Нил Шустерман - Antsy Does Time

This water incident might have meant a whole lot of bad things—including retribution against my father somehow—after all, it was Crawley’s money that got my dad’s restaurant going. Crawley could shut it down with a snap of his fingers, and I wouldn’t put it past him to do it.

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:

BUSBOY BAPTIZES BOSWELL

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.

Let’s not do this, okay, Antsy?

Entire species died in that kind of cold.

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 Moeba, 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 Moeba 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.