Нил Шустерман - Antsy Does Time

It was all starting to make sense now. Especially after seeing that awful notice plastered on their front door.

HOUSE IN FORECLOSURE RESIDENTS ARE HEREBY GIVEN THIRTY DAYS TO VACATE PREMISES

It was far worse than any field of doom Gunnar and I had created. Thirty days. How do you cope with the world coming down around you, when your parents just seem to be running away? Is it easier to believe that it’s the end of everything rather than face it, and start carving tombstones like Gunnar? Or maybe you just go into full retreat, like Kjersten—who wasn’t interested in bringing me up to her level, but rather wanted to come down to mine—or at least what she thought was my level. Dumb movies, cool skateboards, and awkward fourteen-year-old advances. Because “things were so much simpler then.”

Lexie had been right. Kjersten was dating “the idea” of me.

Could I be what Kjersten needed? Did I want to be? As I sat there running my hands along the edge of the skateboard, I realized that the Ümlaut can of worms was a big old industrial drum, and I was already inside, eating worms left and right.

What the Ümlauts really needed was time—and not the kind I could print out of my computer, but real time. And as for Kjersten, if I really cared about her—and I did—I realized the best I could do was to become “the idea of me” as much as possible for her. I couldn’t give her time, but maybe I could give her a little time travel.

So I got on that skateboard and rode it around and around and around, trying my best, for the rest of Christmas vacation, to recapture the earliest days of fourteen.

“Hey, Kjersten—I can play ‛The Star-Spangled Banner’ in armpit farts; wanna see?”

“Antsy, you’re so funny!”

There’s something to be said for immaturity—acting your shoe size instead of your age, although in my case they’re starting to get close. Once I gave in to it, it was fun. Dumb jokes, bathroom humor, pretending to care about stuff I gave up in middle school... who could have known dating an older woman could be like this?

“This is just, like, the coolest video game, Kjersten. You’re driving a killer Winnebago, and everyone you run over becomes a soul trapped in your motor home. Isn’t it totally great?”

“You play, Antsy. I’ll just watch.”

I was Kjersten’s escape. It made her feel good, and that made me feel good. I even learned to make myself get red in the face and look all embarrassed, when I actually wasn’t.

“See these scabs, like, on my elbows and stuff? They’re from skateboarding. I’ve been, y’know, like, practicing my varial kick-flip and stuff. Like.”

“So the skateboard I got you is a good one?”

“It’s the best!”

The problem with stunting you own growth like that, though, is that it doesn’t leave you with anything lasting. It’s like eating cotton candy all day, although not quite as bad on your teeth. It’s also exhausting. After a day with Kjersten, I’d just want to go home and read a newspaper or something—or even bus tables at the restaurant, just to gain back some basic level of age appropriateness. Unfortunately, I was still banned from the restaurant, and I didn’t know if I’d ever be allowed back.

“What’s with you?” Mom asked. I had just spent an energy-intensive day with Kjersten at the arcade and was now lying lumplike on the sofa, staring at the stock-market quotes scrolling on the financial network.

“Nothing,” I answered, so Christina took it upon herself to elaborate.

“His girlfriend is using him to recapture her lost youth.”

This confused Mom. “What do you mean ‛lost youth’? She’s only sixteen!”

“You know how it is,” Christina says. “Everything starts younger and younger these days.”

“It’s not a problem,” I told her. “I know what I’m doing.”

Mom shook her head. “Lost youth! What is she gonna have you do? Wear diapers?”

“Yeah, and she burps me real good, too,” I said.

Mom threw her hands up as she left the room. “I didn’t just hear that.”

My return to school after the holidays was met with much congratulations and pats on the back from friends and kids I didn’t even know. At first I thought it was kudos for being publicly seen dating Kjersten, but it was all because of the New York Post. Dumping water on a senator and getting front-page exposure made me a school hero, but it was not the kind of fame I wanted.

“I could say ‛I knew you when,’” Howie told me, as if this would launch me into full-on celebrity status. “Have you gotten any talk-show invitations?”

For a moment I imagined myself holding a pitcher of ice water next to Clicking Raoul on a talk show, but I shook the image away before it could do any damage.

People had no idea how the ice-water incident had affected my family. How it strained my father and the restaurant. I just wanted it to go away—why couldn’t anyone understand that?

I also wanted Gunnar’s rally to go away. A fake rally about fake time, when real time was ticking away. Twenty-three days until he and his family had to be out. Were they even doing anything about it?

It actually snowed on Tuesday night—the first snow of the winter, and I hoped we’d have a snow day, postponing or even canceling the rally on Wednesday night. But who was I kidding? There’s got to be woolly mammoth walking down the street before the New York City schools call a snow day.

Gunnar came up to me at my locker on Wednesday morning. Considering the looming foreclosure, I decided not to take my frustration out on him—even if he was at the root of it.

“What are you going to say at the rally tonight?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I told him. “What do you think I should say?”

“You’re not going to ruin it, are you?”

Did he really think I would tell everyone the truth now? How could I? I was like his partner in crime now—an accomplice. The only way to make this go away was to go through with it. Who knows, maybe as wrong as it was, it was the right thing to do. Didn’t some famous dead artist say that everyone gets fifteen minutes of fame? Who was I to stand in the way of Gunnar’s?

“Maybe I oughta turn the whole thing into a cash collection for your mortgage,” I told him. I don’t know whether he thought I was serious or just being sarcastic. That’s okay, because I didn’t know either.

“Too late for that,” he said. “Knowing my father, the money wouldn’t go to the mortgage anyway.”

“Do your parents know about this rally? Do they have any idea how far this Dr. G thing has gone?”

Gunnar shrugged. Clearly they had no idea. “My mom got snowed in in Stockholm. She won’t be back until late tonight. And my dad ... well, I guess he cares more about his cards than his kids.”

I was really starting to understand Gunnar’s phantom illness. The Ümlauts were losing everything they owned; Gunnar’s father was gambling away whatever was left and had practically abandoned his wife and kids in the process. In some ways it was probably easier for Gunnar to think he was dying than have to face all that. I thought about my father and how everything had gotten so frayed between us—but as bad as things were, deep down I knew it would all eventually blow over. We would recover. But there was no promise of recovery between Gunnar and his father. They were like the Roadkyll Raccoon danglers. Rescue was a slim hope, at best.

“I’m sure your father cares about you,” I told Gunnar. “He’s just messed up.”