Нил Шустерман - Antsy Does Time

Principal Sinclair sat down, and Neena took the podium again. “And now we’re happy to present a short film made by our very own Ira Goldfarb.”

“Ira?” I said aloud. I found him in the second row. He gave me a thumbs-up. I had no idea he was involved with this at all.

The auditorium darkened, and on the TVs in the corner we viewed a ten-minute documentary featuring interviews with students and teachers, candid moments of Gunnar that he didn’t even know about, and a painfully detailed, animated description of Pulmonary Monoxic Systemia that would make most of my speech seem redundant. The whole thing was done to songs like “Wind Beneath my Wings” and “We Are the Champions.” The fact that Ira had half the audience in tears after the last slow-motion sequence made me more impressed, and more annoyed, by his filmmaking skills than ever before. Gunnar was still grinning like an idiot, but I could tell he was getting embarrassed. This was too much attention, even for him.

When it was over, the lights came up, and Neena rose to the podium once more. “Wasn’t that wonderful?” she asked, not expecting a response, although some bozo yelled that he wet his pants. “But before we go on,” said Neena, “let’s have a look at the thermometer.” She pulled the microphone from its holder and crossed to the thermometer, which stood taller than she did. “As you can see our goal is fifty years. Right now, we only have forty-seven years and five months, but tonight we’re going to reach our goal!”

The audience applauded with questionable enthusiasm.

“Who out there would like to help us reach our goal for Gunnar?”

She waited. And she waited. And she waited some more.

Gunnar and I looked at each other, starting to get uncomfortable. Neena, perfectionist that she is, was not willing to leave it at forty-seven years, five months. The thermometer had to be complete. There was a red Sharpie standing by for that very purpose, and no one— no one— was going anywhere until Gunnar had a full fifty years.

“Isn’t there anyone out there willing to give the tiniest amount of goodwill to Gunnar?” urged Neena.

Principal Sinclair took to the microphone. “Come on, people! I know for a fact that our students here are more generous than this!” And that clinched it—because now filling up the thermometer was far less entertaining than making us all sit up there looking foolish.

Finally Wailing Woody rose from his seat and came down the aisle, high-fiving everyone as he passed. As he came up to the stage he raised his hands as if to quiet nonexistent applause. He gave a month, and was quickly followed by the superintendent and her entourage. The applause was getting weaker and less enthusiastic with each signature.

“Okay,” said Neena. “That makes forty-eight years, even. Who’s next?”

I leaned over to her. “Neena,” I whispered, “this isn’t a telethon, we don’t have to reach the goal.”

“Yes! We! Do!” she snapped back in the harshest whisper I’ve ever heard. I looked to Principal Sinclair, but he was intimidated by her, too.

No one was stepping forward, and I was beginning to wonder if maybe Neena might put the school into lockdown, and we’d be there until morning. Then, from the back of the room, I heard, “Oh, for goodness’ sake!” And my salvation came marching down the center aisle.

My father!

I could not have been more grateful as he made his way to the stage. After all I had put him through, here he was saving the day!

Neena reached out to shake his hand, but his expression definitely lacked the spirit Neena was looking for, and she put her hand down.

“How much do you need?” he asked, getting right to business.

“Two years,” Neena answered.

“You got it. Where do I sign?”

I took a time contract and handed it to my father, showing what to fill in, and where to sign.

“Thank you, Dad,” I said. “Really.”

“Your aunt is driving us crazy,” he told me. “It was either this or a grudge match between her and your mother.” He wiped sweat from his brow, then signed the document. The principal signed as witness, and Neena snatched the paper, holding it up to the audience.

“Mr. Bonano has given us two full years! We’ve reached our goal!” And the crowd went wild, whooping and hollering at the prospect of moving on to page three.

Dad shook Gunnar’s hand, turned to leave the stage ... then he hesitated. He turned to me, wiping his forehead again. It was the first time that I noticed he was sweating a bit more than anyone else onstage. He looked pale, too, and it wasn’t just the stage lights.

“Dad?”

He waved me off. “I’m fine.”

Then he rubbed his chest, took a deep breath, and suddenly fell to one knee.

“Dad!”

I was down there with him in an instant. A volley of gasps came from the audience, blending with the clatter of sleet on the windows.

“Joe!” I hear my mother scream.

“I’m okay. It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

But now he went all the way down, on all fours. “I... I just need someone to help me up.” But instead of getting up, he kept going down. In a second he had rolled over and was flat on his back, struggling to breathe.

And still my father insists that everything’s okay. I want to believe him. This is not happening, I tell myself. And if I say it enough, maybe I’ll believe it.

From this moment on, nothing made proper sense. Everything was random shouts and disconnected images. Time fell apart.

Mom is there holding his hand.

Mona’s on the stage, clutching her coat beside her, and gets pushed out of the way by the security guard who claims to know CPR, but doesn’t seem too confident.

A million cell phones dialing 911 all at once.

“I’m fine. I’m fine. Oh God.”

Gunnar standing next to Kjersten standing next to me, none of us able to do a damn thing.

The guard counting, and doing chest compressions.

The whole audience standing like it’s the national anthem all over again.

Dad’s not talking anymore.

The squealing wheels of a gurney rolling down the aisle. How did they get here so fast? How long has he been lying on that stage?

An oxygen mask, and his fingers feel so cold, and the crowd parts before us as the wheels squeal again, and me, Mom, Christina, and Mona are carried along in the wake of the gurney toward the auditorium door, where cold air rolls in, hitting the heat and making fog that rolls like ocean surf.

And in the madness of this terrible moment, one voice in the crowd, loud and clear, pierces the panic. Once voice that says:

“My God! He gave two years, and he died!”

I turn to seek out the owner of that voice. “SHUT UP!” I scream. “SHUT UP! HE’S NOT DEAD!” If I found who said it, I’d break him up so bad he’d be joining us at the hospital, but I’m pulled along too quickly in the gurney’s wake, out the door and into the wet night. He’s not dead. He’s not. Even as they load him into the ambulance, they’re talking to him, and he’s nodding. Weakly, but he’s nodding.

We pile into our car to follow, leaving Gunnar, and Kjersten, and the thermometer and the crowd. Now there’s nothing but the sleet, and the cold, and the wail and flashing lights of the ambulance as we break every traffic law and run every red light to keep up with it, because we don’t know which hospital they’re taking him to, so we can’t lose the ambulance. We can’t. We can’t.

Our lives get spent worrying about such pointless, stupid things. Does this girl like me? Does this boy know I exist? Did I get an A, B, or C? And will everyone laugh when they see my ugly shirt? It’s amazing how quickly—how, in the smallest moment of time, all of that can implode into nothing, when the universe suddenly opens up, revealing itself with all these impossible depths and dizzying heights. You’re swept up into it, and as you look down, the perspective is terrifying. People look like ants from so far away.