actually did want to spend time with me. We bundled up against the windy afternoon, braved the neighborhood dust bowl, and took a bus to the Mondoplex.

 
 
For several reasons, I will not give a blow-by-blow description of our darkened-movie-theater experience. First of all, it's none of your business, and secondly, anything you
think
happened is probably better than what actually did.

But for those of you who have never experienced the phenomenon called a movie-theater date, there are a few general things I can tell you:

As for the movie itself, it wasn't the movie I expected Kjersten to choose. I thought Kjersten might pick a love story, or a foreign film or something . . . instead she chose this lowbrow teen comedy that I might have gone to see with Howie and Ira, but never thought I'd see with her. It wasn't even one of the better lowbrow movies either. I mean, I've enjoyed my share of amazingly stupid movies, but this one was so bad, and so unfunny, it was embarrassing. This was a film that would actually insult Wendell Tiggor's “intelligence,” and with every dumb, raunchy thing that happened on-screen, I kept expecting her to slap me for the mere fact that I was a guy.

Eighty-six agonizing minutes later, the movie was over and we were walking down the street holding hands—the first time we actually held hands while publicly walking. She didn't quite tower over me, but the difference was enough for me to be self-conscious about it. Every time someone nearby laughed, I involuntarily snapped my head around like maybe it was directed at us. Kjersten had no such worries.

“Did you like the movie?” she asked.

“It was all right, I guess.”

“I thought it was funny,” she said.

“Yeah.” I searched for something worth saying. “When the fat guy got stuck in the Jell-O-filled swimming pool naked, that was funny.”

“You didn't like it,” she said, reading right through me.

“Well, it's just that . . . I don't know . . . you're on the debate team and everything. I thought you'd want to see a movie that would, uh . . . broaden my horizons.”

“I'm happy with your horizons just where they are.”

I should have felt good about that. After all, it was unconditional acceptance from my girlfriend . . . but like Gunnar's “acceptance,” it was all wrong. Not that I wanted her to go through denial, fear, and anger while dating me—although a little bargaining might be fun. The thing is, I knew she chose the movie because she thought I would like it. What did that say about her opinion of
me
?

Yeah, yeah, I know, guys aren't supposed to think about stuff like that. I should be happy that I'm successfully playing out of my league, batting a thousand, and have earned bragging rights. I guess that was enough at first, but not anymore. I blame Lexie. She was the one who first broadened my horizons.

Kjersten's car was in the driveway when we got home, which meant her father was there. I would have gone in, but Kjersten didn't want to make any waves. She kissed me quickly at the door, ducked inside for a moment, and came out with a long, skinny box, wrapped perfectly, with a golden Christmas bow. “You can open it when you get home,” she said. “I hope you'll like it.”

And from inside I heard Gunnar shout, “It's a skateboard.”