Antsy Does Time (20 page)

I cursed myself for not having the guts to say no and stick by it, refusing to go.

“Why do we all have to be at the airport?” I had said just before we left the house. “If the rest of you are there, why do
I
have to go?”

“Because I'm asking you to,” was my father's response.

And as unreasonable as that was, I knew I had to go. Maybe Gunnar's dad has forfeited his right to be respected—but I still had to respect my father's wishes. Even if they screwed me royally.

By the time we got to the terminal, Aunt Mona was already waiting, and even before she hugged us, the onslaught began.

“Ugh! Where were you? I've been here for ten minutes!”

“Couldn't find parking,” Dad said, kissing her cheek. “Your luggage come yet?”

“You know LaGuardia. Ugh! I'll be lucky if it comes at all.” She looked at me and nodded approvingly. “I see you're wearing that shirt I got you. It's European, you know. I got it especially for you—the bright colors are supposed to make you look muscular.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Christina grin, and I sniffed loudly to remind her she stunk of Mona's perfume. I looked at my watch—Mom saw me, and tried to rush everything along. Luckily the luggage came out quickly, and we hurried to the car, with less than an hour to make it to the rally.

Air travel was not a good thing for my aunt's mood. Our car ride was a veritable feast of unpleasantness—but rather than going through everything Mona said on the car ride, I'll offer you a menu of choice selections.

 
We walked into the rally five minutes late, to find an auditorium packed, standing room only. My parents were completely bewildered. They knew I'd been doing “something” for Gunnar, but I don't think they had any idea what it was, or how big it had become. They had never even seen my time contracts.

“Some turnout,” said Dad.

“And on a school night,” said Mom.

“This is how flu epidemics start,” said Mona, zeroing in on one kid with a hacking cough.

“What's that up onstage?” my mom asked, pointing at the big cardboard thermometer.

“It's measuring all the time I collected for Gunnar.”

“Oh,” she said, with no idea what I was talking about. It was actually kind of nice to see my parents starstruck by something I had done—even if it was all a sham.

I had my speech in my pocket, and as nervous as I was to get up in front of all these people, I was relieved to actually be there. This wouldn't be so bad. It would be over quick, then we could get off to dinner and face a new menu of perspiration-inducing gripes from our own “relative humidity.”

But it didn't happen that way. Not by a long shot. That night will be branded in my mind forever, because it was, without exaggeration, the worst night of my life.

16
The Day That Forever Will Be Known as “Black Wednesday”

The freezing rain had turned to sleet. It pelted the long windows of the auditorium with a clattering hiss like radio static. There were no seats for us—in fact, there were no seats for about a dozen people standing in the back, and even more were still filing in.

“This is very impressive,” Mom said.

“Ugh,” said Mona. “What is this, Ecuador? Do we need all this heat?”

She was right about that. Even though it was freezing outside, the auditorium was stifling hot. My father had taken off his coat, but there was nowhere to put it. He ended up holding his own and Mona's, which was made of so many small animals, my father looked like a fur trader. Mom took out a tissue and blotted his forehead since his hands were too full to do it himself.

“Antsy! Where have you been?” It was Neena Wexler, Fresh-man Class President.

“Airport.”

Neena gave a nod of hello to my family. Mona fanned herself in response to point out the heat issue.

“Sorry it's so hot,” Neena said, “but it's actually on purpose. We have a whole thermometer motif.”

“Just remember to enunciate,” Aunt Mona advised me. “I'm sure you'll do fine even with that speech impediment.” She was referring to my apparent inability to pronounce her name “Moná.”

I looked to Dad to make sure he was okay with all of this. Now that he had gotten over his initial bewilderment, he just looked tired and worried.

“Don't mind your father,” Mom said. “He's just concerned because he left Barry in charge of the restaurant tonight.” Barry is his assistant manager, who gets overwhelmed if there's too many salad orders.

With the clock ticking, Neena grabbed my wrist and dragged me toward the stage.

“We're all proud of you,” Mom called after me.

Neena had led the entire thermometer campaign, and had done it with the brutal resolve of a wartime general. She did everything short of wrestling the entire time-shaving industry out of my hands in her attempt to make it a student-government operation. I wish I could have just left it in her hands and walked away, but I was as much a poster child for this Event as Gunnar—and make no mistake about it, this was an Event, with a capital
E.

There were several chairs onstage, next to the thermometer. Balloons were strung to everything onstage, enough maybe to lift someone else up to the Empire State Building if you bunched them all up together. Gunnar was in one chair, and seemed to be enjoying this much more than I wanted him to. Principal Sinclair sat in another chair, and the third one was waiting for me. Some seats in the front row of the auditorium were taped off, intended for Gunnar's family, but Kjersten was the only one there. She smiled at me and I gave her a little wave. I could tell she wanted this over just as much as I did—it was good to know I wasn't the only one.

Neena whisked me past the superintendent of schools and her entourage. She shook my hand, and before I could say anything, Neena pulled me up onstage and sat me down in my preassigned seat, under bright lights that made it all the more hot.

“Interesting shirt,” Gunnar said.

“
‘True color coordination lies within,'
” I told him. “Tommy Freakin' Hilfiger.” If Gunnar could do it, then so could I.

“Hey, Antsy,” someone in the audience shouted. “You gonna baptize anyone today?”

People laughed. I couldn't find the heckler in the audience, but I did find my father, who showed no sign of amusement.

Neena approached the podium, tapped the microphone to make sure it was on, and began. “Welcome to our rally in support of our classmate and friend Gunnar Ümlaut.” Cheers and whoops from the crowd. Gunnar waved; for the first time since I knew him, he seemed blissfully happy. He was milking it for all it was worth.

“You're not the homecoming king,” I whispered to him. “Stop waving already.”

He spoke back to me through a gritted-teeth smile, like a ventriloquist. “It would be suspicious to ignore the cheers.”

Neena continued. “It's your heartfelt donations that have made this evening possible.”

I pulled my speech out of my pocket, ready to give it, but Gunnar handed me a program, printed up special for the rally. “I'd put that speech away for a while if I were you,” he said.

Neena, who I'm sure will grow up to plan weddings and Super Bowl halftime shows, had a whole evening of Gunnar-themed activities lined up. The program was four pages long, and “Speech by Anthony Bonano” was toward the bottom of page four. I groaned, and Neena said:

“Let's all rise for the national anthem, as performed by our jazz choir.”

The curtain opened behind us to reveal the entire jazz choir wearing TIME WARRIOR T-shirts, like everyone else onstage except me and Gunnar. They delivered a painfully drawn-out rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” then someone in the audience yelled, “Play ball!” and the choir disappeared behind the closing curtain.

Next came an address from the principal. He talked up the school, the faculty, he kissed up to the superintendent, and then he went right into infomercial mode. “Let me just tell you about some of the many student organizations, clubs, and activities we have on our exceptional campus . . .”

Way in the back I could see Aunt Mona's lips moving and my dad nodding, taking in whatever she was spouting. I took a deep shuddering breath, and fiddled with my speech until it was all crumpled.

“I'm sorry you have to go through this,” Gunnar said, “but look at how happy everyone is. They all feel like they've done a good deed just by being here.”

“It doesn't get you off the hook,” I reminded him.

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.